Extended Epilogue
SANDRO
“God, you are impossible,” Raf snarls as he drags me out of the fighting pits before I can finish what I started.
The other guy is still on the floor, chest heaving, mouth bloodied, looking at me like he isn’t sure if he’s alive or dreaming.
I’m dripping sweat, the faint sting of my split knuckles burning under the tape that binds them.
The crowd’s roar hasn’t even died down when Raf’s hand clamps on my shoulder, fingers digging in like a vise.
“We’re leaving. Now,” my twin says, tone sharp enough to cut through the pounding in my ears. “You were supposed to meet me at Miko’s over an hour ago.”
I look at him, chest still heaving. “I—”
“No. Not a word. You’re coming with me.”
He doesn’t wait for me to agree. Raf pulls me through the crowd—still sweaty, still reeking of adrenaline and smoke from the cigarettes the Murrays still permit in the underground fighting pits.
“Put this on,” Raf instructs, tossing me a shirt when we get to the car, and I do as he says as the driver pulls out onto the road.
My shirt sticks to my back as soon as I don it, and when I glance down to peel off the tape on my knuckles, I find my shorts are streaked with blood.
Not all of it’s mine, though my mouth tastes like copper and fury.
Fighting is the only thing that feels real to me.
It’s the only thing I’ve really cared about—besides my brothers.
The world narrowed to fists and pain when I’m in the ring, and after everything that’s happened to my family this year—to Raf more than any of us—bare-knuckle boxing is the only thing that seems to keep me sane.
The Yakuza took my brother’s wife in the same way they take everything—merciless, calculated, final.
She was gentle, sweet, nothing like the shadows we live in.
And they snuffed her out, right alongside our family home and my father, who ruled half the city of Chicago.
Since then, I’ve been chasing violence like oxygen.
“Where are we going that’s so damn important, anyway?” I demand when the driver takes a turn in the opposite direction of Miko’s home.
“To meet your future wife,” Raf says, his tone flat, his expression deadpan.
He must be joking. But he doesn’t even crack a smile, and slowly, my stomach starts to sink.
“She’s expecting us,” Raf says.
I bark a humorless laugh. “I’m not marrying anyone.”
“You are,” Raf says, his tone final. He doesn’t even look at me, just turns his head to look out the window, jaw tight. “She’s from the Lombardi family,” he adds, like the name should mean something to me.
It does.
They’re old allies, powerful in their own right, with fingers in every political pie worth touching.
They’ve been pushing for a marriage into Chiaroscuro blood for years. But Raf…
“Why me? You’re the one who intends to take over as Don now, and you know that’s who they’ve always really wanted to have marry their daughter,” I say.
“I can’t.” His voice goes quieter, heavier. “You know why.”
Because his wife hasn’t been cold in the ground long enough for the earth to settle.
Because he’s already given his heart once, and having it ripped from his chest broke something inside him I can’t fix.
And because he knows I’ll step in, even if I hate it.
“You’re a bastard for this,” I mutter.
“Maybe,” he says, finally meeting my gaze. “But you’re the only one I trust to do what needs to be done.”
Considering Leo and Gio have both given up their rightful inheritance to be with the women they love and Miko has his own empire to rule now that he’s claimed the title of Pakhan to the Novikov Bratva, I can see where Raf is coming from.
We’re running short on brothers to carry on the Chiaroscuro family business.
And when we once used to be the youngest of five, with no chance of inheriting our father’s territory when he died, suddenly, it would seem we’re all that’s left of our once great Mafia empire.
“Fine,” I mutter, turning away from Raf to look out my window.
By the time we pull up to the Lombardi estate, my shirt has dried, but I can still see the salt lines against the dark fabric.
The bruises on my ribs are screaming, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around what the hell I’m about to do.
The place is… not subtle.
Marble steps, towering columns, carved stone lions guarding the entrance like they’re watching for invaders—watching for us.
I smell like blood and sweat and leather.
My hair’s damp, my knuckles raw from the fight.
Raf told me I didn’t have time to clean up, but I don’t mind. Let them see me for what I am.
Let them understand exactly who they’re giving their daughter to.
Then we’ll see if they still want to agree to the arrangement.
A pair of tall oak doors opens before we even reach the top step.
Her parents are there—Matteo Lombardi and his wife, Maria.
He’s built like a man who’s carried authority for decades, his salt-and-pepper hair neat, his tailored suit perfectly pressed.
His eyes flick over me once, quick and assessing, before he extends his hand to Raf first.
“Rafael. It’s good to see you.” His voice is deep, steady—too steady. He’s sizing us up and hiding it under manners.
“Matteo,” Raf says, gripping his hand firmly. “Maria.” He nods to her.
She smiles at Raf before her gaze lands on me.
There’s a flicker—just a fraction of a second—where she takes in the sweat, the bloodstained shirt, the bruise blooming along my cheek.
But she doesn’t flinch.
She steps forward, her perfume soft, expensive, familiar in a way I can’t place.
“And you must be Sandro,” she says.
I take her offered hand. “Signora.” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.
Matteo’s handshake is solid, though I can feel the weight behind it, silently saying, It was your brother we wanted to marry our daughter. I just hope we’re not making a massive mistake by accepting the other twin instead.
“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.
Inside, the air smells expensive—polish and flowers and something faintly citrus.
The ceilings are so high, my voice would echo if I bothered speaking.
But for all my life, I’ve preferred to let my fists do the talking.
“Evelina’s waiting for you in the drawing room,” Maria says, leading the way down a long hall lined with oil paintings of ancestors who probably came to Chicago a century ago.
My footsteps feel loud on the marble.
Raf’s are steady beside mine.
Then we round the corner, and I see her.
She’s standing near a tall window, light spilling over her like it’s found its favorite place to land.
She’s wearing a pale yellow dress that accentuates the soft, golden tan of her Italian skin.
Her chestnut hair falls loosely around her shoulders, softly styled waves catching the sun.
She’s entirely too young for me—a full decade younger, now that I think about it, because she will have only just turned eighteen.
But God, she’s perfect.
She turns at the sound of our footsteps, and though I’ve been in rooms with beautiful women before, I’m suddenly struck dumb, my tongue cemented to the roof of my mouth.
Fuckable women are a dime a dozen in our circles—polished, poised, trained to be perfect.
But Evelina is nothing like them—in the best possible way.
Her smile isn’t the rehearsed kind.
It’s warm, real, like she’s glad to see me despite my abhorrent state—sweaty, filthy, a barbarian dragged straight from the pit.
“You must be Sandro,” she says, voice clear and steady. No hesitation. No flicker of distaste. But somehow, as sweet as a bell.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
I’ve been called many things—brutal, ruthless, dangerous. But I’ve never truly been… seen. Not like this.
I clear my throat, realize too late that I still taste blood from the cut inside my cheek, and I wonder if my teeth aren’t stained with it. “Yeah.” My voice comes out low and gruff.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says.
And somehow, I think she means it. I’m staring. I know I am.
Her eyes—a striking shade of amber, near golden, like the glow that seems to surround her—are not what I expected.
I thought they would be sharp, guarded. Instead they’re open, curious.
Like she’s reading me, rather than judging.
I don’t know what to do with that.
“I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important,” she adds lightly.
Raf makes a noise beside me—something halfway between a scoff and a warning.
“It’s fine,” I say, because I don’t know how to be anything but blunt.
Her smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. “Well, I hope I’m worth your while.”
The air in the room shifts, just slightly, like she’s done something no one else has dared—met my bluntness with something softer, something that doesn’t even seem to be injured from my abrasive behavior.
Maria moves toward her daughter, touching her arm gently. “Evi, why don’t you show Sandro the garden? Maybe you two could talk—get to know each other.”
It’s a dismissal for Raf and the parents, a stage set for whatever this is supposed to be.
My father was an expert in situations like this.
But with just me and Raf, I feel like I’m falling far short of the proper support my brother needs.
Evi nods and gestures toward a side door that leads out into a sunlit courtyard.
I follow her, my footsteps heavier than hers on the stone path.
She moves with an ease that feels foreign to me, like she’s never had to watch her back walking into a room.
The garden smells like roses and freshly turned earth.
Sunlight glances off the fountain in the center, throwing shards of light into the shadows.
She stops near a bed of white roses and turns to face me. “So. My parents tell me you’re the man I’m supposed to marry.”
I study her face, waiting for the bitterness, the disappointment. It doesn’t come. She’s not mocking me. She’s just… stating it.
“So I’ve heard,” I say.
Her gaze flicks over my face, then to my hands—knuckles still raw and bloody from the fight. “You’ve been boxing?”
I almost laugh.
I would hardly call the kind of fighting I do something as tame as boxing.
When it comes to the Irish fighting pits, just about anything goes. “Something like that.”
“I like it,” she says, and my brows lift before I can stop them.
“You like… what?”
“That you came as you are. No pretending. No hiding the fact that you were somewhere else, doing something you actually care about.”
Her words catch me off guard more than any punch I’ve taken.
I don’t know if she realizes how rare that is—someone in our world who isn’t wearing a mask.
“I didn’t exactly have time to change,” I say dryly.
“Would you have?” she asks. “If you had the time.”
I pause. “Probably not.”
She smiles again, and something about it feels like it’s peeling back my layers, inch by inch.
Leaving me exposed and vulnerable like I haven’t felt since I was a kid.
“Good,” she says softly.
We stand there for a moment, the sounds of the fountain filling the quiet. I’m not used to silences that don’t feel like a threat.
“You don’t have to say yes, you know,” I say suddenly.
That seems to surprise her, and her delicate brows lift in an expression of genuine confusion. “I’m pretty sure our families have already come to an agreement.”
“They have,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t walk away.”
I see a flicker of self-doubt cross her face, and she bites her lip. “Is that what you want? To walk away?”
If someone had asked me ten minutes ago, the answer would have been yes.
But now, I’m not so sure. “My brother needs your family’s support if we’re going to win the war that’s coming.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to marry someone you don’t want to marry,” she says softly, trapping her full lower lip between her straight white teeth.
I let out a humorless laugh. “You don’t know me.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Then tell me.”
It’s the first time someone’s asked in years. The first time anyone’s wanted to hear something real from me—aside from Raf, maybe.
I look at her, and the words I should say—the ones that keep people at an arm’s length—don’t come. Instead, I hear myself say, “I’m not a good man.”
Evi tilts her head slightly, not in disbelief, but in consideration. “Who decides that?”
“I do.”
For a moment, she studies me like she’s turning that over in her mind. Then, softly, “Maybe you’re wrong.”
The words hang between us, light and yet somehow heavy all at once.
I don’t believe her. But to my surprise, I want to.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Read Sandro and Evi’s story here.