Epilogue
Dante
Austin, Texas
Two Days Later
Hospitals are not designed for comfort. But money—and influence—solve a surprising number of problems.
I’m in a private recovery suite that is as close to luxury five-star accommodations as a hospital is capable of providing.
The room is quiet except for the soft mechanical rhythm of the monitor beside my bed.
I hate the sound. Not because I’m dying. Because I’m not in my Houston office where I’m supposed to be.
Matteo stands near the window, arms crossed as he watches the Austin skyline. Nico sits at the small table, tablet in front of him, while Dario leans against the wall like he owns the place.
No one is joking. No one is relaxed. Because someone tried to kill me.
And whoever did it is still breathing.
My phone rests on the tray beside the bed, and it rings with the report I’ve been expecting. “Carmine,” I announce. One of our capos. Then I answer the call on speaker so everyone can hear.
“Boss. Got something you’ll want to hear.” His voice carries the low, controlled urgency of a man who believes he’s uncovered something important, which immediately stills the room.
Matteo turns slightly from the window.
Nico’s attention sharpens.
Dario straightens away from the wall.
“What is it?” I ask.
“One of my guys picked up chatter moving along the corridor south of San Antonio.” Carmine’s words are measured and deliberate.
“Independent crews asking questions about convoy routes, security rotations, the kind of details you only start digging for when someone’s planning to move something big through the state. ”
The room goes quiet.
Carmine continues. “And here’s the part that caught my attention, Boss. The people nosin’ around weren’t locals. My guy swears they were talking about Brownsville access like they already had permission.”
Dario’s brows draw together. “Permission from who?”
Carmine answers before anyone else can. “That’s the problem. Whoever they were talking to dropped the Bertoni name.”
The words settle into the room like a stone falling into still water.
For a moment no one speaks. Not because the accusation is convincing.
But because the implications are…complicated.
Finally Matteo exhales slowly, dragging a hand across his mouth as he considers the report.
“Did your man actually see anyone from the Bertoni family?” he asks.
“No,” Carmine admits. “Just the name being thrown around.”
“Keep listening,” I tell him calmly. “But don’t move on anything yet.”
“You got it, Boss.”
I end the call.
Silence settles over the room again, thicker now.
“Bertonis,” Nico muses.
Dario pushes away from the wall and begins pacing the length of the room. “So we’ve got people using the Bertoni name while someone tries to assassinate you and start a war between the Russos and the Morettis.”
“That’s one interpretation,” Nico replies.
“It’s also the obvious one.”
“Not necessarily.” Matteo shakes his head slightly. “The obvious one is that someone wants us to believe that.”
Dario stops pacing. “Meaning?”
Matteo finally turns away from the window, his expression calm in that dangerous way it always gets when he’s already three moves ahead of the rest of us.
“Meaning whoever organized the ambush knew exactly what would happen afterward.”
He gestures faintly toward the four of us.
“We start looking at every family in Texas. Every alliance.”
His gaze settles on me.
“And one of the most important corridors in the state runs straight through Brownsville.”
That’s the truth of it.
Anyone who controls Brownsville controls half the movement of goods, people, and money between Texas and Mexico.
The Bertonis matter, which is why my father had invited them to be part of the Four Corners Alliance.
Matteo’s voice lowers slightly. “And that’s exactly why we’re not letting suspicion dictate our next move.”
“So what’s the move, big brother?” Dario watches him carefully.
Matteo doesn’t hesitate.
“We strengthen the alliance.”
The words land heavily.
Dario already knows what he means, and his eyes narrow. “Fuck no.”
As if he hadn’t spoken, Matteo goes on. “Giuseppe Bertoni has held that corridor for three decades. His son Emilio knows every mile of it, every checkpoint, every unofficial crossing. If someone is trying to use that territory without permission, Giuseppe will want to know just as badly as we do.”
Dario exhales through his nose.
Matteo’s eyes are uncompromising. “There’s one more alliance our family needs to secure.”
The room goes very still.
Dario stares at him for a long moment. “No fucking way.” Then he laughs once under his breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Nico shoves aside his tablet.
“You will marry Seraphina Bertoni.”
Giuseppe’s daughter.
Though I hate the idea of my footloose and single brother being forced into marriage, Matteo’s decision is not only logical, it’s damn smart.
Dario runs a hand through his hair. “So that’s the plan?” he mutters. “You want me to take on the border queen to lock down the south?”
Matteo’s voice is calm. “All’s fair in love and war.”
That’s the entire answer.
Dario stares at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at our oldest brother. “Christ.”
Nico stands. “I’ll speak with the consigliere,” he says. “Arrange a time for you to call Giuseppe personally.”
Matteo nods. “Make it happen.”
The door opens and my bride walks in.
The conversation that filled the room seconds ago dissolves instantly, as if someone cut the wire feeding it.
She pauses just inside the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame as she studies the four of us. The bruising along her arm has faded to a pale shadow now, though I still see it.
Matteo’s gaze shifts to her. “Valentina.”
She inclines her head slightly. “Matteo.” Then she glances at all of us. “Should I come back later?”
“Hell no.”
She grins.
“The rest of them were just leaving. Weren’t you, gentlemen?”
Matteo steps away from the window. “I’m heading back to Houston tonight.” His tone is practical. “There are things that need my attention.”
Grabbing his tablet, Nico stands. “We’ll coordinate with the Bertonis once Emilio returns my call.”
Matteo gives a short nod. Then he looks back at Valentina. “Take care of my brother.”
Her answer comes without hesitation. “I will.”
Something in his expression shifts—approval, maybe. Then he turns toward the door, and Nico follows him out into the hallway.
Dario lingers a second longer, glancing between the two of us.
“Hell of a honeymoon.” After hugging Valentina, he also leaves.
Finally we’re alone, and Valentina walks toward the bed, slowly, cautiously.
Her eyes move over the monitors, and she takes in the bandage across my shoulder and the IV line. “Better than yesterday,” she says quietly.
“Low bar.”
That earns me the faintest smile.
She stops beside the bed.
I reach to the tray table and pick up the small white bag waiting there.
Her eyes drop to it and she frowns. “What is it?”
“I asked Bella to pick something up for me.” I hold the bag out.
She takes it carefully, curiosity flickering across her face as she unwraps it.
Glass catches the light.
It’s the Baby’s First Christmas ornament. Exactly the same one that had been smashed in the ambush.
It scatters reflections across the wall when she lifts it from the tissue paper.
Soft tears fill her eyes. “You got me a new one.”
For a moment she just stands there holding it, the fragile glass glowing softly in the lamplight.
Then she carefully cradles it in some of the tissue paper and places it on the table near us. “This means the world to me.”
“And you mean the world to me.”
The gift isn’t just a reminder of a normal afternoon or a honeymoon.
It’s a promise of the future that we are building together.
Valentina reaches for my hand.
Her fingers slip into mine, warm and steady.
“I can’t thank you enough.” She strokes her thumb lightly across my knuckles. “You know we’ll need a tree.”
I glance toward the ornament. “And a baby.”
“Yes.” She smiles. “And a baby.”
Outside the window, Austin pulses with energy, the city moving forward like nothing in the world has changed.
But inside this room…
For the first time since the ambush outside Fredericksburg…
I finally feel settled.
I squeeze my wife’s hand.
And beside us, the ornament winks softly in the light.