Epilogue
Nicolai
Some mornings I wake up before the sun. It’s not from nightmares anymore.
It’s out of habit. The kind that forms when you’ve spent years preparing for the worst. But today, I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is Luna.
Sleeping beside me. And I don’t reach for the gun under the bed anymore. I reach for her now.
She never said the words outright, not at first. But I saw it in her eyes the night Gio died.
That calm. That clarity. She hadn’t just survived him.
She ended him. And still, I didn’t understand the whole picture.
Not until she told me everything. About her father.
About how deep this went. She never lied.
Just held the truth until I was ready to hear it.
Turns out, the woman I love never planned to be saved. She planned to win.
I think about that a lot, honestly. How she never waited for anyone to hand her a way out—she built it herself.
Every choice she made, every line she crossed, it was survival, yeah, but it was also strategy.
I didn’t see that at first. I was too close, too caught up in what I thought protecting her meant.
But she never needed protection. Not like that.
And after everything with her father, after what he did to us, what he tried to do, I realized that the real danger wasn’t in losing her. It was in underestimating her.
Now we’ve got this life, and it’s not perfect.
It's quiet, mostly. Bria’s here, figuring things out, and the house feels more like a home than it ever did when I was growing up.
My mother’s not around anymore. That’s..
. complicated, but it is what it is. Some things just don’t come back once they’re broken.
Luna’s mother isn’t around either. That’s not complicated, it’s final.
Luna made her choice, and I stood by it.
Some betrayals don’t get second chances.
But Luna’s here. Sandro’s here. And I’m still waking up, still half-expecting the worst some days. Old habits.
The difference is, I don’t meet that fear with a weapon anymore. I meet it with her hand in mine.
I’ve learned that being a father changes things. Not in the way some people say it does, like suddenly you’re softer or more afraid. It’s not that. It’s more like the way you see the world and wonder what parts of it you’re handing down.
I was raised in a world where love came second to loyalty. Where marriages were arranged like business deals, and feelings were a liability. I watched men trade daughters like currency and call it tradition. And for a long time, I didn’t question it. I just accepted that’s how things worked.
But then I held my son for the first time.
And I knew—that ends with me.
Sandro won’t grow up thinking love is a transaction. He won’t be told who to marry, who to trust, who to become. He’ll know the importance of our name, sure. He’ll understand the world we come from. But he’ll also know he gets to choose.
His wife. His path. His peace.
I’ll teach him how to protect what’s his. But I’ll also teach him that love isn’t a weakness. It’s the only thing that ever made me strong.
And if he ever asks what strength looks like, I’ll point to his mother. Luna. I trust her with him. With me. With everything.
Later, when the house is still and Sandro’s down for the night, I find her in the kitchen.
Hair up, hoodie half-off one shoulder, eating dessert straight from the tray like it’s her birthright.
She looks up when I walk in, but doesn’t say anything at first. Just that little smile that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“Can you blame me?” I lean against the counter beside her, watching the way she moves, so sure now. “You remember what I told you once?”
She tilts her head. “You’re gonna have to narrow that down, Caputo.” A grin pulls at my mouth.
“That night… the fight. When we were still pretending we didn’t care. I said if you wanted control, you’d have to outthink me, outfight me, and outlast me.” Her eyes lock on mine.
“Of course I remember.” I nod, brushing my thumb across her bottom lip.
“You did all three. And you didn’t just take control. You owned it.” She gets quiet; it’s just the hum of the fridge and the house settling around us.
“You’re it for me, Luna,” I admit. “You’ll always be my storm.”
And she doesn’t have to answer. She just steps into me, pressing her forehead against my chest, her arms circling my waist, and breathes.