Epilogue Casey
The Amalfi Coast in June feels almost otherworldly beautiful.
Sunlight spills gold across the cliffs outside the villa, the sea glittering so brightly it hurts to look at for too long, and somewhere downstairs, Elena is yelling in Italian because Matteo apparently flirted with one of the wedding planners and then forgot to confirm the flower delivery.
Honestly, at this point, I think chaos is just how this family expresses affection. I smile to myself as I fasten the clasp on my earring, stepping barefoot onto the balcony for a second.
Warm air immediately curls around me.
Below, the terrace is already alive with movement. Staff carrying champagne. White flowers everywhere. Rossi stands near the pool, looking deeply suspicious of a man in linen trousers while Nico laughs at him from across the courtyard.
And Adriano—
God.
Even from up here, my eyes find him instantly.
Dark suit.
Sunglasses.
One hand curled loosely around an espresso while Matteo talks animatedly beside him.
Like always, Adriano senses me looking before I can look away.
His head lifts immediately toward the balcony.
And there it is.
That look.
He looks at me like I’m his favorite thing in the world. Heat blooms low in my stomach before he even smiles.
“Careful,” Isabella says from behind me as she steps onto the balcony holding two glasses of apple juice. “If you keep looking at each other like that in public, my mother is going to start demanding more grandchildren.”
I snort softly. “I think you have that covered,” I say, glancing down at her tiny bump. “And I’m not her daughter, you are.”
“True, but she sees you like her daughter and, honestly, at this point I think she likes those Mancini boys more than me.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Fair.”
She hands me a glass before leaning against the railing beside me. Down below, Adriano says something to Matteo without taking his eyes off me once.
“You know,” Isabella says casually, “Nico looked at me like that too before we got married.”
I glance sideways at her. “Used to?”
“Oh no, he still does.” She sighs dramatically. “It’s honestly exhausting being this adored.”
I laugh despite myself.
The sound must carry because Adriano’s mouth twitches slightly from below.
Even now, that tiny expression still affects me embarrassingly fast.
“You’re happy,” Isabella says quietly after a moment.
Not a question.
I look toward the sea for a second before answering honestly. “Yeah,” I admit softly. “I really am.”
And I am.
Not in the dramatic, all-consuming way I used to think love had to feel.
Just…steady.
Easy. Completely.
Like waking up every morning and knowing somebody is going to choose you gently.
The thought settles warmly in my chest as my fingers brush absently against the engagement ring on my left hand.
The diamond catches sunlight instantly.
I still haven’t fully adjusted to seeing it there.
Not because the proposal wasn’t perfect.
God, it was painfully perfect.
Adriano took me back to the bookstore from our first real date, waited until I was crying over a signed first edition like the emotionally unstable woman I apparently am, then got down on one knee between the history shelves while telling me he wanted to spend the rest of his life loving me loudly enough that I never questioned it again.
I cried so hard that Matteo called it “deeply concerning.”
Looking back, I probably should’ve been embarrassed.
Instead, I mostly just can’t wait to marry him.
The thought still feels surreal sometimes.
Me.
Marrying Adriano Mancini.
If someone had told me two years ago I’d end up engaged to a terrifyingly beautiful Italian billionaire with control issues and a praise kink, I probably would’ve called for a psych hold.
Now, I mostly just wonder how quickly I can get him upstairs before dinner.
“Wow,” Isabella says suddenly beside me. “That was an intense facial expression.”
I nearly choke on my drink.
Before I can answer, warm hands settle around my waist from behind.
“You should be nicer to her,” Adriano murmurs against my hair.
“I’m always nice to her,” Isabella defends herself.
“You’re bullying me into having a baby.”
“Oh, I like that idea. Let’s go do that now,” Adriano says, lowering his mouth slowly to the side of my neck.
And there he goes again.
The man genuinely cannot keep his hands off me for more than fifteen minutes at a time.
Not that I’m complaining.
His fingers spread lightly against my stomach while his mouth brushes my ear. “That dress is making dinner difficult for me already,” he murmurs quietly enough that only I hear it.
Heat rushes instantly into my cheeks. “Adriano.”
“What?” His voice stays perfectly calm. “I’m communicating honestly. We worked very hard on that.”
Isabella groans loudly beside us. “I hate both of you.”
I laugh, leaning back against his chest while Adriano kisses just beneath my ear again, slower this time.
“You smell good,” he says softly.
“I taste good, too.”
Isabella blanches. “Ok, I’m out.” She hurries away and I laugh as I turn in his arms.
“I am a little hungry now that you mention it.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“I’m Italian.”
“That is not a valid excuse for anything you do.”
His hand slides lower against my waist. “It’s worked so far.”
Unfortunately, he isn’t wrong.
The worst part is how easy we are together now.
After everything, after all the fear and hurt and rebuilding, loving Adriano has become the safest thing in my life.
Not because he stopped being intense.
If anything, he’s somehow worse now that he’s emotionally healthy.
This man praises me for remembering to drink water.
Yesterday, he looked genuinely offended when I carried my own suitcase downstairs.
He still kisses me like he’s starving half the time.
But now there’s softness underneath all that intensity too.
Trust.
Space.
Choice.
The version of love I didn’t know existed before him.
“Daddy!” Letty comes sprinting across the terrace suddenly in a cloud of flower petals and tiny sandals. “Matteo said weddings are just emotionally expensive parties. Is that true?”
Adriano sighs heavily into my shoulder. “Why is he teaching you phrases like that?”
“Because I’m gifted.”
“You’re five.”
She considers this seriously. “Still gifted.”
I laugh helplessly as Adriano scoops her up against his side with the ease of long practice.
That sight still gets me every single time.
The man I thought would terrify me forever, standing in Italian sunshine holding our little girl while looking at me like I hung the moon.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs quietly.
I smile slowly. “Can you blame me?”
His expression softens instantly behind the sunglasses before he kisses me properly this time, warm and slow and entirely unconcerned by the fact that half his family is watching.
Somewhere behind us, Elena starts yelling that nobody is allowed to make out before she and Rossi make it down the aisle.
Matteo immediately shouts back. “If we aren’t meant to make out all the time, then why are Italians so attractive?”
Rossi mutters something about annulments.
Laughter erupts across the terrace.
And standing there in the middle of all that warmth and noise and sunlight, with Adriano’s arm around my waist and Letty laughing between us, I realize something.
For the first time in my life, happiness doesn’t feel temporary anymore.
It just feels like mine.