Epilogue - Giovanni
Epilogue
Sea glass starts as something sharp and dangerous.
Broken bottles, shattered windows, jagged edges designed to cut.
Then the ocean takes it.
Rolls it endlessly against sand and rock until all those lethal points wear smooth.
Until what was meant to wound becomes something beautiful.
Something worth keeping.
I arrive at Lorcan's South Boston warehouse at noon sharp, the Aventador's engine throwing echoes off the brick buildings.
He meets me at the door wearing sweats and nothin' else, hair still wet from a shower. His tattoos cover his torso like something out of Celtic mythology—skeletal saints, Latin phrases, that fucking raven on his ribs.
I walk past him without comment.
"She had a great time," he says, following me inside. "Brilliant, really. You're gonna love the footage—already compiled all the camera angles. Should be in your inbox by the time ya get back to Providence."
I ignore him.
My focus is entirely on Emmaleen, curled up on his couch near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. She's wearing his shirt and sweats—both too big, drowning her small frame.
She looks wrecked.
I cross the space and crouch beside her, smoothing hair out of her face with careful fingers.
"Ready to go, Miss Take?" I whisper.
She manages the barest acknowledgment—eyes flickering open just enough to find mine before closing again.
Behind me, Lorcan's still talking about how well she did at station whatever. I just can't with his fucking pageantry, so I tune it out as much as possible and slide my arms beneath Emmaleen, lifting her against my chest.
Her head drops to my shoulder.
Lorcan opens the door as I carry her through. He reaches out, placing one hand against her cheek, and leans in to kiss her—gentle, possessive.
"Goodbye, a stór," he murmurs. "See ya soon."
I nod once.
The Aventador's scissor door rises as I approach, and I carefully maneuver Emmaleen into the passenger seat. When I reach across to buckle her seatbelt, she stirs slightly—just enough to sigh and smile at me before sinking back into whatever exhausted haze Lorcan left her in.
I slide into the driver's seat and pull away from the docks, then merge onto I-95 toward Rhode Island.
The highway stretches ahead—ninety minutes between Lorcan's cathedral of submission and our Providence estate.
I glance at Emmaleen.
Still out. Breathing steady.
I adjust my grip on the steering wheel and focus on the road instead of how I'm feeling.
Fucking sea glass.
I hate feelings.
They're so fucking messy.
Emmaleen stirs about twenty minutes into the drive, sighing softly. The sound pulls my attention sideways just as her lips curve into a small, sleepy smile.
Without opening her eyes, she murmurs, "Did you have a nice trip to New York?"
I look at her fondly, cataloging the exhaustion written across her features. "No," I say quietly. "It was work."
I pause.
"Did you have fun?"
Her smile widens, and she snuggles deeper into the Aventador's seat, burrowing into the leather like it's a goddamn blanket.
"The best time," she whispers. Then one eye opens—just barely—finding mine with hazy focus. "When I have to be away from you, that is."
The ache in my ribs shifts.
Twists.
Settles like cool hazy green glass that looks like it's been tossed in the sea for eons and finally washes up on a beach.
I smile—small, involuntary.
"Sleep," I tell her softly.
She hums her agreement and lets her eye drift shut again, head tilting toward me even as her body relaxes completely.
I keep driving.
When we pull through the gates of the Providence estate, she's still mostly unconscious. I kill the engine and circle to her side, lifting her out carefully. She doesn't wake. Just curls into my chest like she belongs there.
I carry her through the house, past the library she designed, up the stairs to the second-floor master bath.
The space is all marble and glass—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the expansive lawn that ends with Narragansett Bay, rainfall shower, soaking tub big enough for four people.
I set Emmaleen down on the velvet bench near the tub and turn to draw the bath. Hot water pounds into pristine white porcelain while I adjust the temperature.
When I turn back, she's awake—barely—watching me with heavy-lidded eyes and a sleepy smile.
I reach for her, starting to peel Lorcan's oversized shirt off her body.
She giggles.
Then her hands are on my suit jacket, tugging it off my shoulders with surprising coordination for someone half-asleep. The jacket hits the floor. Her fingers find my tie next, working the knot loose.
I allow it.
Might even enjoy how she cheekily gets me out of my dark suit—the vest, the shirt, the belt. Her movements are playful, unburdened by protocol, or demerits, or the weight of performing.
When we're both naked, I step into the tub first and extend my hand.
She takes it without hesitation, climbing in and settling back against my chest with a contented sigh.
I smile and wrap my arms around her.
We sit there in the steam and silence, her body fitting perfectly against mine.
After a few minutes, I reach for the soap and begin washing my Little Miss Take. Slow, methodical strokes down her arms, across her shoulders. Washing away Lorcan's scent, his touch, his claim.
Emmaleen perks up slightly, head tilting back to look at me.
"Did you know," she begins, voice still sleepy but gaining energy, "that there's a conspiracy theory that marsupials actually came from South America? Like, they think the common ancestor migrated through Antarctica when it wasn't frozen yet, which is wild because—"
I smile.
Listen to her ramble about continental drift and marsupial migration patterns while I wash her fingers.
She cycles into another tangent—this time about the history of baseball, which she launches into with absolutely no preamble or explanation for why the fuck we're talking about it now.
"—and Babe Ruth's called shot is actually super controversial because some historians think he was just pointing at the pitcher, not predicting the home run, but then again his stats that season were insane—714 career home runs, which stood for almost forty years until Hank Aaron—"
I can't help it. I chuckle against her wet hair.
She quotes statistics. Actual numbers. For a sport I'm fairly certain she's never watched in her life.
It's fucking absurd.
And I can't live without it.
My hands slide down her arms, washing away the last traces of Lorcan's touch while she continues without pause.
"—so vinyl records actually have grooves that correspond to the sound waves, right?
Like the needle literally vibrates based on the physical shape carved into the plastic, which is why audiophiles insist they sound better than digital because there's no compression, no data loss, just pure analog reproduction of the original recording—"
I press my lips to her shoulder.
She doesn't even pause.
"—and fun fact, the first record player was invented by Thomas Edison in 1877, but it used cylinders instead of discs, and the quality was garbage because the needles were so heavy they'd literally destroy the recording after like ten plays—"
"Emmaleen," I murmur against her skin.
"—which is why Emile Berliner's gramophone was revolutionary because flat discs could be mass-produced and the needles were lighter so you could actually listen to music more than once without ruining it—"
"Miss Take."
She stops.
Tilts her head back to look at me, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes.
"Yeah?"
I study her face—flushed from the heat, eyes bright despite her exhaustion, lips curved in that unconscious smile she wears when she's happy.
"Keep going," I tell her quietly.
Her smile widens.
And she launches immediately into something about the invention of the safety pin.
I hold her closer and let her words wash over me like the steam rising from the bath.
After nearly an hour of soaking, I step out of the tub and wrap Emmaleen in a towel—thick Egyptian cotton, soft enough that she sighs against the fabric.
I lift her easily, carrying her into the massive walk-in closet. The space is absurd—big enough to be classified as a two-bedroom apartment. Custom shelving lines every wall. My suits organized by shade on one side. Her side a riot of color and texture.
She collects vintage outfits now. Not because she admires the fashion of times gone by—I'm fairly certain Emmaleen Rourke has no idea what the word fashion even means. She collects them to punish me when I come home from work at an unreasonable hour.
She will not sleep until I'm home. So she passes the time playing dress up.
Hideous outfits from the Eighties, mostly.
She's always sitting on the top step, looking down at the foyer, when I come through the door. Then she'll stand, descend slowly—her performance mocking and filled with silent sarcasm—while reciting poetry.
Not terza rima, that's serious stuff. Words I like.
No. When she's wearing neon spandex with leg warmers the words are simple and stupid. Limericks, mostly.
There once was a mobster quite feared,
Who arrived home much later than cleared.
His girl waited up top,
In neon that made his heart stop,
And recited a verse that he sneered.
This fucking woman. I swear.
How did I get so lucky?
I set her down on the velvet bench that acts as the boundary between our territories.
She's tired now. Quiet. Watching me as I towel off.
Not hungry. She needs rest and we both know it.
But satisfied.
I pull on sweats and turn to search for underwear and a t-shirt for her. Something soft. Something that won't irritate her skin after Lorcan's fuck-athon.
"Giovanni?"
I glance back. "Hmm?"
She's still wrapped in the towel, head tilted slightly, pale green sea-glass eyes tracking my movements with lazy focus.
"Are you ever going to tell Jino that I don't sleep in the dungeon?"
I pause, underwear and shirt in hand.
She continues, voice soft. "That I've never—not once—slept in the new dungeon?"
I cross back to her, holding up the clothes.
She stands without prompting, letting the towel drop.