Epilogue
VICTORIA
THREE YEARS LATER
Some days, it feels like another lifetime.
Other days, I look up from a lecture hall and expect to find myself back in the hidden laboratory beneath Lorenzo’s estate, measuring compounds while pretending my conscience was not slowly eating through me.
The final slide disappears from the screen behind me.
Rows of university students begin closing laptops.
Backpacks zip.
Conversations start before I have even finished speaking.
Some things never change, no matter how old people get.
“Remember,” I say, gathering my notes, “your synthesis reports are due Monday morning. Not Monday afternoon.”
A collective groan rolls through the lecture theatre.
I smile despite myself.
A student near the front raises his hand.
“Professor Nero?”
“Yes?”
“Will the exam cover the pharmaceutical pathways from today’s lecture?”
Several students immediately stop packing.
Suddenly interested.
Funny how that works.
“Considering today’s lecture covered sixty percent of the syllabus, I certainly hope so.”
Laughter follows.
A few dramatic complaints.
Then frantic note-taking.
After that, the students begin filing out.
One by one.
Two by two.
Until the hall finally empties.
Silence settles.
I look around the laboratory attached to the department.
Glassware.
Analytical instruments.
Research stations.
Graduate projects waiting beneath protective covers.
Ordinary things.
For a long moment, I simply stand there.
It still amazes me sometimes.
I spent months using chemistry to help create a product that destroyed lives.
Now I teach future chemists how molecules interact with the human body.
How compounds heal.
How they harm.
How knowledge itself carries no morality until someone decides what to do with it.
The irony never leaves me.
Neither does the gratitude.
My phone vibrates against the desk.
Lorenzo.
A smile touches my mouth before I answer.
“Hello.”
“Finished?”
His voice still does things to me after three years.
“My final lecture ended ten minutes ago.”
“Interessante.”
I lean against the laboratory bench.
“That is a suspicious tone.”
“I have plans.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Depends.”
“Lorenzo.”
A pause.
Then I hear the amusement beneath his voice.
“Come to Pier Seven.”
My eyebrows lift.
“Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
“What’s at Pier Seven?”
“You.”
I laugh.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you’re getting.”
The call ends.
Typical.
I stare at my phone for a second.
Then shake my head.
Three years later, and the man still believes explanations are optional.
The drive takes thirty minutes.
Chicago glows beneath the early evening sky. Traffic crawls. Music drifts from open car windows. People hurry along sidewalks carrying shopping bags and takeaway coffee, living the kind of ordinary life I once thought I had lost forever.
When I reach the waterfront, I know at once Lorenzo has not told the whole truth.
This is not dinner.
This is not a quiet night out.
This is a full-scale gathering.
Strings of lights hang between the buildings overlooking the private section of the docks. Music carries over the water. Luxury yachts sit illuminated against the darkening river. People laugh. Champagne moves through the crowd, and a live band plays near the edge of the pier.
I climb from the car and stare.
“Oh no.”
A familiar voice appears beside me.
“You still hate attention.”
Olivia.
Of course.
I turn.
She grins.
Three years have softened her in the best ways. Olivia will probably die talking, but the permanent shadows beneath her eyes disappeared a long time ago.
“What did he do?” I ask.
She links her arm through mine.
“What he always does.”
I already know the answer.
“Whatever he wanted.”
“Exactly.”
She starts leading me toward the crowd.
I resist.
Immediately.
Olivia groans.
“Victoria.”
“No.”
“Victoria.”
“No.”
“For God’s sake, Victoria.”
She grabs a champagne flute from a passing tray and pushes it toward me.
“It is alcohol.”
I stare at the glass.
She rolls her eyes.
“It is not poison.”
The glass remains untouched.
Olivia narrows her eyes.
“It is definitely not meth.”
Several people nearby laugh.
Without another word, I take the glass and drain it in one swallow.
Cheers erupt around us.
Olivia throws both hands into the air.
“There she is.”
I regret it at once.
The champagne burns.
Then warms.
Then settles pleasantly.
“You are impossible,” I tell her.
“And yet you love me.”
Unfortunately, she is correct.
The party grows louder as the night unfolds.
Mrs. Abena occupies an entire corner of the gathering with the authority of a queen holding court. People drift toward her naturally. Listening. Laughing. Being gently scolded.
Some things never change.
Nearby, my mother argues with one of Lorenzo’s executives over Italian wine.
The poor man clearly regrets starting the conversation.
Music floats across the water.
Conversation follows.
After a long time, I allow myself to enjoy it.
I spent most of my life being my own cheerleader, moving from one task to the next, always focused on what still needed doing.
Success never felt like a finish line.
Only a brief pause before the next responsibility arrived.
Celebration felt unnecessary.
A thing that could wait.
Tonight feels different.
Maybe because the people around me survived.
Maybe because I did too.
A small body crashes into my legs.
“Mama!”
I laugh.
“Hello, tornado.”
Six-year-old Elsie beams up at me.
She has grown taller.
Faster.
Far too clever for everyone around her.
Especially Lorenzo.
Behind her comes her younger brother.
Three years old.
Dark-haired.
Serious-eyed.
Already carrying too much of his father in that expression.
Luca Nero studies me carefully before lifting both arms.
I pick him up at once.
He settles against my shoulder with absolute confidence.
The confidence of a child who has never doubted he is loved.
My heart nearly bursts every time.
“Where is your father?” I ask.
Elsie points dramatically toward the waterfront.
I follow her finger and spot him.
Of course.
He stands near the end of the pier, deep in conversation with three men in suits.
Business, as usual.
It follows him everywhere, no matter the time or place.
Even now.
But this time, I notice the difference.
One of the men says something.
Lorenzo answers.
Then his gaze lifts straight to me.
Across the crowded pier.
Across the music.
Across the shifting lights.
His conversation slows to a stop.
He does not dismiss the men rudely.
He simply pauses because he has found the only thing he was looking for.
He sees me the way he always does.
Quiet.
Certain.
Enough that Luca notices too.
“Papa,” Luca murmurs.
I smile down at him.
He points again.
“Papa looking.”
“He is,” I whisper.
The cheers have barely settled when the music softens.
Conversations fade until the waterfront falls quiet.
Across the pier, Lorenzo accepts a champagne glass from one of the servers and steps onto the low platform overlooking the river.
He doesn’t ask for attention.
He simply waits.
People notice.
They always do.
He raises his glass.
“Tonight isn’t about business.”
His voice carries easily across the water.
“It’s about the people who made this possible.”
Silence settles over the crowd.
“We’ve all suffered losses. Good men gave their lives so we could stand here tonight in peace.”
His gaze moves across the faces before him.
“Fathers. Sons. Brothers.”
A pause.
“We remember them.”
His glass lifts a little higher.
“And we honour them by making sure their sacrifice meant something.”
He inclines his head.
“To those we lost.”
Every glass rises.
“To those we lost,” the crowd echoes.
Crystal chimes softly through the evening air before everyone drinks.
Only then does the music begin again, and conversation slowly returns.
Across the pier, Lorenzo says something to the men beside him and excuses himself. They remain there, still talking business, while he walks away without a second glance.
Three years ago, I would have watched that differently.
The men he leaves behind represent millions in contracts.
Oil shipments.
Cargo routes.
Government partnerships.
The network of businesses that turned his empire into something legitimate, profitable, and more powerful than the old laboratory ever was.
That laboratory no longer exists.
Neither do the underground rooms beneath the estate.
They were rebuilt years ago.
Not into another operation.
Not into another hidden source of money.
Into a foundation that funds addiction recovery programmes, scientific education initiatives, and treatment centres throughout Illinois.
The irony is not lost on me.
It would have made my younger self laugh.
Lorenzo never laughs about it.
He simply built it, funded it, and moved on without a single speech, interview, or public claim.
He only cared that it worked.
He reaches us moments later, and the illusion of the terrifying Don vanishes when Elsie grabs one of his hands, and Luca reaches for the other.
Just like that, the most feared man in Chicago is being pulled in two directions by children.
A sight I will never get tired of seeing.
Lorenzo glances down at me, his dark gaze warm with a certainty that feels like home.
“You came,” he says.
I laugh softly and lean into him.
“You practically kidnapped me.”
His mouth twitches.
On Lorenzo, that qualifies as a grin.
Around us, the children talk over each other while music drifts across the water. Somewhere behind us, Olivia’s laughter rises above everyone else’s. Beyond the river, the city glows against the darkening sky.
Standing there in the middle of it all, I realise something that would have seemed impossible once.
I am no longer waiting for disaster.
I am not listening for gunshots.
I am not expecting bad news to arrive the moment I let my guard down.
For years, happiness felt temporary, easily taken if I looked away for too long.
Tonight, that feeling is gone.
There is only this moment.
Only this life.
Only us.
The music fades into a softer hum behind us as Lorenzo leads me away from the crowd. He does not say much. He never has to.