Chapter 41
Chapter forty-one
Dante
Six months after claiming Dylan back from his brother, I find myself standing in front of a mirror, adjusting a tie that he picked for me.
The man looking back at me is almost unrecognizable. The tailored suit and freshly cut hair are not new, but the happy look in my eyes certainly is. Six months ago, I was the butcher. The monster in the basement. The man who hurt people for a living and told himself it was just a job.
Now I’m a bakery assistant who can almost make a decent scone.
Strange how life turns out.
“You look handsome,” Dylan says from the doorway.
I turn to find him leaning against the frame, watching me with those hazel eyes that still make my chest tight. He’s dressed for the wedding too, in a suit that brings out the color of his eyes and makes his strawberry-blond hair gleam.
“You look better,” I say.
He grins and crosses the room to straighten my tie, even though it doesn’t need straightening. “Nervous?”
“Why would I be nervous? It’s not my wedding.”
“No.” His hands linger on my chest. “But it’s Dario’s. And Molly’s. That means something.”
It does mean something. More than I know how to articulate.
Not that long ago, Dario was trapped under his brother’s thumb, watching the man he loved from a distance, because getting close would put Molly in danger.
Then everything changed. Dario made a choice.
The hardest choice anyone could make. He killed his own brother to keep Molly safe, and in doing so, he took control of everything.
It wasn’t about power. It was about love. The mafia empire was just a side effect, a responsibility Dario inherited because he chose to act. But he’s risen to it. Made it something better than what his brother built on cruelty and fear.
I’m proud that I helped him through it. I’m pretty sure Carlo and Nicolo don’t have any regrets either. We stood beside him when he needed us, not because we were ordered to, but because it was the right thing to do. Because love was worth fighting for, even in our world. Especially in our world.
I didn’t understand it then. Not really. I went through the motions, did what needed to be done, but the concept of killing for love rather than duty was foreign to me. Abstract. I loved the idea of it, but I didn’t really understand it.
Now, looking at Dylan, I understand completely.
“We should go,” Dylan says. “We don’t want to be late.”
He smiles at me, takes my hand, and together we head out to the biggest wedding of the year.
The venue is spectacular. A country estate outside London, all manicured gardens and ancient stone, decorated within an inch of its life.
Ginni’s influence is unmistakable in every detail, from the precise arrangement of white roses to the color-coordinated table settings to the way the afternoon light catches the crystal champagne flutes.
I’m surprised Molly listened to his advice, that boy has opinions. But maybe that’s what love does to you. Calms you down. Makes you wiser.
“Your apprentice outdid himself,” Dylan murmurs as we take our seats.
“Ginni doesn’t know how to do anything by halves.”
The ceremony itself is beautiful. Molly walks down the aisle looking radiant, blond hair bouncing with each step, practically glowing with happiness. When he reaches Dario at the altar, I watch my boss’s face transform.
I’ve known Dario for years. I’ve seen him cold, calculating, ruthless when he needed to be.
I’ve seen him order men’s deaths without flinching.
But I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at Molly.
Like the rest of the world has ceased to exist. Like Molly is the only thing that matters.
That’s true love. That’s what it looks like when you’d burn down everything you’ve built for one person.
I understand that now.
Dylan’s hand finds mine in my lap. I glance over at him and catch him watching me with a soft expression.
“What?” I murmur.
“Nothing.” He squeezes my fingers. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”
“I’m the lucky one.”
He smiles, that bright smile that still catches me off guard. “And I’m still trying to get my head around the fact I’m at a gay mafia wedding.”
I bring his hand up to my lips and give him a soft kiss. He is smiling, but there are old wounds in his eyes. His birth family disowned him. They could never accept him like this.
It’s their loss, and they don’t deserve Dylan anyway. But I know the rejection still stings.
His smile deepens at my acknowledgement of his pain, and he turns back to the ceremony.
Dario and Molly exchange vows. Traditional, mostly, but with personal touches that make the guests laugh and cry in equal measure.
I think about my own promises. The ones I’ve made to Dylan, spoken and unspoken. To protect him. To never hurt him again. To build a life worthy of the second chance he’s given me.
I intend to keep every single one.
The reception is a blur of champagne and laughter and catching up with people who have become, improbably, something like family.
Carlo and Ginni are holding court near the dance floor. Ginni is resplendent in something designer and slightly scandalous. Carlo watches him with the same fond exasperation he always does, one hand resting possessively on Ginni’s waist.
Nicolo and Liam are at a corner table, heads bent together, lost in their own world. Liam says something that makes Nicolo throw his head back and laugh, and I’m struck by how different Nicolo seems these days. Softer. Happier.
Love does that too, apparently. Rounds off the sharp edges. Makes monsters into men.
Aunt Moira has commandeered another corner table and appears to be teaching Dario’s elderly great-aunt how to play poker. From the pile of chips in front of Moira, she’s winning handily. When she catches my eye across the room, she gives me a sharp nod of acknowledgment.
It took months for her to truly warm up to me.
Months of working at the bakery, of treating Dylan well, of proving through actions rather than words that I meant every promise I made.
She still watches me with those sharp hazel eyes, still sees too much, but somewhere along the way, wariness turned into full acceptance.
She even called me “Oul segotia” once. An Irish term of endearment that Dylan claims that’s the highest honor Moira bestows.
Sean and Teagan are here too, because Molly visited the bakery and somehow they are all close friends now.
Including Aunt Moira. I find it bewildering, as well as a stark example of how much work I need to do on my social skills.
I cannot fathom making friends so effortlessly, but apparently it is possible.
Dylan’s friends are looking slightly overwhelmed by the grandeur but gamely mingling.
Sean has discovered he and Carlo share a passion for football, and they’ve been arguing about it happily for the past hour.
Teagan is deep in conversation with Dario’s cousin, comparing notes on something that has them both laughing.
These people. This strange collection of mafia members and civilians, of killers and bakers, of people who should never have crossed paths but somehow ended up becoming family.
Dylan appears at my elbow with two glasses of champagne.
“Having fun?” he asks, handing me one.
“More than I expected.”
“Dante Marchetti, admitting he’s having fun at a social event.” Dylan clutches his chest in mock shock. “Someone alert the papers.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
He grins and leans into me, and I wrap an arm around his waist automatically. It’s become second nature, this casual affection. Touching him whenever I can. Keeping him close. Making sure everyone in the room knows he’s mine.
Six months ago, I didn’t know how to do any of this. Didn’t know how to be soft, how to be vulnerable, how to love someone. Dylan taught me. Patiently, gently, with a forgiveness I still don’t think I deserve.
I’m still learning. I’ll probably be learning for the rest of my life.
But I’m getting better. Like my customer service skills. Progress.
Molly’s voice rings out across the reception. “Alright, everyone! Time for the bouquet toss!”
A crowd begins to gather near the dance floor. Mostly women, but a few men too, jockeying for position with the kind of competitive intensity usually reserved for blood sports.
Dylan doesn’t move from my side. “Aren’t you going to try to catch it?” I ask.
He snorts. “Absolutely not. I’m perfectly happy watching the carnage from a safe distance.”
His tone is light-hearted. Warm. There is no rejection in it. He is simply relaxed and enjoying himself and, in his unassuming way, blissfully unaware of how much I’d like him to catch the bouquet.
Ginni is conspicuously absent from the crowd. He’s perched on Carlo’s lap at their table, next to us, examining his nails with studied disinterest. Already married, apparently the bouquet toss is beneath his dignity now.
They had some small ceremony they eloped to, one that I know they aren’t telling me the whole story of. But it’s not my secret to poke at.
Nicolo and Liam are sitting comfortably together, both smiling softly. They are already engaged, so I guess tussling for a bouquet is unnecessary.
It seems that no one I’m close to is going to fight for the flowers.
Molly turns his back to the crowd, bouquet in hand. White roses and baby’s breath, trailing ribbons.
“One!” the crowd chants. “Two! Three!”
Molly throws.
The bouquet arcs through the air, a perfect trajectory heading toward a tall woman in green who has positioned herself with military precision.
And then Ginni and his foot appear out of nowhere.
The woman goes down with a yelp of surprise. The bouquet sails over her falling form and lands directly in Dylan’s arms.
He stares at it in shock.
Ginni is back in his seat, pouting with exaggerated innocence. “Oh dear. How clumsy of her.”
“Did you just trip that woman?” Dylan demands.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was sitting here the entire time.” Ginni turns to Carlo. “Wasn’t I sitting here the entire time?”
“You were absolutely sitting here the entire time,” Carlo agrees, not even bothering to hide his grin.
Dylan looks down at the bouquet in his arms. White roses and baby’s breath and something that smells like possibility.
Then he looks up at me.
My heart is pounding. Which is ridiculous. I’ve faced down armed men without flinching. I’ve walked into situations where death was more likely than survival. But standing here, looking at Dylan holding that bouquet, I feel more terrified than I’ve ever been in my life.
Because this matters. This matters more than anything has ever mattered.
“Well,” I say, and my voice comes out softer than I intended. “That’s rather pointed, isn’t it?”
Dylan’s eyes are bright. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
“I’m asking if you would consider making this official.” I step closer, taking his free hand in mine. “Permanent. Legal, if you want. Or just between us, if you prefer. Whatever you want, Dylan. I just want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
For a moment, he just stares at me. The room has gone quiet around us, everyone watching, but I can’t look away from Dylan’s face.
Then he throws his arms around my neck, bouquet and all.
“Yes,” he says against my lips. “Yes, yes, yes.”
The room erupts. Nicolo wolf-whistles. Ginni bursts into tears and claims it’s allergies, mascara running down his cheeks as Carlo tries to mop up the damage with a napkin.
Aunt Moira raises her poker winnings in a toast. Sean shouts something incomprehensible but enthusiastic.
Molly catches Dario’s eye across the room and smiles, like this was exactly what he was hoping for when he threw those flowers.
I kiss Dylan in front of everyone. Deep and thorough and full of promise. I don’t care who’s watching. Let them watch. Let them all see how much I love this man.
When we finally break apart, Dylan is laughing and crying at the same time, the bouquet crushed between us.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too.” I press my forehead against his. “Forever.”
“Forever,” he agrees, his smile bright enough to light up the room.
It’s not the life I ever imagined for myself. A baker instead of a butcher. A fiance instead of a monster. A family cobbled together from mafia members, Irish exiles and civilians. From people who hurt and people who heal, from broken things that somehow found a way to fit together.
Less than a year ago, I didn’t believe I could love. Didn’t think I was capable of it. I was a weapon, a tool, a man who had carved out every soft part of himself and called it strength.
Dylan showed me I was wrong. Showed me that the soft parts were still there, buried deep, waiting for someone brave enough to find them.
Standing here with him in my arms, surrounded by people who love us, I can’t imagine wanting anything else.
This is my happy ending. This is our ever after.
And it’s only the beginning.