Epilogue
Adrian
I do the final security check before the family arrives.
That is not strictly necessary.
My people have already done two sweeps of the property.
The perimeter cameras are set. The front gate is staffed.
The service entrance is locked down. The kitchen staff has been cleared, cleared again, and then politely endured my third round of questions with the weary patience of people who now understand that arguing with me is a waste of everyone’s time.
The system is stronger than it was before.
A lot stronger.
Caterina’s house is still hers. That was important. She did not want it turned into a fortress so obvious that it stripped the place of everything she loved about it.
So, over the past few months, the changes made have been invisible but effective.
Reinforced glass that looks like the original.
Cameras tucked into discreet places. Lighting adjusted so the garden no longer has pockets of deep shadow.
Gates were rebuilt. Locks were replaced.
Panic points added. The safe room has been upgraded and expanded after the attack.
And I’ve added yet another backup power source because apparently one isn’t enough.
The house is secure.
I know that.
I check anyway.
Partly because it is what I do.
Partly because standing still before a Conti family dinner is impossible.
And partly because the last time Caterina hosted dinner here, I nearly died in her garden.
That fact does not leave me, and likely never will.
I stand in the entrance hall, adjusting one of the camera angles on the tablet in my hand, when Caterina appears at the bottom of the stairs.
For a second, I forget the tablet.
I forget the cameras and the gate, the staff, the cars scheduled to arrive in twenty-three minutes.
She is wearing a soft green dress that skims over her stomach, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, gold at her ears, one hand resting at the curve of her belly as she takes the last step down.
Heavily pregnant. With my child.
I still cannot look at her without feeling awe and amazement inside me.
It has been months since she told me, her hand guiding mine to her flat stomach. Months of watching her body change. Months of learning exactly how terrified and amazed a man can be at the same time.
I have seen combat. I have seen men live through things they should not have survived. I have seen fear and courage in more forms than I can count.
Nothing has ever undone me like this.
Like Caterina walking down the stairs with our child growing inside her.
She catches me staring.
Her mouth curves. “Perimeter problem?”
“Yes.”
Her brows lift. “Where?”
I look at her stomach.
“There.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile stays. “That perimeter is not your jurisdiction.”
“Everything in this house is my jurisdiction. Especially that one.”
“Not anymore.”
She says it lightly.
She has no idea how perfectly she has walked into it.
My hand goes to the inside pocket of my jacket, where the folded paper sits, heavy as stone and dangerous as a loaded weapon.
Not yet.
I tuck the tablet under my arm and cross to her.
She tilts her face up automatically, and I kiss her.
Softly.
Carefully.
Not because she is fragile. Caterina Conti is many things, but fragile has never been one of them.
But because if I kiss her the way I want to, her family will arrive to find dinner delayed and Caterina flushed and smug.
Again.
When I pull back, her eyes are warm. “You look serious.”
“I’m doing a final walk.”
“Of course you are.”
“Come with me.”
Her brows lift. “To do a security check?”
I glance toward the back of the house. “It can be a walk through the garden.”
Her expression softens at that.
She knows what I am asking.
The garden means something now. To both of us. For a while, she avoided it. Then she finally walked through it with me. Again with her sister, then her father. And finally, once alone, when she thought I did not know. After that, she began taking it back little by little.
It started with flowers. Then the path. And finally, the west side.
The place where she found me almost dead took the longest.
She looks toward the rear doors, then back at me. “Everyone will be here soon.”
“We have time.”
She smiles softly and slips her hand into mine.
The simple trust of it makes my heart stutter.
Every time.
We walk through the back of the house and out into the garden.
The evening is warm, the sky turning deep blue as night prepares to fall, the first lights glowing along the paths.
Caterina had insisted that the garden not become a grid of harsh security lighting. I had argued. We compromised. The lights are soft, yes, but placed exactly where I need them.
We are getting good at compromise.
Her hand stays in mine as we move down the stone path. She walks slower now, though she hates admitting it. The baby has made her tired in ways she pretends not to be. She still works too much. Still answers emails too late. Still tries to attend meetings she should cancel.
But she listens more than she used to.
Not always, and often not without a fight.
But more.
I slow my pace to match hers without making it obvious.
She notices anyway.
“I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m walking.”
“You’re walking at my speed.”
“I like your speed.”
“My speed is currently somewhere between elderly turtle and decorative statue.”
“If I don’t walk at your speed, I’d be done with the walk by now.”
She shoots me a deadpan look. “You’re lucky I’m too pregnant to retaliate properly.”
“I am lucky,” I say and leave it at that.
Her thumb brushes over mine.
We reach the first section of new roses.
They catch the last of the light, soft and bright against the deep green leaves. When Caterina told me she wanted yellow roses planted here, I looked at her for a long time.
She had lifted her chin and told me Sofia and Charlotte still loved them. She refused to let one terrible night ruin something that made the girls happy.
So, we planted roses.
Now they line the path in clusters, not too formal, not too perfect. Caterina wanted them softened with white blooms, pale peach, greenery, texture. Nothing obvious. Nothing too sweet.
The result looks like her.
Elegant. Warm. Not as delicate as it first appears.
She stops and reaches out, touching one of the petals with the tip of her finger.
“They’re beautiful,” she says quietly.
“They are.”
She looks at me and narrows her eyes. “You’re not looking at the roses.”
“No.”
Her expression shifts, that soft, complicated look that still makes my chest ache.
“You’re very distracting when you’re pregnant,” I tell her.
“Only when pregnant?”
“You were distracting before. It’s how we got here.”
She laughs. “Good answer.”
“You were a liability before.”
She gasps, deeply offended. “Excuse me?”
“A tactical one.”
“That is not better.”
“It’s honest.”
She starts walking again, pulling me with her. “You know, most men would say something romantic in a garden full of roses.”
“I called you distracting.”
“That is not romance.”
“It is when I say it.”
She tries not to smile and fails.
God, I love her.
The thought moves through me without resistance.
I used to think love would feel like weakness. Like compromised judgment. Like a door left open, exposed.
I was wrong.
Love is not the absence of fear.
I fear more now than I ever did before. I fear for her. For the baby. For the life we are building in a world that will always be dangerous.
But the fear does not make me weaker.
It makes the purpose clearer.
We continue down the path until the garden opens near the west side.
The utility enclosure is hidden better now, behind a new stone screen and locked access panel. The grass has been replaced. The blood is gone. The damaged shrubs removed. The stone cleaned. The camera angle corrected.
Everything repaired.
Nothing forgotten.
Caterina’s hand tightens in mine.
We both stop at the same time.
This is the spot.
There is no marker. No visible scar in the ground. No sign that I bled out here while a man tried to choke the life from me.
But we know.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
The evening is quiet around us. Somewhere near the front of the property, one of my people checks in over the earpiece. I hear the faint murmur but do not answer. Andrew can handle it.
Caterina stares at the grass.
“I still see it sometimes,” she says.
“I know.”
Her voice drops. “You were so still.”
I turn toward her.
She is looking at the place where she found me, but her hand is on her stomach now.
Always there when the memory gets too close.
I hate that I gave her that image.
I hate that she has to carry it along with everything else.
Time to replace it with a better one.
“I came back,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine. “Barely.”
“But I came back.”
“Yes.” She swallows. “You did.”
I reach into my jacket and pull out the folded piece of paper.
My pulse stays steady, which surprises me.
I have been shot, stabbed, blown off my feet, dropped into hostile territory, and stared down men who wanted to see if I would blink first and would kill me if I did.
But, of all of those things, the thought of this has been making me more nervous than any of the other things.
But now that it’s here, I’m not.
Not at all.
I pull the paper free and hold it out to her.
She looks at it, then at me. “What is this?”
“Read it.”
Suspicion enters her eyes. “Adrian.”
“Cat.”
She takes the paper from me slowly.
Her fingers unfold it.
I watch her face as she reads.
Confusion first.
Then stillness.
Then hurt.
It hits me harder than I expected, even though I knew it was coming.
Her eyes move back to the top of the page, as if rereading the words will make them change.
Official resignation as her personal protection detail. Effective immediately.
Her lips part.
Then she looks up at me.
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s exactly what it says.”