12. Epilogue
I sabella
Three months later
The Italian sun streams through the Villa's windows, painting golden patterns across our bed. Nico's arm draped possessively around my waist, his skin burning hot against my bare back.
My fingers trace the newest scar on his shoulder that he got from that hideous night.
The night we almost lost everything. The night that changed us all.
I still remember her face when she pressed the barrel of her gun against my temple—her own daughter. My mother. The word tastes bitter in my mouth now.
Francesca's perfectly painted lips had curved into that familiar smile, the one that used to comfort me as a child, now twisted with something cruel and foreign.
"My beautiful girl," she'd whispered, her fingers gentle against my cheek even she just tied me down. "You were always too soft for this life. Just like your father."
The way she spat out the word 'father' made my blood run cold.
All those years of watching her and Papa dance around each other at family gatherings, the exchange of loving words and expressions.
It's all been a lie.
Nico stirs beside me, his hand sliding up my bare arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The silk sheets rustle as he pulls me closer, his chest pressed against my back. The familiar scent of his cologne mixed with sleep calms my mind.
"You're thinking too loud," he murmurs against my neck.
I turn in his embrace, studying the face I've memorized a thousand times over. The morning stubble shadows his sharp jaw, and I can't resist running my fingers along it, feeling the rough texture against my fingertips.
"Do you ever wonder if we did the right thing? Letting everyone believe she died?" I ask him.
His dark eyes meet mine, serious despite the early hour. "It was the only way to protect your father's position. Luca's reputation as the Don would have been destroyed if the truth got out." His jaw tightens beneath my touch. "Besides, the prison we put her in is worse than death. It's what she deserves."
My father. Papa. My heart aches thinking about him–how he'd aged decades in those few days, how his hands shook when he hugged me goodbye before our honeymoon.
He'd insisted we go, even though I wanted to stay and help him heal. "The marriage alliance has served its purpose," he'd said, trying to smile. "Now it's time for you to be happy, piccolina."
I laugh softly against Nico's chest, earning a questioning look. "What's funny?"
"Just thinking about how this started as a marriage alliance," I trace patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath my palm. "And now look at us—hiding away in Italy, making babies..."
His hand slides to my still-flat stomach, protective. "Speaking of our bambino..."
"Or bambina," I counter, grinning at his predictable scowl.
"It's definitely a boy. I can feel it." His voice is adorably confident.
"Oh? And what exactly makes you so sure, Mr. Moretti?"
"Moretti firstborns are always boys," he says with mock authority, then yelps when I pinch his side.
"Well, this baby is half Bellanti, and we're known for breaking traditions." I squeal as he retaliates by tickling my ribs, the sound of our laughter echoing through the room.
The playfulness fades as I catch sight of his expression—soft and vulnerable in a way few ever get to see. "I visited her you know," I say quietly, watching his face. "Two days before we left for Italy."
Nico's arms tighten around me, one hand stroking down my bare back. "How did it go?"
"The same as always. She just sits there, staring at the wall." I swallow against the lump in my throat, pressing closer to his warmth. "I keep thinking if I just find the right words, she'll look at me like she used to. Like I'm her daughter, not just another pawn she sacrificed."
"Some betrayals don't have explanations, principessa." His voice is gentle but firm. "Your mother made her choice. Just like Diana made hers."
Diana. The name still feels like a knife between my ribs. My best friend, my sister in all but blood, disappeared during the chaos of that night.
She was just another piece on the board for my mother. Another way to gather information by pretending to be my friend.
Despite every resource at our disposal, every contact and favor called in, she's vanished without a trace. Some nights I wake up reaching for my phone to text her, only to remember she's gone.
"I should have seen it," I whisper into the crook of his neck. "With both of them. There must have been signs."
"Stop." Nico props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me intently. The sheet slides down to his waist, and despite our serious conversation, I can't help but appreciate the way the morning light plays across his muscled torso. "You can't torture yourself with what-ifs. They chose their paths. You choose yours."
His words echo in my mind as I think about the conversation we had a month ago with his father, Antonio Moretti.
Nico finally confronted him about the years of emotional manipulation and neglect.
I held his hand as he laid bare decades of pain, watching Antonio's face crumble as his son detailed every instance of conditional love, every moment of calculated cruelty disguised as "preparation for leadership."
"I will never forgive you," Nico had said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hand. "Not just for making me believe I wasn't worthy of love, but for nearly getting Isabella killed. You knew her mother was the mole, and you said nothing. You put my wife in danger to protect your own interests."
The memory makes me shiver, and Nico pulls the sheet up around us, cocooning us in warmth. His hands move restlessly over my skin, as if reassuring himself I'm really here.
"I meant what I said that night," he says softly, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "About wanting this family with you. But..."
"But you're scared," I finished for him, reaching up to cup his face. "I know. I am too."
He turns to kiss my palm, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "What if I become him? What if I don't know how to love them properly?"
"You won't," I say fiercely. "You're nothing like him, Nico. That you're even worried about it proves that." I guided his hand back to my stomach. "We will shower this baby with love."
"I'm sorry," he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine. "For everything. For not protecting you better."
I silence him with a kiss, pouring all my forgiveness and love into the gesture. When we break apart, I hold his gaze. "We protect each other now. That's what real partners do."
He pulls me closer, burying his face in my neck.
We're not naive enough to believe the danger is past—there will always be threats in our world, always be enemies waiting in the shadows.
But we're stronger now. Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
"I love you," Nico murmurs against my skin. "More than power, more than revenge, more than life itself."
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me like ocean waves. We are not our parents' mistakes. We are not the sum of our betrayals. We are something new, something fierce and unbreakable.
"I love you too," I whisper back, then add with a smirk, "Even if you're wrong about the baby being a boy."
His outraged gasp makes me laugh, the sound bright and free in the morning air.
Outside these walls, our world is still dangerous, still complex, still filled with shadows and secrets. But here, at this moment, there is only us.
And for now, that's more than enough.