Epilogue
BEA
Two months later…
The back patio. The ocean. A glass of wine I’ve actually had time to finish while it’s still warm.
There are still guards. A few. Discreet ones—the kind you don’t clock until you’re specifically looking, which I’ve stopped doing. They’re part of the property now, like the hedges and the outdoor furniture we argued about for two weeks before Raffaele caved on the color. Small victories.
It’s strange, being still.
For so long there was always something coming.
A name I didn’t recognize. A sound outside the window.
A convoy in the driveway before I’d had my coffee.
Now it’s just the waves doing their patient, indifferent thing, and the sun doing its slow fall toward the water, and the man I’m going to marry somewhere inside the house on a phone call that will, for the first time in months, end at a reasonable hour.
I’ve started cooking again. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it. I discovered Abuela’s old cookbook with handwritten recipes among her belongings, and it means a lot to connect with her through them.
I have no idea what Abuela would have thought of Raffaele—she’d definitely have some strong opinions about his line of work—but I think her heart would ultimately have softened at how happy he makes me. And how supportive he is of my cooking.
He eats everything I make and calls it the best meal he’s ever had. I’m still trying to figure out if he means it or if he’s just in love.
Either works for me.
“Hey there.”
I turn.
He’s in the doorway. White shirt, dark pants, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. No visible gun, which means it’s at the small of his back, which I know now the way I know which mug is mine and which side of the bed is his.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I look at him over my wine glass. “The last time you surprised me, two people died.”
“They deserved it.” He holds out his hand. “This is different.”
“You’re going to need more than that.”
“I promise.”
I take his hand.
He drives along the coast. I don’t ask where. I’ve stopped needing to know the destination in advance.
Eventually, we stop at a cliff I’ve never seen. Private. Secluded. The sun’s halfway down, and the sky’s all pink and gold bleeding into the water.
“Raffaele. What is this?”
He reaches into his pocket.
Pulls out a box.
“I know I already asked.” He says it with that small, dry humor he uses when he’s covering up something genuine. “Just outside a bathroom. While I was covered in someone else’s blood. Not ideal.”
“It was… memorable.”
“You deserve better than memorable.” He opens the box. “You deserve everything.”
The ring.
A ruby—deep red, the color of the wine I just left on the patio, surrounded by diamonds.
“Oh my God, it’s—” I don’t know how to finish that. It’s more than just beautiful. It’s perfect.
“The ruby’s from Myanmar. One of the last of its kind.” He holds it up to the light. “It took me two months and favors from three different people on two different continents to find it.”
“Raffaele—”
“It reminded me of you.” He says it simply. “Rare. Worth more than whatever I paid for it, which was a considerable amount.”
I laugh despite myself.
“The first time I asked,” he says, “you were in shock. I need to know”—he takes my hand—“in the quiet. When there’s nothing coming. Do you still want this?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “Obviously, yes. A thousand times, yes.”
He slides the ring onto my finger.
It fits like a dream. He kisses the back of my hand before standing and kissing me on the lips. Slow and passionate.
When he pulls back, the sun is just dipping beneath the horizon, and there’s a burning light in his eyes.
“There’s one more thing,” he smiles.
“What?”
Without warning, he scoops me up off my feet and throws me over his shoulder.
“Raffaele!”
“There’s somewhere I want to take you.”
“Put me down!”
“Have you ever been on a yacht in international waters?”
I go still over his shoulder.
“You bought a yacht?”
“I bought you a yacht.”
“When—”
“Doesn’t matter.” He’s walking us back toward the car. “It’s yours.”
“Ours,” I correct him, before adding. “That is the most—”
“I’m aware.”
He sets me in the passenger seat. Leans in. His face is close enough that I can see he’s genuinely, quietly happy — the version of him I didn’t know existed until recently.
“Drive fast,” I tell him.
He laughs.
The engine purrs to life, and we drive off into the sunset.
Somewhere on the highway, with the ring on my finger catching the passing lights, I think about the woman who sat in an elevator months ago and decided to see what the worst that could happen looked like.
She didn’t know. She had no idea.
The worst that could happen was also the best. That’s the part nobody tells you—that those two things can be the same night, the same room, the same man.
I look over at him driving.
He’s got one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear shift, sleeves still rolled up, not looking at me but knowing I’m looking at him, and the corner of his mouth curves into a smirk.
He’s so fucking gorgeous.
I take his hand off the gear shift and hold it. The warmth of his palm heals me.
My monster. My man.
Mine.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.