Epilogue #2
I didn't even hear him move. He's the one nobody hears coming. The enforcer who finishes the job and leaves no trace. He steps up to the edge of the butcher-block island and stops.
Santi watches me. Patient, cataloging, giving nothing away. His eyes are flat, dark voids of observation. He does not glare. He does not scowl. He observes.
Nobody in the kitchen breathes. Even Matteo stops moving. Dante and Enzo will follow logic and tactical reality. Matteo will follow his role as the caretaker. Santi reads people the way Enzo reads code. He is the executioner. If he decides I am a threat, the dynamic in this room breaks apart.
Fabio tenses beside me. His hand drops from my waist, balling into a fist at his side. He is preparing to fight his own brother right here on the kitchen tiles.
I place my hand flat against the center of Fabio's chest, right over his pounding heart. A silent command to stand down. I'll handle this myself.
I turn my full attention to Santi. I do not drop my gaze.
I do not shift my weight. I meet the flatline stare of the most dangerous man in Chicago with the arrogance of a woman who knows what she is worth.
The quiet drags. Five seconds. Ten seconds.
Two bloodlines holding their breath across one kitchen island.
"Do I have a barcode printed on my forehead, or are you just admiring the enemy?" I ask, my voice dripping with sharp, Bellanti sass.
Enzo chokes on his coffee. Dante's eyebrows shoot toward his hairline.
Santi does not blink. He stares for two more agonizing seconds. Then, the impossible happens. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. A flicker. A fraction of approval.
He gives a single, slow nod.
The tension in the kitchen evaporates. The test is passed. I am no longer a threat; I am an accepted variable.
"She stays," Santi says quietly. His voice is rough from disuse, devoid of inflection. He turns on his heel and walks back toward the hallway, disappearing into the shadows as silently as he arrived.
Fabio exhales a harsh, ragged breath. He grabs my hip, yanking me flush against his side, his fingers digging in like he's anchoring me there.
Footsteps click rapidly against the tile behind me. A woman steps up to the counter. She has sharp features, intense eyes, and the kind of fierce, practical independence that demands immediate respect. The faint scent of aviation fuel still clings to her flight jacket. Reese.
She sets a crystal tumbler down on the butcher block directly in front of me, sharp and deliberate. Two fingers of amber liquid slosh against the glass.
"Drink it," Reese says.
I look at the glass, then up at her. "Is it poisoned?"
"If it was, Santi wouldn't have nodded," Reese replies deadpan. "You survived the flooded tunnel. You survived the strike team. You survived the staring contest with the shadow in the corner. Welcome to the circus."
Nothing else is needed. No speeches. No apologies. It's brutal. Practical. The closest thing to family I've ever been handed.
I pick up the glass. The whiskey burns like liquid fire down my throat, grounding me instantly.
Two more women step into the kitchen. Gemma walks in carrying a tray of fresh pastries from her bakery prep kitchen one floor down. Her dark hair is pulled back, her curves wrapped in a comfortable apron. She shoots me a warm, knowing smile, placing the tray next to Matteo's skillet.
Behind her, Natalia glides into the room. Her tailored suit cuts a hard line through the casual chaos of the kitchen. She taps a manicured finger against Enzo's shoulder, leaning down to inspect the tablet screen he is working on.
"The offshore accounts are frozen," Natalia says to Enzo, her voice crisp and authoritative. "I filed the injunctions at dawn. The Bellanti blind trust is locked in a bureaucratic nightmare for the next seventy-two hours."
"Brilliant," Enzo murmurs, leaning back to catch her lips in a quick, devastating kiss.
I watch the dynamic unfold. Gemma steals a piece of bacon while Dante hovers, his eyes scanning the perimeter even inside his own home.
Natalia dissects legal strategy while Enzo watches her with the same focused hunger his brother just leveled at me.
Reese stands at the counter like she owns the airspace above it, daring anyone to test her.
Nobody in this kitchen is a decoration. They are warriors in their own right, forged in the same fire I just walked through. The realization settles deep into my bones. The Bellanti machine trained me to be a cog. The Costa family is letting me be a person with teeth.
Fabio's hand slides up to the back of my neck. His thumb traces the line of tendon down the side of my throat. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"You see?" he murmurs. "Nothing to fight."
"I don't know," I tease, leaning my weight against his solid frame. "Your brother's eggs look a little overcooked. I might have to start a war over breakfast."
Matteo scoffs loudly, flipping a golden omelet onto a plate. "Disrespect the chef and you eat cereal, Bellanti."
"It's Costa," Fabio corrects, the lethal edge returning to his voice instantly. He looks across the kitchen, meeting the eyes of every single person in the room. He says it out loud, the words ringing off the stainless steel. "Her name is Costa. That's the end of it."
Silence follows his declaration. An undeniable truth that settles over the room like a finalized treaty. No one argues. No one questions it.
Fabio turns my face toward him. He ignores his brothers, ignores the women, ignores the looming war waiting outside the gates.
He kisses me slow and deep right in the center of the kitchen.
His tongue slides against mine, tasting of the whiskey I just drank.
His hand at my nape doesn't waver. The man who swore to destroy me kisses me like I'm the only thing left to protect.
I wrap my fingers in his shirt, anchoring myself to the only man in the world capable of keeping me safe. The walls of the speakeasy, the terrifying memory of my Aunt Maria's execution, the suffocating legacy of the Bellanti bloodline—it all vanishes.
I'm home.
The End
Vincenzo Costa is the family's silent enforcer—a man who hasn't let another human touch him in eight years—until a sealed underground bank vault traps him beside a tech contractor named Imani Tortora, and the signal he's been hiding inside finally finds its only frequency. Flip to the next page for a sneak peek…