Epilogue Emma
Six Months Later
I’m getting married.
Actually married this time. Not kidnapped-at-the-altar married. Not forced into a wedding I don’t want married. Real, honest to god, walking down the aisle by choice married.
To Leo Santoro.
The man who kidnapped me. Who I fell in love with. Who’s waiting for me in the chapel.
I’m also seven months pregnant, which makes the whole thing slightly more complicated.
And significantly more uncomfortable because this baby—our daughter—has decided that today is the perfect day to practice her kickboxing routine on my internal organs.
The chapel is small and intimate.
It’s nothing like the massive cathedral my father had planned for my wedding to Tony Lombardo. The reception alone would’ve made the social pages for months.
But this wedding? This is just us. Just the people who matter.
Well. Most of the people who matter.
I stand in the little room off the chapel that’s serving as my preparation area, staring at myself in the mirror.
My dress is cream-colored as I didn’t want white.
I’m not going to pretend this is some virginal first wedding when I’m very obviously pregnant with the groom’s baby.
It’s an empire waist to accommodate my belly, which is officially impossible to hide at this point.
It’s simple and beautiful and nothing like the cupcake monstrosity of a dress I was supposed to wear to marry Tony.
That dress had been a ridiculous amount of lace and ruffles and about seventeen layers of tulle.
I looked like a wedding cake exploded on me.
This dress is elegant, classic, and me.
Valentina is fussing with my hair, which she insisted on doing herself.
Leo’s sister has become one of my closest friends over the last six months, which is both wonderful and irritating because she has no filter and she doesn’t take anyone’s shit, which is a problem, because neither do I.
“Stop fidgeting,” she orders, pinning another curl into place. “You’re going to mess up my masterpiece.”
“My masterpiece is kicking me,” I mutter, pressing a hand to where our daughter is currently doing somersaults. “From the inside.”
Valentina laughs. “She’s excited. It’s her parents’ wedding day.”
“She’s excited to destroy my bladder, apparently.”
There’s a knock on the door and my mother slips inside. She looks beautiful in her dark blue dress, her hair perfect, and her makeup flawless. She also looks like she’s been crying for hours, which she probably has.
“Emma,” she says, her voice thick. “You look—you look—”
She starts crying again and I wince.
They’re not the happy, joyful tears that Leo’s mother has been crying all morning.
These are sad tears.
Devastated tears. The tears of a mother watching her daughter marry into the enemy family.
“Mom,” I say gently, turning away from the mirror to face her. Valentina scurries away. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” she says, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Emma, you’re marrying a Santoro. Your father isn’t here. This whole thing is—”
“What I want,” I interrupt firmly. “This is what I want, Mom. Leo is what I want.”
“He kidnapped you,” she whispers, like she still can’t believe it, as if the last six months haven’t happened. “He took you from your wedding. He stole you.”
“I know what he did,” I say quietly. “I was there, remember?” I squeeze her hands. “But Mom, that’s not who he is anymore. That’s not who we are. We’re—we’re building something new. Something good.”
She shakes her head, tears still falling. “Your father is heartbroken. He’s—Emma, he’s barely spoken since you told him about the wedding. He just sits in his study and—”
“I invited him,” I say sharply. Goddamn, how many times are we going to have this conversation? “I sent him an invitation. I asked him to walk me down the aisle. He said no.”
“Because you’re marrying a Santoro!” my mom rebuts, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
“No, because he still can’t accept that I made my own choice!” I snap back then stop. I force a breath and press my hand to my belly where my daughter is still kicking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t want to fight. Not today.”
My mother’s face crumples. “I don’t want to fight either. I just—I miss our family being whole. And I’m scared that after today, I’m going to lose you completely.”
“You’re not going to lose me,” I say, taking her hands again and squeezing.
Her hands are ice cold. “I’m still your daughter.
I’m still going to call you and visit you and bring your granddaughter to see you.
Dad and Leo agreed to that and Leo’s kept that, remember?
That doesn’t change just because I’m married to Leo. ”
“Your father won’t allow—”
“Dad doesn’t get to make that decision,” I interrupt. I really thought after the negotiations things would have changed, but my dad is as stubborn as ever. Old prejudices die hard. “You do. You’re here, aren’t you? Even though Dad told you not to come.”
My mother’s chin lifts slightly, and I can see a bit of fire in her eyes. “I told him I was coming to my daughter’s wedding whether he liked it or not.” She looks down at her hands, a small smile playing at her lips. “It’s the first time I’ve defied him in thirty years of marriage.”
I match her smile. “And how did that make you feel?”
Mom looks up at me. “Pretty damn good.”
Pride surges through me. “I’m so proud of you, Mom. So proud. Thank you for being here. Thank you for choosing me.”
She pulls me into a hug, careful of my belly, and we both cry for a minute. When we pull back, Valentina is there with tissues for both of us.
“Okay,” Valentina says briskly, her eyes also a bit glassy. “No more crying. Emma’s makeup is perfect and I’m not redoing it. Everyone out. It’s time.”
My mother squeezes my hand one more time then slips out to take her seat.
Valentina adjusts my dress one final time then steps back to look at me. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking another deep breath. I can’t wait to see Leo. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
The chapel is as far from St. Patrick’s Cathedral as possible, with its worn wooden pews, stained glass windows, and candles flickering along the aisle. There are maybe forty people total, which feels right.
Leo’s family is there in force. His mother in the front row, already crying happy tears into a handkerchief. Other Santoros are scattered throughout the pews—cousins, uncles, family friends. Dante stands up at the altar as best man, looking solemn even though I know he’s happy.
He’s especially happy that Leo gave him and his wife an all-expenses paid vacation away from their two little girls. And it clearly was good for them as Alicia’s dress barely hides the swell of her pregnant belly.
My side is…sparser.
My mother is in the front row, still crying but trying to hide it, sitting next to a few cousins who were brave enough to defy my father’s wishes and show up anyway. That’s it. I sigh as I look for familiar faces. Looks like Bridget and Cillian, my favorite cousins, didn’t come.
The empty spaces feel loud and my father’s absence is a weight I can feel pressing down on me.
But then the music starts and I look up and see Leo.
And suddenly nothing else matters.
He’s standing at the altar in a charcoal gray suit that fits him perfectly.
It hugs his broad shoulders, emphasizing his height, and makes him look every inch the powerful man he is.
His dark hair is styled back from his face, showing off those sharp cheekbones and that strong jaw.
He’s clean-shaven, and I can see the cut of his jawline, the curve of his lips.
He looks like every romance novel hero I’ve ever read about come to life.
And he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the entire world.
His eyes—those dark eyes that have looked at me with anger, with desire, with frustration, with love—are fixed on me with such intensity that I swear I actually feel it.
His hand comes up to his chest like he’s trying to steady his heart.
Is seeing me overwhelming to him? I tuck that bit of knowledge away for later.
He looks nervous and excited and so completely, utterly, devastatingly in love that it’s almost saccharine sweet. If I was watching this, I would have complained it was so sweet it would have given me a cavity.
I start walking down the aisle—alone—and Leo’s eyes track my every step I take toward him. His throat works as he swallows hard. His jaw clenches slightly, and I can see him fighting to keep his composure.
When I get close enough to see his face clearly, I see the tears in his eyes. Leo Santoro is crying at our wedding.
Oh, I’m definitely teasing him about that later.
I reach him and he takes my hand immediately, pulling me close. Well, as close as we can get with my belly between us.
“You’re late,” he murmurs.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m pregnant. I had to pee. Twice.”
He chuckles, his thumb stroking over my knuckles. “Fair point.”
“Also,” I add, unable to resist, “I figured you owed me after making me wait six months for this. Payback’s a bitch.”
He grins at that and leans down to whisper in my ear. “It was worth every second of waiting. Though if you’d made me wait any longer, I might have dragged you to a courthouse myself.”
I grin back. “What a romantic.”
“I kidnapped you from your first wedding,” he points out. “My bar for romance was already pretty low.”
The priest clears his throat and we both turn to face him, still holding hands. Leo’s thumb is rubbing circles on my knuckles, and I can feel him trembling slightly. Or maybe that’s me. Or both.
We chose traditional vows because neither of us trusts ourselves to speak without breaking down, but even the traditional vows feel weighted with meaning when Leo says them.
“I, Leonardo, take you, Emma, to be my lawfully wedded wife…” His voice is strong and clear. “To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”