6. Mara
MARA
Irenamed the restaurant. Not because I wanted to erase Marco—but because I finally understood what he would have wanted.
Trattoria DeLuca.
My name. My family's name. The name I was born with, before I became a wife, before I became a widow, before I lost myself in grief and guilt and a business I'd been running like a memorial instead of a living thing.
The new sign went up three days ago. Fresh paint, clean lines, my grandmother's recipe for marinara still simmering in the kitchen the same way it always has. I kept Marco's photos on the wall—not as a shrine, but as a reminder. He was part of this story. He'll always be part of this story.
But he's not the ending anymore.
The restaurant is packed tonight. Every table full, a waitlist at the door, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space like music. One week since I decided not to sell. One week since everything changed.
One week since I finally let myself live.
"Mara!" Maddie waves at me from a corner booth, baby Emma balanced on her hip. "Get over here!"
I weave through the tables, stopping to greet regulars, to accept compliments on the new name, to feel—for the first time in two years—like this place is actually mine. When I reach the booth, Maddie pulls me into a one-armed hug while Emma grabs a fistful of my hair.
"She's got good taste," Jax says, gently untangling his daughter's fingers. "Already knows who the important people are."
"Please. She just likes shiny things, as she makes a fresh grab for my long necklace.” But I'm smiling as I say it, tickling Emma's chin until she giggles.
The booth is crowded with familiar faces.
Rev and Eden sit across from Jax and Maddie, Eden's phone out as she shows off pictures of their rescue dog Rocky—a dog who apparently takes up their entire bed.
Doc and Rory are squeezed in at the end, and little Luna is somewhere under the table, probably causing trouble.
"Luna, sweetheart, we don't hide under tables," Rory says, reaching down to extract her daughter. Luna emerges with a breadstick clutched in each hand and an expression of pure innocence.
"I was exploring."
"You were stealing bread."
"Exploring bread."
Doc catches my eye and grins—that rare, genuine smile that transforms his whole face. "She gets it from her mother."
"Excuse me, I have never stolen bread in my life."
"The great garlic focaccia incident we are not supposed to talk about would like a word."
They bicker playfully, and something warm blooms in my chest. This is what I almost walked away from. This family I didn't even realize I'd become part of—not just Marco's widow, tolerated out of obligation, but one of them. A sister in a family bound by leather and loyalty instead of blood.
I glance across the restaurant and find Pope—Ryder—watching me from the bar.
He's been doing that all night. Watching me move through the room, greet guests, laugh with the women who've become my friends. And every time our eyes meet, he smiles. This soft, private thing that makes my heart flip over in my chest.
Seven years, I think. He watched me like this for seven years, and I never knew.
"You two are disgusting," Hammer announces, appearing at my elbow with a beer in hand. "Just so you know."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"The eye-fucking. Across a crowded room. Very dramatic. Very romance novel." He takes a swig of his beer. "Also, about damn time."
I laugh—actually laugh, surprised out of me. "Was it that obvious?"
"To everyone except you two idiots? Yeah." His expression softens slightly, which for Hammer is basically a declaration of love. "Marco would be happy. Just so you know. He'd be real happy about this."
The words hit me somewhere tender. "You think so?"
"I know so." He claps me on the shoulder, awkward and gruff. "Now go make out with your boyfriend. I've got a booth to claim."
He ambles off toward Doc and Rory's table, and I watch him go with a strange tightness in my throat. These men—rough and scarred and dangerous—have become the family I never expected. The family Marco left me when he died.
The family I almost abandoned.
Warm hands settle on my hips from behind.
"Hey." Ryder's voice is low, just for me. "Having fun?"
I lean back into him, letting myself be held in the middle of my crowded restaurant, in front of everyone. "The best night we've had in two years."
"Told you the new name was a good idea."
"You told me you'd support whatever I decided. That's different."
"Same result." He presses a kiss to my temple. "Come with me for a minute. I have something for you."
He leads me through the kitchen, past Gina's knowing smirk, out the back door into the alley where we store the overflow supplies. Not exactly romantic, but private—and right now, private feels precious.
"Close your eyes," he says.
"Ryder—"
"Just trust me."
I close my eyes. Feel him take my hand, press something small and cool into my palm.
"Okay. Look."
A key. Simple, silver, attached to a plain metal ring.
I look up at him, confused. "What—"
"Move in with me."
The world tilts. "What?"
"Move in with me," he repeats, steady and certain.
"I know it's fast. I know we've only been...
this... for a week. But Mara—" He cups my face in his hands, his eyes blazing with something that looks like desperation and hope tangled together.
"We've wasted seven years being careful.
Being noble. Staying apart because we thought it was the right thing to do. I'm done wasting time."
"Ryder..." I'm laughing, tears pricking my eyes. "You're skipping a few steps, aren't you?"
"Probably." He doesn't look sorry about it. "Is that a no?"
I look at the key in my palm. Such a small thing. Such a massive thing.
"It's a yes," I whisper. "It's absolutely a yes."
His smile breaks across his face like sunrise. He kisses me—deep and thorough and completely inappropriate for a back alley—and I kiss him back with everything I have.
When we finally break apart, both breathless, he takes my hand and leads me back inside.
The announcement isn't planned.
One minute we're walking back through the restaurant, and the next Ryder is pulling me into his arms in the middle of the dining room, kissing me in front of God and everyone.
The club erupts.
Cheers and wolf-whistles, Hammer's gruff "About damn time!" carrying over the noise as if he had no clue already. Jax is grinning like an idiot. Doc actually laughs out loud. And the women—Maddie, Eden, Rory—they're on their feet, clapping, pulling me into their circle the moment Ryder lets me go.
"Finally," Maddie says, hugging me tight. "We've been waiting forever for you two to figure it out."
"Welcome to the club," Eden adds, her eyes sparkling. "The 'fell for a Hellbound Saint' club. We have jackets."
"We don't have jackets," Rory corrects. "But we should. Mara, you're in charge of jackets."
I'm laughing and crying at the same time, surrounded by women who've become sisters, accepted into a family I never knew I needed. And across the room, Ryder watches me with so much love in his eyes that I can barely breathe.
This, I think. This is what I almost gave up. This is what Marco wanted for me.
A family. A future. A love that doesn't require me to bury myself alongside the dead.
The restaurant empties slowly, the night winding down in waves of goodbye hugs and promises to do this again soon. By midnight, it's just me and Ryder, chairs stacked on tables, the kitchen dark, the last candles flickering low.
We clean up together. Something domestic about it, easy and natural—like we've been doing this for years instead of days. He washes the wine glasses; I dry them. He sweeps the floor; I wipe down the bar. A rhythm we're learning, step by step.
"Can I ask you something?" I say, setting the last glass in its place.
"Anything."
"The guilt." I turn to face him, leaning against the bar. "Is it still there?"
He's quiet for a moment, the broom stilling in his hands. When he speaks, his voice is rough.
"Some of it. Maybe always will be." He sets the broom aside, crossing to stand in front of me.
"But it's different now. Marco knew what he was doing when he made me promise to take care of you.
He wasn't just asking me to protect you.
" His hand comes up to cup my face. "He was asking me to love you. "
"And do you?" The question comes out barely a whisper. "Love me?"
"More than anything I've ever done in my life."
I kiss him. Soft and slow, tasting the truth on his lips.
When I pull back, I reach for my right hand. For the ring I've worn there for two years—Marco's ring, moved from my left hand to my right the day I buried him. A symbol of what was. A reminder of what I'd lost.
I slide it off.
Ryder watches, silent, as I pull a small velvet box from my purse—something I brought tonight, not knowing if I'd have the courage to use it. I place the ring inside, close the lid, tuck it away.
"I'll always honor what Marco and I had," I say. "But I'm ready to build something new."
Ryder reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring of his own. Simple. Silver. A band that catches the candlelight and glows.
"This isn't a proposal," he says, taking my left hand.
"Not yet. When you're ready, I'll ask properly—down on one knee, the whole thing.
" He slides the band onto my finger, and it fits like it was made for me.
"But for now, this is me saying I'm not going anywhere.
This is my promise. To you. To us. To the future we're going to build together. "
"I'm not going anywhere either," I tell him. "That's my promise."
He kisses me again—longer this time, deeper—and when we finally break apart, the candles have burned down to nothing and the restaurant is dark except for the streetlight filtering through the windows.
"Come on," he says, taking my hand. "Let's go home."
His bike is parked outside, the way it always is. Chrome and leather and the rumble of an engine that sounds like freedom.
But this time, when I climb on behind him, it's not because I'm running. It's because I'm choosing. Choosing him. Choosing us. Choosing this.
"Where to?" he asks, the engine purring beneath us.
I wrap my arms around his waist, press my cheek against his back, feel the steady beat of his heart through his leather cut.
"Home," I say. "Take me home."
We ride off into the night, and I think about everything that led us here. Seven years of wanting. Two years of grief. A confession that almost came too late.
For seven years, I loved a man from a distance and married another. For two years, I buried myself in guilt and grief, convinced I didn't deserve happiness. And now?
Now I'm finally free.
Not free from the past—but free to choose my future.
And I choose him. I choose us. I choose this.
Forever.