Isabella
I stand beside Elio in the grand war room that once belonged to my father, my hand resting lightly on the heavy oak table in the center of it.
The wood is darker than I remember.
Perhaps age has deepened the shade or grief has changed the way I see everything now.
The last time I stood in this room, I was a girl with my father’s voice at my shoulder and his cigar smoke curling lazily toward the coffered ceiling while men twice my age pretended not to notice how carefully I listened.
Now this room belongs to my and my family’s future.
The Conti empire collapsed weeks after it stormed the Bianchi safehouse, or at least what was left of it after Alessio’s death. Vittorio sits under guard now within Davide’s stronghold, stripped of the empire he believed would outlive the son he chose to sacrifice it for.
His loyalists have scattered, surrendered, or have been swallowed by the very alliances they once tried to devour.
And now I am back in Italy, trying to rebuild the syndicate my father once held with such pride.
Elio stands close enough that I can feel the warmth of him beside me, though neither of us touches beyond the faint brush of his fingers against mine.
He has learned these past few months that closeness is not something he can take from me with force. It has to be earned. He is patient with that, more than I expected a Conti man to be.
But then again, he is no longer a Conti as I once knew him to be.
Rebuilding an old empire in the wake of another’s toppling is stranger than I imagined.
Actually, strange is too delicate a word.
In reality, these months have been a funeral procession of stepping over bodies in the aftermath of the war.
Of Elio coming back from that ruined hall alive with blood on his shirt that was not all his and eyes hollow with the knowledge that he had put his brother in the ground and saved our son in the same breath.
I remember the look on his face when he saw me again and the relief that flooded through me the moment I touched him and realized he had survived.
That had been the beginning of this strange new life.
There are nights I wake and find him standing at the window, shirtless beneath the pale wash of moonlight with one hand pressed against the glass and the other touching the scars along his chest where Alessio’s last blows still mark him.
He stares out into the dark like he is searching for a version of himself that died in that hall too.
I never ask him what he sees. I know enough from my own grief to allow him the peace to come to terms with it on his own.
My hand still rests on the table when Elio speaks.
“You’re quiet.”
I glance at him.
He looks different in my father’s war room. Not out of place, exactly. Elio Conti has never looked out of place among power.
He was born beneath its chandeliers, raised in its shadows, and fed its language before he had the sense to question whether hunger and compliance were the same thing.
But here, surrounded by Russo history, he looks settled in the way I feel.
“I keep expecting him to walk in,” I admit.
Elio’s gaze softens.
My throat tightens.
For years my father’s memory was a locked room inside me and kept dark because pulling it into the light only made the blood-soaked grief show.
Now I stand in the room where he built and defended an empire, and I do not know whether I want to weep, scream, or apologize to every ghost watching from the other side.
The portraits remain where they always were lining the room.
Russo men in dark suits, Russo women in pearls and black silk, all of them painted with the same watchful eyes as if death has not relieved them of their judgment.
My father’s portrait has not yet been returned.
It was taken down after the estate was seized, stored somewhere by men who thought removing his face meant removing his claim before abandoning the property altogether.
Tomorrow, it will be rehung.
Perhaps mine will eventually join it.
Elio follows my gaze to the empty space above the fireplace before focusing back on me. “Once we get this place cleaned up, you will have to introduce Matteo to all of his relatives.”
The words settle inside me strangely.
Relatives… such an ordinary word for a family like mine. Relatives are supposed to bring casseroles for Sunday dinners and send birthday cards with money tucked inside the flap.
Argue over recipes and inherit ugly furniture and show children embarrassing photographs from before they were born.
In our world, relatives come with armed drivers, sealed alliances, old grudges, and names whispered carefully behind closed doors because the wrong alliance can still carry a death sentence.
And yet for Matteo, I’m determined to not allow his life to be anything like that.
Eventually, there will be stories from people who knew my mother’s laugh and my father’s better moments.
Distant cousins and great-aunts who will fuss over his cheeks and pretend not to count the Conti angles in his face.
Old Russo loyalists who will look at him and now see him as leverage, inheritance, or a claim as the next heir.
Every single piece of what we build next will be proof that we were not entirely erased as the Contis once thought we were.
A small smile tugs at my lips. “Yes, I’m sure he will ask me about them until I do.”
For so many years, I gave my son a life made of careful omissions because I wanted to protect him.
Now he will finally be able to understand the truth without repercussions.
There will be no old allies turned enemies knocking at our doorstep, none who demand loyalty without first earning it.
Elio’s hand finds my back.
The touch is gentle, almost tentative at first.
He only rests his palm there, warm through the fabric of my dress, waiting for me to decide whether closeness is something I can bear.
My breath catches for the smallest second, then I let myself lean.
With a gentle hand, he guides me closer until I am pressed to his side. My arms come up around his waist before I can think too much about it. My cheek moves to rest against his chest, and the steady beat of his heart finds my ear.
He is alive.
For months, that has been what I return to when everything else around me feels unsteady. Elio’s hand moves slowly over my back in a soothing stroke that makes my eyes sting.
“Do you think he’ll like it here?” he asks.
The question is not really about the estate, we both know that. It is about this life and the family that will need to be stitched back together with bloodied hands and imperfect apologies. It is about whether Matteo can belong to a world I once prayed would never know his name.
“I think he’ll be overwhelmed at first,” I say honestly.
He hums softly in response.
I breathe quietly against his chest. “But… he is incredibly curious. And probably furious that I didn’t tell him sooner about you.”
He squeezes me gently. “We will make up for lost time once he is settled here.”
I lift my head enough to look at him.
Elio looks down at me. The softness in his eyes is no longer something he tries to hide.
That used to frighten me.
Sometimes, it still does, only because I’m afraid one day, I may lose it again. No love story should have this much blood under its fingernails. Yet despite that, his hand remains on my back and my arms remain wrapped tight around him.
The space between us, once a battlefield, has become something easier to swallow.
We are not healed, far from it, but we are slowly easing the pain of our pasts by changing our futures together and molding them into one we both control.
That is what these months have taught me.
Some wounds do not vanish. They grow around themselves and make space for other things. Trust, a stubborn and fickle thing, will always bloom when a promise without demand is given.
Elio’s mouth curves faintly. “I am excited for our future, Isabella.”
My chest squeezes. “Really? Even if it is going to take a long time to rebuild?”
He cups my face, his thumb gentle as it traces my jaw to my cheek. “As long as you allow me to remain by your side, I will be happy.”
I rise onto my toes and press a kiss to his lips. “Always.”
His eyes close at the small touch, a soft sigh leaving him. Sometimes, he still reacts as though this is an absolution he does not believe he deserves.
I hope one day, I can prove to him that he does.
I nuzzle back into Elio’s embrace and let myself relax there for another stolen moment. Outside, dawn begins to lighten the windows.
Pale gold slips over the estate grounds, touching the house that has finally stopped feeling haunted.
For years, I thought freedom meant disappearing and pushing away every piece of my history that made me a Russo.
Now with Elio’s heart beating beneath my cheek and my son safe, I know freedom can also mean staying.
There will always be danger in a life like ours, but this time when the world comes for us, I know without question that Elio will be by my side.
Matteo will have a family that does not demand blind obedience in exchange for love or grow up believing loyalty gives anyone the right to chain him to their sins.
He will learn the truth slowly, with care, in pieces his heart is ready to hold onto.
He will know Amos Russo was powerful and flawed, loving and ruthless, a grandfather who would have adored him and a man whose choices cast shadows long after his death.
He will know the weight the Conti name once carried and how his father chose differently when it mattered.
And he will know his mother stopped running because the ground finally felt steady enough to do so.
I will give Matteo a name he does not have to run from. A history that does not devour him whole. A family that can bend without breaking, bleed without becoming cruel, and love without turning that love into a cage.
That is my promise to him.