Chapter 22
22
M anhattan – New York, 1978
The cigar burned low between Matteo’s fingers, its ember pulsing like a dying star. From his penthouse terrace, the city sprawled beneath him—a glittering beast he’d conquered, though it had cost him everything. The smoke curled around his face, a shroud for the storm in his chest.
“Uh, Matteo."
Junior’s voice scraped against his nerves. Matteo closed his eyes. Just once—just once, let him call me Dad. He exhaled his disappointment out slow, and turned.
Junior stood in the open doorway, shoulders tense. "Mama’s on her way. Bringing Daphne and Chris. Said she and Chris are moving in tonight. So they packed bags.”
Matteo nodded.
Silence stretched, thick as the humidity clinging to the night. Junior stalked onto the terrace, hands jammed in his pockets. "So. You’re our Pops ."
"You knew I was. Am, ” Matteo muttered.
Junior’s laugh was sharp, brittle. "And when I pulled up here at your fancy penthouse, ready to put a gun to your head? Were you my Pops, then? Huh? Caesar and his boys beat my ass. All that time, you knew . And let them? That’s some bullshit, man!”
Matteo set the cigar down, the ash crumbling. "You lived because it was true. C’mon, son. You know how this works. You don’t pull a gun on me. Ever. Not even my blood gets that pass without consequence. Your mom did once, though.”
Junior’s eyes stretched. “Mom? Bullshit!”
Matteo nodded. “Oh, she did. Thought I was cheating on her. Got all pretty, dolled up, and cooked me the best dinner of my life. Put me to sleep, she loved on me so hard. Called it my last supper.” Matteo closed his eyes and relished the memory of his Debbie’s fire. His wife took no shit. Not even from him. He opened his eyes to see Junior staring at him as if he were weird. Matteo shrugged. “Woke up to a gun in my face. She told me I had ten minutes to convince her not to pull the trigger. I never talked so fast in my life. Somehow, I did it. Cause my bambina was not playing that night. Had to buy her a trunkload of jewelry to calm her pretty ass down. But she believed me. Because I’m the Butcher, I’m an evil bastard, but I am loyal to her, to you, to our family.”
“That’s a sick story, man,” Junior huffed.
“It’s a love story,” Matteo countered. “You’re my son. Mine.”
“Caesar said I was to stay away as if I weren’t. Now I’m son, and I get a piece of the Ricci pie?”Junior whirled, eyes burning. "I was eight when you killed my Dad. Eight years old, listening to Mama sob into her pillow every night while everyone lied—said he ran off to California with some man. Put dirt on his name. Forced his family to believe a lie! I picked up that gun and came here when you were released because I knew. Even after all of that shit you did to my Mama. All those fucking trips she took to that prison even when she said she would stop, even when she wanted to stop. She went, you know? I heard her tell Aunt Kathy that she couldn’t take any more. After all of it, she would still come back here to you. I brought that gun to protect her ." His voice cracked. " From you. "
The words hung between them, a blade sunk deep into Matteo’s chest. Deeper than any knife he’d ever used on an enemy.
Matteo stood, whiskey glass abandoned. He stepped into Junior’s space, taller, stronger, meaner. He was now close enough to see the tremor in his son’s jaw—the same feature he’d had as a boy, trying not to cry. “I can’t change the past,” he said. I wanted to be better than my father. I failed ."
"No shit."
A muscle jumped in Matteo’s cheek. "But I am your father, young blood. I’m Dad. You don’t have to call me that. But you will respect me." His hand shot out, gripping Junior’s chin, forcing his gaze up. "Look at me, boy. I said it once. This is the last time. You’re mine . And you’ll never call José your Dad again in my face. I know you loved him. I know it. He loved you. Not trying to compete with what you shared. But I’m Dad. Capisce? "
Junior’s jaw tightened.
“Answer me,” Matteo said.
Junior gave a nod.
Matteo released him and looked out at the city. “José was my best friend, before Nam and after. I respected him. I loved him like a brother. I’ll tell you what happened to José, what you saw that night. When you’re ready to hear it."
"Tell me now ,” Junior’s voice broke around, a sob rising in his throat.
"When you’re ready , son. I know when a man isn’t ready for the truth. Hell, I rarely was.”
Junior turned away, shoulders rigid. Matteo left him there, the city’s hum a poor salve for the silence between them. Matteo stepped inside, the penthouse air thick with the aroma of braised short ribs and rosemary. His chef stood at attention near the dining room, where crystal stemware caught the low light like scattered diamonds. The table was set for five - one setting too many, one setting too few.
"Everything is prepared, Don Ricci," the chef murmured, gesturing to the spread: osso buco , Debbie’s favorite; ricotta gnocchi , I believe your youngest boy will love; and tiramisu for your daughter. He didn’t bother to create the perfect selection for Junior; Matteo doubted his son would stay long enough to taste it.
Matteo ran a finger along the edge of a china plate. He could almost see them there - Debbie at the foot of the table, Daphne rolling her eyes at Chris's jokes, Junior... if only Junior would sit and not make this difficult for him.
"It's perfect," Matteo said, though nothing ever was. The chef bowed and retreated to the kitchen, leaving Matteo alone with his fantasy of domesticity.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city pulsed with indifferent life. Somewhere out there, Debbie's car would be winding through Midtown traffic. Somewhere behind him, his son still stood on the terrace, breathing in the same air but worlds apart.
Matteo adjusted a fork that needed no adjusting. The silverware gleamed, accusation-sharp. Everything was prepared. Everything was wrong.
But like he told Debbie that day. He didn’t need Rita Hayworth and a beach. He didn’t need her to be perfect or a fantasy. He just needed her and his babies to belong to him. He finally felt, since the war, since prison, he was home. And before this was over, before he closed his eyes, she would be his wife.
Later—
Debbie glanced down the length of the table, her gaze settling gently on Matteo seated opposite her. Between them, the air felt charged with unspoken truths and fragile hopes. Sitting to her left, Christopher seemed oblivious to the tension, eagerly dipping bread into his sauce and savoring every bite. Daphne stared silently at her untouched pasta beside him, stirring it aimlessly with her fork, eyes shadowed by uncertainty. Across from Daphne was Junior. Debbie felt her breath catch at seeing him still there, seated, refusing to retreat from this difficult moment. Matteo's eyes kept drifting toward Junior, longing and gratitude flickering in their depths.
Her poor Matteo.
She saw his effort and how earnestly he tried to bridge the silence, mentioning the penthouse and neighborhood and trying to coax a response. But his words fell gently into the quiet, unanswered. Debbie’s heart twisted painfully—not with anger at her children, whose reluctance she understood, nor at Matteo, whose desperation she felt deeply—but with a helpless rage at the cruel world that had stolen so much from them. If only fate hadn’t robbed her of her mother when she needed guidance most. If only that cruel war in Vietnam hadn’t shattered Matteo’s spirit, imprisoning him for so many lost years, so many unspeakable crimes. If only she hadn’t been denied his love, their family fractured and scattered by secrets and absence.
They deserved better. She deserved better. Matteo deserved more.
“So, you my daddy?” Christopher suddenly asked, breaking the thick silence.
Debbie blinked, astonished by her youngest son’s boldness. Junior frowned slightly, while Daphne shot a startled look toward Christopher.
Matteo exhaled audibly, relief easing the tension around his eyes. “Yes, Christopher. I’m your daddy.”
Christopher considered this thoughtful. “You been in jail like Junior say?”
“Prison,” Matteo corrected gently. “Jail’s temporary. Prison are where they send you to rot.”
“You home for good?” Christopher pressed earnestly.
“Yes,” Matteo said firmly. “For good.”
Christopher glanced at his mother before turning back to Matteo. “You love Mama?”
Junior’s voice came sharp and low. “Shut up. Eat your damn food.”
“Stop it, Junior,” Debbie interjected softly but firmly. Junior slumped defiantly lower in his seat, eyes sullen.
Matteo appeared unfazed. Despite his son’s rebellion, Debbie wondered what quiet conversations Matteo had managed with Junior to bring him to the table and keep him there.
Matteo leaned forward slightly, addressing Christopher clearly but loud enough for all to hear. “I love your mama very much. I want to marry her. I did marry her once.” His gaze shifted to Debbie. He winked at her, “It wasn’t legal. I plan to do it right this time. I want your permission, son.”
Debbie’s eyes widened, startled. Daphne gasped softly, while Junior sat upright abruptly, eyes snapping to Debbie’s face in disbelief.
“Mama?” Christopher asked quietly, his eyes hopeful. “Do you love him?”
Debbie looked deeply into Matteo’s eyes before turning to her children, her heart laid bare. “Yes, baby. With all my heart. He gave me you,” she whispered, touching Christopher’s cheek tenderly. Then her gaze shifted softly to Junior. “He gave me you, too, Junior. Matteo always wanted you, even when no one would give him credit or let him claim you. Always. You, his little soldier, he used to say to me. From the moment we brought you home from the hospital, he wouldn’t let me or José hold you. He used to put you inside his shirt to keep you close to his heart. Remember, baby?” Debbie asked.
Matteo nodded, and his gaze shifted to his oldest son.
Junior swallowed hard, his eyes momentarily meeting Matteo’s before he quickly looked down again.
“Daphne,” Debbie said gently, turning to her daughter, “remember your Penny Man? Matteo used to visit the shop with his pockets full of pennies, just for you. He carried you on his shoulders to Coney Island, to the park. You drew pictures of him, remember? Those drawings you proudly took to the prison when you were little? Matteo would make sure the guards slipped you some candy before we left. They would always say, for a princess, from the Penny Man.”
Daphne raised her eyes slowly, finally meeting Matteo’s earnest, loving gaze. Her lips trembled slightly as she nodded in quiet recognition, a tear slipping silently down her cheek.
Christopher broke the quiet reflection. “I never knew José,” he admitted softly. “He was gone before I was born. But I heard stories. About him and about you, Matteo.”
Matteo started to explain, but Debbie gently shook her head, urging him silently to let their son speak.
Christopher sighed deeply, his voice quivering slightly. “I don’t understand it all. But…I want a father, Junior. I really do. You had one,” he said to his brother, turning next to his sister. “You had one too, Daphne. It’s my turn. Right Mama?”
Daphne and Junior exchanged a cautious, uncertain glance.
“Right, baby, he’s your father. And he’s here for you,” Debbie said.
Suddenly, Christopher pushed away from the table, standing up resolutely. Debbie reached instinctively toward him, uncertain what he intended. Daphne and Junior watched tensely as Christopher walked directly to Matteo’s chair. The boy stood bravely in front of his father, chin raised in a youthful challenge. “If you’re gonna marry Mama, then fine. But you gotta be my dad, for real. You understand?”
Matteo laughed, a heartfelt sound tinged with relief and gratitude. He pushed back his chair, pulling Christopher into a tight, protective embrace—the first since Christopher was a tiny boy and a guard looked away so Matteo was able to touch him. Daphne rose hesitantly, quietly joining them. Matteo’s eyes widened in surprise and joy as Daphne hugged him fiercely, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.
Debbie’s vision blurred with tears at the sight. She turned toward Junior, who remained rigid, frozen in his seat. Quietly, she reached out, her hand trembling slightly, laid open on the table between them. Junior stared down at it, his eyes stormy with emotion.
“Please, Junior,” Debbie whispered urgently, her voice raw with hope. “Please.”
Junior drew in a shuddering breath, finally lifting his eyes to hers. “I already hugged him, Mama. But…I owe you one.”
He rose and came around to her chair, enveloping her in an embrace of forgiveness she had waited years to feel. Debbie burst openly into tears, hugging her son fiercely, the weight of years of guilt and suffering lifting from her heart. In that moment, amid the quiet sounds of healing and reconciliation, Debbie felt a sense of freedom she had long thought impossible—her family, at last, together again.
* * *
San Quentin State Prison, California – July 1978
The ceiling of Matteo Ricci’s cell was a cracked canvas of peeling paint and water stains, a map of his fifteen years in the abyss. He traced its fissures nightly, imagining them as the streets of East Harlem— his streets—now ghostly and distant. The stench of industrial cleaner and stale sweat clung to the air, a cruel reminder that freedom smelled like Debbie’s jasmine perfume, like the garlic-and-oil aroma of his mother’s kitchen, like anything but this .
“Ricci! Visitor!”
The guard’s bark jolted him. Matteo sat up, his cot and the iron springs holding up the thing mattress groaned under his weight. Visitor? Debbie’s last letter had been ice— “Don’t write again” —scrawled in her loopy hand script. He’d retaliated by sending his crew to lean on her landlord, to remind her who owned the ground beneath her feet. But this? They were at war again. And though most would think him crazy for causing strife with his woman, he knew the truth. Even if it was her anger instead of her love that he endured, it was emotion, enough of her emotion to keep him sustained. He’d do anything to keep her happy or angry as long as he was her focus. A visitor? Could it be Debbie, traveling all the way to California with her sexy ass, to cuss him out. He prayed so. This was unexpected. He smiled.
“Move it, greaseball,”sneered Jefferies, the squat guard with a face like a knuckle. Matteo rose slowly, letting the man savor his petty power. Greaseball. The word had followed him from the old neighborhood to Vietnam to this shithole. He turned to the wall, wrists out, the cuffs biting into his skin.
As they marched down the tier, inmates rattled bars, hissing “Don Ricci! The Butcher! The Butcher! The muthakfuckin Butcher!” in tones that swung between reverence and rage. Even here, his name carried weight. The Wolf of Harlem’s brother is the son of one of the founding fathers of the New York Mafia. A prince in exile.
But the walk took a wrong turn—away from the visitation room’s plexiglass purgatory, toward the warden’s lair. Matteo’s pulse spiked. Feds. They’d been circling Carmelo for years, digging into his “legitimate” empire—construction unions, casinos, the olive oil import front. Now they were coming for him .
“What’d I do now?”Matteo growled, testing Jefferies. The guard spat but said nothing.
The Warden’s Office
The room reeked of cigar smoke and bourbon. Warden MacAffey—a bloated relic with a crucifix on his wall and a ledger in his desk—glared as Matteo entered. Two suits flanked him, Fed written all over their cheap haircuts. But it was the figure by the window that froze Matteo’s blood.
Carmelo.
The Wolf of Harlem turned, his tailored suit swallowing the light. At 49, he was all sharp edges—a jawline like a switchblade, eyes blacker than a Sicilian midnight. The scar from their father’s hammer was barely noticeable on his jaw, a relic of the night the boy Carmelo died and this man was born—the man who would later kill their father and be knighted King.
“Matteo Ricci,”MacAffey drawled, signing a paper with a flourish.“Governor’s pardoned your sorry ass. Effective immediately.”
Matteo’s knees buckled. Pardon. The word hung in the air, sweet and poisonous. Pardon. Did that mean free? Sentenced to life plus twenty years in prison, freedom wasn’t ever a word he used. How could it even be possible?
“Perché?”Why? Matteo’s voice cracked, his mother’s Sicilian slipped out like a prayer.
Carmelo stepped forward, a shark’s grin playing on his lips.“ La famiglia ha bisogno di un re ,”he said. The family needs a king. Should’ve always been you from the very start, fratello .”
Matteo’s mind raced. King. The title their father had carved in blood. The one Carmelo stole when he buried a cleaver in Don Cosimo’s chest to cover up the real way his father was killed.
“ You ratting?”Matteo hissed, leaning in.“ Hai fatto un patto col diavolo? ”You made a deal with the devil?
Carmelo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.“The Feds want a scalp. I gave ’em a barber.”He nodded to the suits.“Told ’em about Gennaro’s docks, Vito’s brothels… old sins. Your sins stay buried.”
Matteo recoiled. Gennaro. Vito. Made men, loyal to the bone. But the info was tainted and flawed, which was a misfire that the Omerta would allow. Carmelo was one smart motherfucker. He had sold them a bucket full of fools gold, and the stupid motherfuckers didn’t know it. He’d take that risk to save him .
“ Perché adesso? ”Why now?Matteo pressed.
Carmelo’s gaze flickered—a crack in the armor.Carmelo stepped up to him. Equal in height and mean, the brothers were face to face. “Debbie’s waiting. So are your kids. They need you.”He threw an arm around Matteo, pulling him into an embrace that felt like a straitjacket.“ Sei libero ,”he whispered.“You’re free. Be glad. I will tell you the price you will pay for my generosity later, brother.”
“Brother. I’ll do whatever you want to have my family again,” Matteo said and hugged him fiercely.
“ Grazie ,”Matteo muttered.
“ Pergo ,”Carmelo murmured with a smirk.
Outside the Gates
The sun stabbed Matteo’s eyes as he stepped into the world. A black Lincoln idled at the curb, its driver a ghost from the past—Caesar, his closest friend, now thick with muscle and menace.
“Welcome home, Brother ,”Caesar said, opening the door.
Matteo paused, glancing back at the prison. Somewhere in its bowels, MacAffey was stewing, the Feds scheming, and Carmelo…
The Wolf had howled his last command. Because if he was wrong and Carmelo had turned against La Cosa Nostra, they were all dead men. But as the Lincoln peeled away, Matteo fingered the St. Jude medal in his pocket—Debbie’s last gift. Patron saint of lost causes.
He’d need more than prayers.
* * *
The memory dissolved like smoke the second Debbie stepped into the lamplight. Matteo’s head turned, and there she was— his Debbie, but sharper, brighter, a blade honed by time.
The bathroom steam curled around her like a halo, catching the platinum waves of her hair, styled in those soft, cascading curls that mocked the world. Marilyn Monroe meets Mahogany Queen. Fifteen years , and she went blonde—not the timid honey shade of white girls from the block, but a bold, buttercream sweep that made her skin glow like aged bourbon, rich and warm under the amber light. Back in ’65, when she’d first dyed it, he was sure the men of Harlem would come for her.
Caesar visited him to discuss business, but all he did was bitch and moan about the picture of Debbie wth her hair dyed, in a pretty dress with his kids. A father’s day card and that fucking picture. It made him crazy. He nearly dug out an inmate’s liver with a fork on the yard. He demanded that Caesar explain the hair color and if men were around. “A Black Marilyn? Che cazzo, Matteo! It’s hard as fuck to keep the men off her.”
Matteo freaked out, called her, and told her to dye her hair red. She cussed him out and accused him of wanting Rita Hayworth. The fight was on again. He then pleaded, saying she would make him kill a man. But Debbie had just called him insane to think he could control her from jail. “Let ’em stare. Don’t know body tell me what to do! Not even you!”
The towel hugged her curves like a confession—full hips that could birth empires, thighs thick enough to crush a man’s ego, breasts that defied gravity and every lie he’d heard in the joint about women “drying up” after forty was utter bullshit. Debbie pussy was wetter than he’d ever imagined it to be in the joint.
Her waist nipped in, a cruel tease of what his hands used to claim. But it was her face that gutted him: high cheekbones dusted with freckles she called “the devil’s glitter,” you could only see if you were up on her or in her, real close. And lips painted a deep plum even now, because Debbie didn’t do it halfway. She liked to leave her lip prints on him when they fucked. Sometimes he’d let them stay on him for the day when he was a free man. She didn’t fuck around. Not with her looks, not with her love for him.
A jagged breath escaped him. All those years in the hole, he’d tortured himself with rumors—some youngblood from the Bronx, maybe a slick lawyer or worse, a Black Panther or Nation of Islam muslim with a fistful of pride, circling his wife like she was a revolution to be won. “Heard she’s been seen at the Copacabana, Matteo. Dancin’ with a dude in a sharkskin suit. When she was in California to see you, think he was a panther or something.” The lies festered, rotting his sleep. But here she stood, unbroken, her edges sharper . The towel slipped as she reached for her lotion, revealing the scar on her shoulder and back from a beating her father gave her when she covered up for Kathy and Carmelo’s affair.
Her eyes—hooded, gold-flecked—narrowed at him. “What?” she said, voice syrup-slow. “Why you lookin at me like that?”
What. How could she not know? She was a walking middle finger to time, to the rules, to every sorry bastard who’d said they’d never last. Matteo’s throat tightened. “Nothin’,” he lied, nodding at her hair. “Just… still blonde, huh?”
Debbie smirked, twisting a curl around her finger. “You prefer I go back to the Afro? Or do you still have a hard-on for redheads like Rita?”
“Don’t bust my balls. I’m just the happiest I’ve ever been,” Matteo grinned. Debbie grinned and then jumped onto the bed with him. He laughed and tickled her, rolling with her.
The scent of cocoa butter and Jean Naté hit him like a right hook. All those expensive perfumes, and she wore the cheap ones for sex, which he loved. He was in her before he even realized it.
“Missed you, big man,” Debbie murmured as she nuzzled his ear, her tongue tracing a slow, wet path along the sensitive skin. Matteo groaned in response. “We did it, baby,” she continued, her voice alight with a mix of triumph and desire. Matteo’s heavy breaths and relentless, determined thrusts overwhelmed the room, leaving little room for words. With her eyes closed, she surrendered to the rolling tide of their passion.
Her body slid up then down in a sensual rhythm—hips rising and falling as his measured, powerful thrusts punctuated each heartbeat. In that moment, she felt as though she were locked in combat with a champion, someone who had fought grueling battles to protect his sanity and stay true to his mission. Every clash and victory had led him back to her, the man in whom she had always believed.
“Aaah yes, Matteo,” she groaned, the sound quivering with both pleasure and longing.
Matteo’s head lifted, his eyes clouded by tears as he sought her out with a desperate, consuming kiss. Though she strained to please him fully, she knew that in this state, it was best to let him command the fervor; his pent-up desire simmered just below the surface, threatening to erupt if disturbed. Amid grunts and the rhythmic cadence of their union, she giggled and teased, “We finally did it, baby. All of us—yes, even Junior’s here sleeping in his room.”
Matteo grunted, fucking her harder and faster.
“Do me from the back,” she added with playful insistence, fully aware of the secret thrill in his eyes. For a heartbeat, Matteo froze. Then, with a fluid motion, he turned her over. Debbie’s face sank into the soft pillow as she bit it lightly, angling her hips higher and thrusting her enticing ass into him, inviting him to claim her with the energy he had in reserve.
As his control faltered, his strokes grew harder and quicker, each impact a powerful reminder of his lustful strength—and she welcomed every strike.
“Fuck me, baby, fuck me, oooh, harder, yes, baby, c’mon daddy, harder, I can’t feel it, fuck me,” she cried out, her voice raw with need.
“Debbie, stop,” he wheezed, his tone pleading yet firm, as he continued to wrestle with restraining the Butcher inside of him that would slaughter her pussy. Debbie lifted her head to meet his gaze. He paused to let her shift. She got up on her hands and knees. With the room heavy with anticipation, her eyes sparkled with a daring invitation. “I can handle it. I’m your woman, Matteo. I’m the only one who can, remember,” she cooed provocatively.
Matteo shut his eyes tight, fighting an urge to scream out how desperately he craved her. He was being gentle. He’d been gentle since his return. He wasn’t like that when he came back from Vietnam, and it scared him, it scared her. But she soothed his beast and met his demands. She was his.
With a controlled precision born of sheer will, he came back up behind her and reentered slowly—but not before delivering a playful, yet commanding spank. Debbie’s soft cry of surprise mingled with delighted giggles, and he shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips.
Matteo ran his hands smoothly over her sweaty ass and down her thighs, and then lifted them both so her legs could lock bakward around his waist. Putting her into a wheelbarrel position, standing at the foot of the bed with her elevated and hands flat to the mattress. And he fucked her hard with precision. Debbie’s breasts swayed, her cries of passion reduced to high and low pitches as he went as deep as he knew to be possible.
“You’re trying to make me crazy,” he grunted again, slipping into that uncontrollable state. On the verge of exploding in a torrent of passion like the night he created their youngest child.
She responded with a mischievous laugh and bucking making his dick slip out of her slippery channel.
“Oh yeah? Two can play that game, Debs,” he challenged, grabbing her thighs and yanking her firmly until her body pressed flat against the bed. With a swift, intimate maneuver, he positioned her to the edge of the foot of the bed, the top of her body flat to it, her ass on display as her knees nearly touched the ground. He came up behind her, lifting her legs and dropping them on her shoulders. Putting her pussy in his face.
He diverted his attention from his own desire to explore and please her with his tongue. Her muffled cries of pleasure were swallowed by the mattress as he coaxed an intensity from her that was utterly new, tearing away tears and soft pleas until nothing remained but raw ecstasy.
Then, as if releasing all the pent-up passion at once, he reclaimed her fully. He fucked her with relentless vigor on the floor until exhaustion overcame them both. She shuddered, unable to speak. Matteo lifted her from the floor and carried her back to the bed.
Collapsing beside her on the tangled sheets, he watched as she lay stretched out, panting and gasping, her eyes wide with disbelief and satisfaction.
“Don’t tease me like that again,” he chided softly, his hand delivering a light smack to her ass.
“Sorry,” she purred, drawing closer to him and placing gentle kisses along his jaw and neck. “So sorry, baby. I’ll be good next time.”
“No, you won’t,” he chuckled, his voice warm with affection.
Debbie nestled atop his chest, her sigh a soft testament to their shared intimacy. “I love you, Matteo.”
“Then marry me,” he whispered, the weight of his longing and hope evident in his tone as he sought her steady gaze.
“Okay. Let’s do it. Tomorrow,” she replied with a lazy yawn, her body pressing tenderly against his.
Matteo’s eyes sprang open wider, his heart raced with renewed anticipation—had she just agreed to marry him after all those hesitant proposals? He peered down at her, his voice tentative yet filled with joy, “We can just get in the car, take the kids, and head to the courthouse first thing.”
She leaned in to seal their plan with a soft kiss on his chest. “Let’s get married, caro .”
With a gentle reassurance, Matteo began to rub her back. “That’s right, bambina. Let’s get married.”