Epilogue
ANNIE
The late afternoon sunlight streams through the windows of our bedroom, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. I watch the dust motes dance in the air, feeling like I'm suspended in some kind of dream. A beautiful, impossible dream that I'm terrified of waking up from.
But the weight in my arms is real. The tiny, perfect bundle wrapped in soft white cotton is real. The sound of my daughter's breathing—so small, so delicate—is the most real thing I've ever experienced.
“It’s hard to stop staring at her, isn’t it?” Elio says softly from the doorway.
I look up to find my husband watching us with an expression that makes my heart ache. There's so much love in his eyes that I feel tears prick at the corners of mine. "I can't help it," I whisper, looking back down at our daughter. "She's so perfect, Elio. How did we make something so perfect?"
He crosses the room in three long strides and sits beside me on the bed, his arm coming around my shoulders. Together, we stare down at the tiny miracle sleeping in my arms.
Margaret Sophia Cattaneo. Irish and Italian, mine and his, a mixture of the both of us. And somehow, it fits her perfectly.
She has Elio's dark hair, just a wisp of it on her tiny head. But when she opens her eyes, they're blue like mine. A perfect blend of both of us, both of our families, both of our worlds.
"I still can't believe she's ours," Elio murmurs, his finger gently stroking Margaret's impossibly small hand. "That we get to keep her."
I lean into him, exhausted but happier than I ever thought possible. "Believe it. Because you're not getting out of diaper duty."
He laughs quietly, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I wouldn't dream of it."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, just watching our daughter sleep. It's been three days since we left the hospital, and I still haven't gotten used to the reality of her. The fact that she's here, that she's healthy, that she's ours.
The pregnancy was difficult. Not physically—I was lucky in that regard, with morning sickness that went away after the first three months, mostly, and no major complications.
But the scars from Desmond didn’t heal as quickly as I’d hoped.
I had nightmares and panic attacks, moments where I'd wake up in the middle of the night convinced that Desmond was still alive, that he was coming for me, that he was going to take my baby away before I even got to meet her.
But Elio never left my side for even a moment. He held me through the nightmares, talked me through the panic attacks, reminded me over and over that I was safe. That we were safe. That Desmond was dead and could never hurt us again.
"Your brothers will be here soon," Elio says, glancing at his watch. "And Leila, and Simone. Ronan texted. They're about twenty minutes out."
My stomach does a little flip. This will be the first time the whole family has been to our new home, the house Elio bought for us four months ago—not the penthouse he'd been living in when all this started, but something new.
Something that's ours. Something without any memories but the new ones we plan to make together.
And it’s absolutely gorgeous—a restored historic brownstone with high ceilings and original hardwood floors, and antique furniture.
I used the project of decorating and making it perfect to take my mind off of the fears I had as my due date got closer, and it helped. It gave me something to focus on.
"Are you nervous?" Elio asks, reading my expression easily, and I smile.
"A little," I admit. "I just want everything to be perfect."
"It will be," he assures me. "They're coming to meet little Maggie, not to inspect the house."
"I know, but—" I stop, trying to find the words. "This is important. Having everyone here together. Showing them that we're really doing this. That we're a family."
Elio's expression softens. "Annie, we've been a family for months now. Since the wedding. Hell, since the day I married you the first time. Nothing is going to change that,”
"I know," I say again. "But this feels different. More real, somehow."
He leans down and kisses my forehead. "Then what do you need me to do?"
Before I can answer, Maggie stirs in my arms, her tiny face scrunching up in that way that means she's about to wake up and probably demand to be fed.
"Actually," I say, looking up at Elio with a smile. "I need you to take her for a minute while I make myself presentable. I can't greet everyone looking like I haven't slept in three days."
"You look beautiful," Elio protests, but he's already reaching for our daughter, his large hands careful and gentle as he lifts her from my arms.
I watch as he cradles her against his chest, one hand supporting her head, the other arm wrapped securely around her tiny body. The sight of him holding her never fails to make my heart squeeze.
He’s amazing with her already. He coos to her in Italian and holds her whenever he can. He never complains about getting up in the middle of the night to help. And he looks at her as if she’s the most precious thing in the world.
"Go," he says, noticing me watching. "We'll be fine. Won't we, piccola?"
Margaret makes a small noise that might be agreement or might just be gas, and I laugh as I head to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I've managed to shower, put on clean clothes, and even apply a little makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes. I can hear voices downstairs—male voices, including Elio's, which means my brothers have arrived.
Taking a deep breath, I head down.
The living room is full of people. Ronan and Leila are on the couch, with Leila cooing over Margaret, who Elio has apparently already been convinced to hand over. Tristan is standing by the fireplace, his wife Simone beside him, both of them watching the baby with smiles on their faces.
"Annie!" Leila looks up as I enter, her face glowing. "Oh my God, she's perfect. She's absolutely perfect."
I cross the room and sit beside her, peering down at my daughter. "She is, isn't she?"
"She has your eyes," Simone observes, coming to sit on my other side. "But Elio's coloring."
"Best of both worlds," Elio says, and there's warmth in his voice. Pride.
I look over at Ronan, who's been suspiciously quiet. He's watching Margaret with an expression I can't quite read.
"Do you want to hold her?" I ask softly.
Ronan's eyes meet mine. “Are you sure?”
“Of course,” I tell him.
Leila carefully transfers Margaret to Ronan's arms. For a moment, Ronan looks uncertain, even though he has a child of his own now.
Then Margaret opens her eyes, and something in Ronan's expression just… softens.
"Hi there, ceann beag," he murmurs in Irish. "I'm your Uncle Ronan. And I'm going to spoil you absolutely rotten."
I feel tears prick at my eyes again. I’d been so afraid we wouldn’t make it to this. That Ronan wouldn’t ever come around fully. But I can feel, in this moment, that things are finally okay. That whatever he’s needed to work through to forgive us, he’s there now.
"Thank you," I say quietly, just to him.
"She's my family,” Ronan says softly. “So are you. And he is, too.”
His eyes shift to where Elio is standing with Tristan, talking in low voices. There's still tension there—there probably always will be—but it's different now. Manageable. And finally on its way to being mostly behind us, I hope.
"How are you really doing?" Leila asks me quietly while Ronan is distracted with the baby. "I know everyone keeps asking, but you can always talk to me."
"Tired," I admit. "Overwhelmed. Terrified that I'm going to mess this up somehow. But also..." I look at Margaret, at my daughter, and feel that familiar surge of love so powerful it almost hurts. "Also, happier than I've ever been. Is that crazy?"
"Not even a little bit," Leila says, squeezing my hand. "That's just being a mom. I’m right there with you.”
The afternoon passes in a blur of conversation and laughter and a close, warm feeling that’s been missing ever since I came home.
Simone shares horror stories from Tristan's attempts at changing diapers.
Leila and Ronan chatter about their baby, and soon enough, all three men—Ronan, Tristan, and Elio, are trading stories from when we were all children.
Through it all, Margaret is passed from person to person, cooed over, and adored, and welcomed into the family with open arms.
Eventually, everyone starts to leave. Simone and Tristan first, because they need to catch a flight.
Ronan and Leila are next, and Ronan hands Margaret back to me carefully, like she's made of glass.
"Thank you for letting us come today,” he says after a long moment. “For letting us be part of this."
"You're always going to be part of this," I tell him. "You're my brother. Nothing will ever change that."
He nods, and I see his throat work as he swallows hard. "I'm sorry. For how I reacted. For the things I said."
"Ronan—"
"No, let me finish." He takes a deep breath. "I was wrong. About a lot of things. I was so focused on protecting you that I didn't see what you really needed. And I'm sorry for that."
"You were scared," I say softly. "After what happened with Siobhan, with Desmond—you had every right to be scared. And I was wrong to lie to you. I made so many wrong choices, Ronan. But this—" I look at Elio. “This one was right.”
Elio steps up beside me, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. "We all made mistakes," he says quietly. "What matters is that we're here now. Together."
Ronan looks at him for a long moment, and something passes between them. Some kind of understanding, or forgiveness, or both. "Take care of them," Ronan says finally. "My sister and my niece. That's all I ask."
"With my life," Elio promises. "Always."
Ronan reaches out his hand. Elio takes it without hesitation, clasping it, and I see both of them relax slightly.
"We should do Sunday dinners," Leila suggests brightly, breaking the tension. "All of us. Once you're settled in and ready for visitors. We could switch off Sundays."
"I'd like that,” I say, the idea filling me with warmth. Our family feels as if it’s healing. As if there’s a future where there’s no more recrimination, only the kind of closeness that I grew up with. I want Margaret to have that—for all of our children to have it.
After Ronan and Leila leave, Elio and I are finally alone with our daughter. "That went well," Elio says, following me up the stairs as I carry Maggie to the nursery.
"Better than well," I agree. "Ronan really has forgiven us, hasn't he?"
"I think so," Elio says. "And I’ll work every day to make sure it stays that way.”
I carefully lay Margaret in her crib, watching as she settles down. Elio's arms come around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. Together, we watch our daughter sleep.
"Do you remember," he murmurs, his lips against my hair, "that night you came to me? When Desmond was after you?"
"Of course," I whisper, looking up at him. We haven’t talked about this in months. "I was terrified."
"So was I," he admits. "Not of Desmond. Of what I felt for you. Of what it would mean if I helped you. I knew it would change everything. I knew it might destroy my relationship with Ronan, might cost me everything I'd built."
"But you did it anyway," I say softly.
"But I did it anyway," he agrees. "Because even then, I knew I couldn't let you go. I knew that you were worth anything. You were worth everything. You and Margaret—you're my whole world, Annie. My entire life."
I feel my eyes mist over with tears. "I love you," I whisper. "So much. Sometimes I can't believe this is real. That we're really here, that we have all this."
"Believe it," he says, echoing my words from earlier. "Because I'm not going anywhere. Not ever."
He kisses me then, a slow, soft, sweet kiss that’s full of all the promises we’ve made to each other since then. And I let myself believe it. Let myself believe in this impossible happy ending we've somehow found.
This impossible, perfect, beautiful forever.
Thank you for reading Vicious Heir!