Chapter 26
Luther
Two weeks after Blake puts a second band beside the first one on Luca’s finger, Rosalie decides the big wedding is not official because there has not been enough cake.
She announces this in the kitchen while standing on a chair she knows she's not supposed to use without one of us beside her, her pink crown tilted over one eyebrow and both hands planted on the counter like she's chairing a very serious meeting.
The strawberry cake Luca made yesterday sits under a glass dome near the coffee machine, already cut into because celebration in this house never waits for the perfect hour anymore.
James is at the table with a marker in one hand and a sheet of paper in front of him, writing possible versions of everyone's names in careful rows as best a five-year-old can.
Samuel's on the floor with a ribbon tied around his wrist, practicing how fast he can run from the pantry to the stairs because he's declared himself the only logical ring bearer for the big ceremony.
Bartholomew is there too, tucked on Nicholas’s hip because Oliver insisted on stopping by before we left and then immediately made himself part of the chaos.
He is still small enough to be more interested in frosting than ceremony plans, but every time Luca’s new band catches the kitchen light beside the old one, his hand reaches for it with solemn determination.
Rosalie keeps telling him he is too little to understand the reason for the cake, and Oliver keeps looking personally wounded on his son’s behalf.
I stand in the doorway for a minute before anyone notices me.
Grayson’s packing snacks into a small bag for the kids even though they’re only staying downstairs with the night sitter for a few hours.
Bartholomew is staying too, because Oliver refused to let him miss cake and Nicholas refused to bring a toddler anywhere near Vice & Virtue after dark.
Maceo's checking the security feed on his phone with Rosalie's stuffed dinosaur tucked under one arm because she handed it to him and then forgot to take it back.
Luca's leaning against the island, ring flashing when he reaches for a plate, and Blake sits at the table with a cane hooked over the back of his chair and a half-finished cup of tea in front of him.
His color's better. His hands still shake when he gets tired.
The truth lives in both things, and I've learned not to bargain with either of them.
This is the family I've pulled together across years, across damage, across every locked door the world tried to put between us.
It's not tidy. It's not easy. Samuel's arguing with James about whether a ring bearer needs legal training. Rosalie's insisting cake must be eaten before the grown-ups leave because grown-ups get distracted and forget important laws. Bartholomew is patting Nicholas’s cheek with one frosting-sticky hand while Oliver tries to coax him into saying Luca’s name and fails spectacularly.
Blake's pretending to be annoyed by the blanket Luca draped across his lap while keeping one hand curled in its edge. Every few minutes, his gaze catches on Luca’s hand, on the new band beside the old one, and his mouth softens before he remembers anyone can see him.
Grayson's trying to count juice boxes and breathe at the same time.
Maceo's already noticed that I've stopped in the doorway and looks up without saying anything, his expression quiet enough that it gives me room to feel what's rising in my chest.
I built companies. I signed contracts. I learned how to stand in rooms full of men who thought Alpha meant brute force and proved them wrong with patience, money, and threat held in the right hand at the right time. None of that's ever felt as impossible or as precious as this kitchen.
Rosalie spots me first. "Luther, tell them promises need cake."
"Promises need follow-through," I say, crossing the room and lifting her off the chair before she can protest the safety violation. "Cake helps."
She takes that as a victory and wraps both arms around my neck. "Then everyone gets some."
Blake looks at the cake and then at Luca, who's already picked up the knife. "Quentin said I should avoid excess sugar."
Luca gives him one careful look, soft and sharp in the same breath. "Quentin said you should avoid stress. Cake's emotional medicine."
Blake's mouth moves like he wants to argue. Then he looks at the ring on Luca's hand, at Rosalie waiting with absolute faith that cake can settle any open question, and he lets the argument go. That surrender's smaller than the ones he made in the hospital, but I notice it. I think all of us do.
James slides his paper toward me when I sit. "If Luca and Blake get married again in front of everyone, does Luca change his last name again? And if he does, does that mean ours changes too, or only if everyone gets married at once?"
Grayson makes a soft sound from the counter that's almost a laugh and almost a sob.
He's been doing that more often lately. Feeling things in the middle of ordinary moments and no longer swallowing them because the toast's burning or the children need socks or Blake's trying to win an argument with a cardiologist. He comes to stand behind James and rests both hands on his shoulders.
"Names are something people choose," Grayson says. "Sometimes they change. Sometimes they stay. And Luca’s already a Keller. So are you. Either way, you belong exactly where you already belong."
James thinks about that, then writes belong in the margin of his paper as if it's a legal term he might need later.
Samuel skids into the chair beside Blake, out of breath from his ring-bearer practice. "I should hold the rings because I'm fastest. If anyone tries to steal them, they can't catch me."
Maceo looks at the ribbon on Samuel's wrist. "Speed's useful. So is not sprinting into furniture during a ceremony."
Samuel takes that seriously, which is why I know he belongs to all of us. "I can train."
Luca cuts the cake before the conversation becomes a full training plan, and we eat standing and sitting and leaning against each other in the kitchen while the city outside darkens into evening.
The outing tonight's supposed to be controlled.
Short. No kids. No business overload for Blake.
A celebration first, a strategy meeting second.
Quentin used his doctor voice when he cleared it, which means Blake listened with visible resentment and then followed the rules because Luca was sitting beside him with one hand on his wrist.
When we leave the house, Rosalie makes Luca show her the new ring one more time.
James asks if he can keep the paper with the names.
Samuel tells Blake he's responsible for not getting tired before the wedding because he still has to help with ring security.
Blake bows his head like he's receiving a formal order, and for a second the whole foyer's laughter, coats, little hands, and Luca's ring catching the light.
I hold that image tightly when we step out into the night.
Vice & Virtue's already alive when we arrive, music low enough in the private level that conversation's possible and loud enough below us to make the rest of the city feel far away.
Wilson's people move us through the side entrance without fuss.
No one crowds Blake. No one looks too long at his cane.
That alone tells me Wilson warned them, and gratitude settles in my chest with a weight I don't try to hide.
The private lounge's tucked above the main floor behind smoked glass and dark wood.
Wilson's there when we enter, one arm stretched along the back of the curved booth, eyes lifting to mine with the measured stillness of a man who's survived too much to mistake caution for fear.
Oliver sits beside him in a deep green shirt, one hand on his belly and the other already reaching for Luca before we've finished crossing the room.
Lorenzo's got a tablet open on the table, stylus between two fingers.
Nicholas sits with a folder on his lap, sweater sleeves pushed to his elbows, looking like he'd rather be anywhere less loud and still leaning forward because he's got something useful to say.
For a moment, before the files and the clauses and Victor's name enter the room, I let myself see the shape of it.
My mates. Wilson's pack. The strange, stubborn, stitched-together family we've gathered by refusing to let pain be the last language any of us spoke.
Blake lowers himself into the booth with Maceo's hand hovering near his back, and he lets the help happen without snapping.
Luca sits between Blake and Maceo, shoulders easing when both of them settle close.
Grayson slides in at my side and leans his knee into mine under the table, a quiet check-in and an anchor at once.
Oliver reaches us before anyone can pretend this is only strategy. He takes Luca's left hand with both of his and holds it under the light. His expression opens first in delight, then something softer that makes Luca's smile tremble.
"Oh, sweetheart," Oliver says, thumb brushing carefully near the new band without touching it. "Look at you."
Luca's cheeks go pink. "It's a band, Oliver."
"It's never just a band." Oliver looks at Blake over Luca's hand, eyes bright. "You did well."
Blake's mouth curves, tired and pleased despite himself. "Grayson helped."
"Of course he did," Oliver says, as if that explains why the ring looks right. Then he bends and kisses Luca's knuckles above the band before letting him go.