Epilogue Simone
NINE MONTHS LATER
Our son is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Perfect and wrinkled, tiny fists clenched stubbornly from the moment he came into the world, his hair as copper as his father’s and his eyes dark like mine.
He’s sleeping against my chest, his breathing so light and quick that I have to watch the rise and fall of his chest to convince myself he's real.
He’s here, and he’s ours.
The labor was long—eighteen hours of pain that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, followed by the most incredible moment of my life when the doctor placed him in my arms and I heard his first cry.
Tristan cried too, though he'd deny it if anyone asked. I saw the tears in his eyes as he reached out to touch our son’s cheek, before he kissed me and thanked me for giving him our son.
Not his heir. Our son .
I'm still trying to process the fact that this tiny person is ours. That Tristan and I—two people who started as strangers forced into marriage, who fought and clawed our way through mistrust and violence and fear—created something this perfect together.
"How are you feeling?" Tristan's voice is soft, mindful of our sleeping son. He's sitting in the chair beside my bed, still wearing the same clothes he threw on when my water broke at three in the morning—jeans and a T-shirt that's now wrinkled from hours of pacing the hospital corridors.
"Tired," I admit, though I'm not sure I could sleep if I tried. I can't stop looking at our baby, can't stop marveling at his tiny fingers and the way his mouth moves slightly in his sleep, as if he's dreaming of something sweet. "But happy. So happy, Tristan."
He leans forward, his hand finding mine where it rests on the baby's back. "You were incredible," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes me look up at him. "I've never seen anything like that. You were so strong, so brave."
I laugh softly, careful not to wake the baby. "I didn't feel brave. I felt like I was being torn apart."
"But you did it. You brought him into the world." His thumb brushes over my knuckles, and I can see the wonder in his green eyes, the same awe that I'm feeling. "You gave us our son."
The words still feel surreal. Nine months ago, I was terrified of the pregnancy, terrified of what it would mean for my already complicated relationship with Tristan. Now, looking at this perfect little person we made together, I can't imagine my life without him.
"What should we call him?" I ask, even though we've discussed names dozens of times over the past few months. We wanted something Irish—though my family is Italian, I don’t want my father’s name or too much of his memory to carry on. He did too many terrible things.
“Aiden, I think,” Tristan murmurs. One of two boy names we’d gone back and forth on. We decided to wait until we met him to decide for sure, and looking down at the tiny bundle in my arms, it feels right.
"Aiden," I repeat, testing the name on my tongue. It fits. It's perfect. "Hello, Aiden."
As if he recognizes his name, our son makes a small sound, his eyes fluttering open for just a moment. "He's going to be trouble," I say, smiling as Aiden settles back into sleep. "Look at him. He's already got that O'Malley stubborn streak." I touch one of his clenched fists.
Tristan grins, that smile that I know so well now. "Good. The world's going to try to push him around. Better that he pushes back."
I think about that for a moment, about the world our son is being born into.
It's not the safe, normal world that most children get to grow up in.
It's a world of violence and danger, of enemies who might try to use him against us, of legacy and power and all the complicated things that come with being born into a mafia family.
But it's also a world where he'll be loved.
Fiercely, completely, without reservation.
It's a world where he'll have parents who will do anything to protect him, who will teach him to be strong and brave and to stand up for what's right.
It's a world where he'll learn that love isn't always easy, but it's always worth fighting for. A world where I know Tristan and I will do better than his father and mine did, where we won’t repeat the same mistakes that scarred us and nearly cost us each other.
"We should go home," I say eventually, though I'm reluctant to leave the safety of this hospital room. Here, it feels like we're in a bubble, just the three of us, protected from the rest of the world. Once we leave, once we take Aiden home to the mansion, reality will set in. The responsibility of raising a child, of keeping him safe in our dangerous world, of being the parents he deserves. Right now, it’s all still perfect and new, but it can’t stay that way forever.
And I believe now that Tristan and I can face whatever comes.
"Are you ready?" Tristan asks, and I can hear the concern in his voice. He knows what I'm thinking, knows that I'm worried about everything that comes next.
"No," I admit. "But I don't think anyone ever really is, are they?"
He laughs, standing up to help me get ready to leave. "Probably not. But we'll figure it out. We always do."
We. That word means everything to me now. Six months ago, I was still fighting against the idea of us, still trying to maintain some semblance of independence in a marriage that I never wanted. Now, I can't imagine facing any of this without him.
The drive home is nerve-wracking. Tristan drives slower than I've ever seen him drive, insisting that he be the one to drive us instead of the usual driver, checking the rearview mirror constantly, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I sit in the back seat next to Aiden's car seat, my hand resting on his tiny chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"He's fine," I tell Tristan when I catch him glancing back at us for the tenth time in as many minutes. "The car seat is installed correctly. He's safe."
"I know," he says, but he doesn't sound convinced. "I just… I can't believe how small he is. How fragile."
It’s more endearing than I ever knew it would be, to see my dangerous mafia husband so worried, so undone by our tiny baby.
I never knew a man like Tristan could be so gentle—he is with me, on occasion, especially the further along I was in my pregnancy, but our relationship has never been gentle and sweet.
It’s always been passionate, loud, argumentative…
and loving, at the end of the day. But now, he’s softer than I’ve ever seen him.
"He's stronger than he looks," I say, and I mean it. Aiden is a fighter already—he proved that by surviving everything we went through during the pregnancy. The stress, the fear, the violence that touched our lives even as he was growing inside me.
The mansion looks different when we pull into the circular driveway.
It's still the same grand, imposing structure that I grew up in, but it feels different now.
It feels like ours . Not my father's house, but the home where Tristan and I are going to raise our son.
Where we're going to build our life together. Over the last months, we’ve made it ours, and the old memories, the old feelings, have slowly faded away.
Nora is waiting for us at the front door, her face lighting up when she sees us getting out of the car. She's been with our family for so long that she's practically Aiden's grandmother already, and I can see the tears in her eyes as Tristan carefully lifts the car seat out of the car.
She smiles, reaching out to touch Aiden's cheek with one gentle finger. "He's perfect. Absolutely perfect."
"He is," I agree, feeling that surge of pride and love again. "Meet Aiden O’Malley.”
“That’s a good name,” Nora agrees. “It suits him.”
She helps us bring our things inside, and Tristan and I make our way upstairs to the nursery, Aiden in my arms once again. "We're going to do better," I say quietly, and Tristan looks at me questioningly. "Than our fathers, I mean. We're going to do better than they did."
He nods, understanding immediately what I mean. Both of our fathers were and are hard men, men who believed that strength came from control, from dominance, from fear. They raised us to be tools in their games of power and influence. But that's not what we want for our son.
"He's going to know he's loved," Tristan says, reaching out to adjust the blanket around Aiden's tiny body. "Every single day, he's going to know that he's wanted and loved and that we're proud of him."
Aiden chooses that moment to wake up, his small mouth opening in a cry that's surprisingly loud for such a tiny person. I settle him against my chest, and he immediately quiets, his little fist curling around my finger.
"I never thought I'd have this," I admit as the afternoon light begins to fade outside the windows.
"When I was growing up, I thought marriage was just a business arrangement.
I thought children were just… extensions of their parents' ambitions.
I never thought about actually loving someone this much. "
I look at Tristan, and I know that he knows I don’t just mean Aiden. I mean him, too—all the lessons we both had to unlearn in order to make this work.
“I know.” Tristan leans in and kisses my temple softly. “I never expected you. I never expected a wife so perfect for me, when I didn’t even know what I needed. I never expected a child or a future like the one I have. I strove so hard for power, and I got something that I needed so much more.”
“Now you have both.” I smile up at him, leaning in for a kiss with our son between us. “Power and love.”
Tristan smirks down at me, his mouth curling in that expression I know so well. “Power, and love, and a wife who turns me on so much that we’re going to have more children than this mansion can handle.”
“Prove it.” I raise an eyebrow, and he laughs, tilting my chin up for another kiss.