Epilogue
Elsa
There are boxes everywhere.
Open ones on the floor. Taped ones by the door. Half-filled ones in the closet, each labeled in my neat black handwriting.
The morning at Northstar already feels like it happened in another life.
I went in, sat down, and told them everything.
Well… almost everything.
I told them about making it to the gala and not finding the people I was supposed to meet.
About meeting Antonio without knowing who he really was.
About learning the truth the next morning and making it very clear that by then I’d already made up my mind about Bellandi.
Antonio hadn’t influenced that decision.
He’d only complicated everything that came after.
I told them about the surveillance. The Bellandis following me. Following them. About Antonio coming to New York to protect me. About the break-in, the recording, and the way everything spiraled from there until the attack at the doctor’s office.
That part, I kept simple.
Antonio stopped them.
That was enough.
I told them I needed to step away from the company—for personal and professional reasons—and waited for the judgment to come.
It never really did.
There was silence. A few grim faces. Some shock. Some gratitude when I explained just how closely Bellandi had been watching them and that people from Conti Operations had stepped in to protect them before things got worse.
They accepted my resignation with a kind of solemn professionalism. I cleared out my office. And before lunch, I was gone.
Just like that.
By the time I got back here, my apartment didn’t feel like home anymore.
It felt like somewhere I used to live.
A shell I’d already started shedding.
I’m not coming back.
That thought should hurt more than it does.
But every time it lands, another rises right behind it.
I’m moving in with Antonio.
We’re starting a family together.
That still doesn’t feel entirely real, even with twins growing inside me and the man I love in the next room packing my things like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It feels too big to fully understand.
Too life-altering.
Too perfect.
I’m kneeling in front of the bottom half of my closet, sorting shoes into piles, when Antonio’s voice drifts in from the living room.
“You packed books in this one.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s what boxes are for.”
“It weighs as much as a body.”
I do not ask how he knows that.
“Lift with your legs,” I call back.
He mutters something in Italian under his breath, something that definitely isn’t flattering, and my smile grows.
The apartment feels different now. Not sad exactly.
Just… stripped bare.
Drawers emptied. Frames taken down. The life I built here folded into cardboard and tape.
I stand and reach for the dresses still hanging in the closet.
Work dresses first. The usual rotation of practical, forgettable pieces I wore to disappear into conference rooms and board meetings. Dresses designed to make people focus on my numbers instead of my body.
I’ll decide later whether to keep them.
Then my fingers still.
Black.
Simple. Elegant. Dangerous.
The dress.
The one I wore on that first date with Antonio.
For a second, I just stare at it.
A dark line against the pale wall of the closet.
And then I remember the way he looked at me that night.
The way his eyes darkened.
The way I knew, instantly, that whatever existed between us had already gone too far.
Heat curls low in my stomach.
I’d been furious with him then. Convinced he’d slept with me only to secure the deal with Northstar.
So I bought the dress to torture him.
And maybe because some reckless, traitorous part of me wanted exactly that.
Wanted him looking at me.
Touching me.
Taking it off me.
Seeing it in a heap on the bedroom floor.
Except he never got the chance.
Everything spun out too fast after that—the anger, the lies, the deal, the danger, the pull between us twisting into something bigger than either of us had planned.
A slow smile curves my mouth.
Well.
Maybe he deserves the chance now.
I slide the dress off the hanger and hold it against me, then glance toward the bedroom door.
A second later, Antonio appears there, another box in his arms.
He stops when he sees the look on my face.
Then his eyes drop to the dress.
And darken instantly.
“Tell me that’s coming with us,” he says.
I lean one shoulder against the closet frame, letting the dress drape from my fingers.
“Oh, it’s definitely coming.”
His gaze drifts over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s already imagining it on my body.
Or on his floor.
“Good,” he says quietly.
The word wraps around me like heat.
I lift a brow. “You look very pleased about that.”
“I am.”
He sets the box down without taking his eyes off me.
There’s something about the way he starts toward me—slow, certain, entirely too focused—that makes my pulse skip.
“Antonio,” I murmur, though I’m not sure whether it’s a warning or an invitation.
He stops in front of me and takes the hanger from my hand, letting the dress fall over his arm.
Then he reaches for me.
One hand settles at my waist, warm and possessive, and he draws me toward him until there’s no space left between us.
“This dress,” he says, voice low, rougher than it was a second ago, “has been unfinished business for a while.”
I laugh softly, but it catches in my throat when his thumb traces over my side.
“I seem to remember being very angry with you the first time.”
“You were.”
“And now?”
He looks down at me, his expression unreadable for half a beat.
Then his mouth curves.
“Now,” he says, sliding his hand to the small of my back, “you’re carrying my children, moving into my home, and looking at me like you want me to drag you into the bedroom.”
Heat blooms hot and fast across my skin.
“You make me sound shameless.”
His hand tightens slightly.
“Dolcezza, I would never complain about that.”
I laugh again, softer this time, and tip my face up toward his.
The kiss he gives me isn’t rushed.
It’s slow.
Claiming.
Certain.
The kind of kiss that reminds me exactly who this man is.
And exactly who I belong to.
When he lifts his head, I’m breathless.
His forehead rests briefly against mine.
“We should finish packing,” I whisper.
“We should,” he agrees.
Neither of us moves.
His gaze drops once more to the dress still hanging from his arm.
“Later,” he says, voice low.
The promise in it sends a shiver through me.
I smile.
Because now I know exactly what later means.