Epilogue
Erica
The lace is tight enough around my still-flat waist.
It’s not dramatic, but enough that my dress has a flare.
My hair is done. My makeup is done. My veil is pinned.
My hands are steady, which is funny, because I’ve been through things that should have made me shake like a leaf.
But this?
This is the moment I’ve been thinking about since Nico’s diabolical dinner.
Since Nico watched me try to find a dry lettuce in a Caesar salad, then looked at me with that expression that always makes my brain short-circuit.
Since he took me in his arms in the garden and said he loved me.
He proposed less than a week later.
In the kitchen, while I was remaking my roast so he could actually appreciate it.
He was standing too close behind me, one hand on my hip.
“I’m not interested in dating you for two years,” he’d said.
I’d blinked at him, trying to remember what I put in the garlic mashed potatoes last time.
“Okay?” I’d managed.
“I’m not interested in moving slowly,” he’d added.
“What are you talking about?” I’d said and turned to find him on one knee, a velvet box in hand, and a beautiful diamond ring nestled into it.
Seeing Nico on one knee was something I never thought I’d see, given his very dominant nature. Which only made it all the more special that he’d done it for me.
Then he said, “Marry me,” in true Nico fashion, and slipped the ring on my finger.
If it were up to Nico, we would’ve been married the next weekend. The only reason we waited this long at all was because my dad needed time.
Time to heal. Time to get strong enough to stand in a suit and walk me down a long aisle.
Time to insist, repeatedly, that he was fine.
He is fine now.
Not perfect. Not like none of it happened.
But he’s here.
He’s alive. Not in a hospital, with tubes coming out of him. It was damn near a miracle.
He’s in the next room now, dressed and ready to walk me down the aisle, and I can barely look at the door without my eyes burning.
The bridal suite is too bright. Too white.
There are flowers in vases and a little table with tissues and bottled water.
There are women moving around me—helping hands, warm voices, soft laughter.
Elena is here, hovering in her gentle way like she’s trying not to hover. She’s holding Alessandra on her hip, and Alessandra has decided my veil is her personal enemy.
“Alessandra,” Elena murmurs, trying not to laugh. “No, sweetheart. That stays.”
Alessandra ignores her completely and reaches again.
Caterina swoops in like a professional problem-solver and distracts her with a little sparkly clip.
“Look,” Caterina says brightly, holding it up like it’s a treasure. “For you.”
Alessandra’s eyes go wide.
She grabs it with both hands and immediately tries to put it in her mouth.
“Perfect,” Caterina says, deadpan. “Excellent choice.”
I laugh, and it comes out shaky.
Elena turns her head toward me.
Her eyes are soft.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod.
I don’t trust my voice.
Because if I speak, I’m going to cry.
And I already cried once today when I saw Maddy for the first time in months. It took some time, but we mended things. I don’t know if we’ll ever be what we were before—I’m still hurt that she never once called about my dad—but we’re working on it.
Bianca is sitting on the little couch right now, legs crossed, dress immaculate, hair perfect.
She’s holding Stephano, who is mostly interested in chewing on her bracelet.
The only boy or man allowed in the bridal suite.
Antonio tried to argue that he is not a man, he is “a gift to the world.”
Bianca told him to leave.
He left.
Roberto is down the hall somewhere, doing what Roberto does—probably fixing something that doesn’t need fixing, just because he can.
Olivia is here too, perched carefully on a chair, her newborn baby girl cradled in her arms. Isabella.
She catches me looking and lifts her brows.
“Going to be you before you know it,” she teases.
I press my hand to my belly. “Scary to think about.”
I hear a knock.
My heart jumps.
“Erica?” a voice calls from the other side. “We’re ready.”
Elena shifts Alessandra higher on her hip and looks at me again.
Her smile is warm.
“It’s time,” she says softly.
My stomach flips.
Bianca stands first, careful not to jostle Stephano.
“Okay,” she says, all business now. “Everyone breathe in and out. Nobody cries until after we take pictures.”
She points at me.
“You,” she says. “Especially you.”
I nod like I’m being briefed before a mission.
Caterina steps in front of me and smooths the front of my dress with both hands, then pauses.
Her eyes flick up to mine.
“You look…” she starts, then stops like she’s not sure she wants to get sentimental.
“No,” I say as my eyes start burning. I turn away. “Don’t.”
Her voice is thick when she says: “Fine. You look hot.”
I snort and turn back.
“Yes, I do,” she says. “Nico is going to eat his heart out.”
Elena adjusts my veil one last time, gently.
Then she leans in and kisses my cheek.
“Welcome,” she murmurs. Not to the wedding. Not to the day. To the family.
My chest aches.
I swallow it down.
“Oh my God, I have to get out of here before I start bawling and ruin my make-up,” I say, and she laughs.
The door opens, and the hallway is cooler, dimmer.
The chapel is just down the corridor, light spilling out from the open doors at the far end.
I can hear the murmur of people. The shifting of feet. The soft rise of music.
Somewhere out there, Nico is standing at the top of the aisle.
Waiting. For me.
The thought sends a little jolt through me.
My dad appears at the end of the hall like he’s been summoned.
He’s in a suit that fits him well, tie straight, hair neat.
He looks older than he did before all of this.
But he’s standing here.
His eyes meet mine and soften.
For a second, he looks like he might break.
Then he clears his throat, because my father doesn’t allow himself emotion in public.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says.
“Hey,” I whisper back.
He steps closer.
His gaze flicks over my dress, my veil, my face.
He swallows.
“You look beautiful,” he says, voice rough.
My eyes sting.
I nod fast.
“Don’t,” he says immediately.
I laugh, wet and shaky.
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
“Just a couple more minutes,” he says, and his mouth twitches.
He holds his arm out.
I hook mine through it.
His hand covers mine where it rests on his forearm, warm and steady.
We start walking.
The church doors open wider, and the room shifts toward me.
I can’t see everyone at once. Just shapes. Faces. Flowers.
Then I see the aisle.
And at the end of it—
Nico.
He’s in a dark suit that looks like it was tailored directly onto his body.
His hair is neat. His posture is straight. His face is calm.
But his eyes—
His eyes are on me like nothing else exists.
Like the room could empty, and it wouldn’t matter.
Like I’m the only thing he came here for.
My breath catches.
My dad’s hand tightens on mine.
“Ready?” he murmurs.
No.
Yes.
I nod.
We walk.
Each step feels unreal, heavy, and perfect.
I pass the first pew and see Luca standing there, watching.
His expression is unreadable in the way powerful men learn to master.
But his eyes are bright.
Elena is beside him, holding Alessandra. Alessandra is waving at Nico.
I see Giovanni and Bianca a little farther down, Bianca’s face glowing with tears.
Roberto is beside them, jaw tight, eyes sharp like he’s holding himself together by force. The image is completely broken by the little girl in his arms.
Olivia is next to him, smiling so wide it makes me laugh again through my nerves.
Antonio catches my eye and gives me a slow, dramatic wink like he can’t help himself.
Caterina is sitting at the end of the row, posture perfect.
And Vito—
Vito is standing at the edge of the aisle, arms crossed, watching the room.
But when I pass, he looks at me and his expression changes.
Something soft flickers there and disappears.
He gives me a sharp nod.
Like approval.
Like welcome.
I reach the front.
Nico steps forward.
My dad stops.
For a second, everything is perfect. My two men standing here next to me.
My dad looks at Nico, and I can feel the weight of everything that’s happened between them and around them.
My dad’s hand squeezes mine one last time.
Then he puts my hand in Nico’s.
Nico’s grip is firm and warm.
His thumb slides once over my knuckles like he’s checking that I’m real.
My dad leans in toward me, close enough that only I can hear.
“I love you, kiddo,” he murmurs.
My throat closes.
I nod because I can’t speak.
Then my dad steps back and takes his seat.
And now it’s just Nico and me at the front of the chapel, facing each other.
He looks at me for a long beat.
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
“Hi,” he murmurs, low.
I laugh, a breathy little thing.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
His eyes soften.
Not in a weak way.
In a way that makes my chest ache.
“You’re okay?” he asks.
I nod, even though my eyes are burning.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m perfect.”
“Yes, you are.” He holds my gaze.
Then he lifts my hand and presses his mouth to my knuckles, slow and reverent, like we’re not standing in front of a crowd.
Like this is private.
Like it’s always been private between us, even when it wasn’t.
The priest clears his throat.
Nico lowers my hand but doesn’t let go.
He stays close.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me.
And as the ceremony begins—words about love and commitment and vows—I feel something settle in me.
Not relief, exactly.
Certainty.
Because I’m not walking into this blind.
I’ve seen Nico at his worst.
I’ve seen what he does when he’s hurt.
I’ve seen what he does when he’s angry.
I’ve seen what he does when he loves someone.
He is not gentle in the ways people expect.
But he is gentle with me when I need him to be.
He is loyal.
He shows up.
When it’s time for vows, my hands shake.
Nico’s don’t.
He holds my hands tight, like he’s anchoring me.
I make my promises to him.
And when he speaks, I feel my breath catch again because I know he means every word.
When the priest finally says we may kiss, Nico doesn’t hesitate.
He cups my face carefully, like I’m something precious, and kisses me like we have all the time in the world.
The room erupts around us.
Clapping. Laughter. Someone whoops.
I pull back just enough to breathe.
Nico’s forehead rests against mine for one beat.
“Now you’re stuck with me,” he murmurs.
I laugh, tears spilling anyway now that it’s too late.
“Good,” I whisper. “Just the way I like it.”
His smile is real this time.
Then he takes my hand and turns with me toward the aisle, and we walk back down it together, married, with our family rising around us like a wall.
As we reach the doors, Nico’s hand settles at my waist.
Strong. Unyielding.
He bends close, his voice a dark promise meant only for me.
“Enjoy this moment, wife,” he murmurs. “Because when we get home… I’m reminding you again of exactly who’s in control.”
A slow, wicked heat spreads through my entire body, anticipating his claim.
I smile.
Because I didn’t just marry a man.
I married a Conti.
And Contis don’t surrender control.
They own it.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
THE END