Epilogue IZZY
FIVE YEARS LATER…
Five years later, Notte Bianca is still standing. Not just standing, it is thriving.
Sometimes I walk through the dining room before service starts, look at the tables filling up, the staff moving confidently across the floor, the kitchen humming with life, and I still have to stop for a second to let it sink in.
This place used to survive in spite of the people running it.
Men like Donald and the Bernardi family tried their hardest to rot it from the inside out.
But women like Erin, Savannah, Rose, Amber—and yeah, me—kept it alive anyway.
We were the ones actually running the floor, smoothing over disasters, keeping customers happy, holding everything together with sheer stubbornness.
Turns out that stubbornness works even better when you’re the one actually in charge.
Now, Notte Bianca runs the way it should have all along.
Every time I see the sign glowing outside the door, I feel a quiet little spark of pride in my chest.
Inside the restaurant tonight, the anniversary party is in full swing. Five years since the new Notte Bianca opened. Five years since Nico and I got married.
The dining room is packed.
Laughter rises from every table. Glasses clink. Music drifts through the air. The restaurant feels alive in the way I always dreamed it could be.
Somewhere near the bar, Savannah is arguing with Riccardo about a dish.
Erin is leaning across a table talking business with Luca.
Rose has turned the flower arrangements into something absurdly beautiful again.
Amber is behind the bar pouring drinks like she owns the lounge—which, in spirit, she kind of does.
They all have their own businesses now, but they always come back for the anniversary night. A little throwback to the place it all started.
I weave through the crowd automatically, checking tables, greeting customers, fixing tiny problems before they become big ones.
It still feels natural.
But tonight I’m distracted.
Because across the room, Nico is watching me.
He’s leaning against the bar with Noah beside him, tall and composed in that dark suit that somehow makes him look even more dangerous than usual. His eyes follow me as I move through the room like he’s cataloging every step.
It’s been five years, and that look still does things to me.
Noah notices first.
“Will Mom ever stop working long enough to sit with us, Dad?” he asks Nico while rolling his eyes in full preteen fashion.
He’s so much taller now. Twelve and already threatening to outgrow me. Too smart for his own good, if you ask me.
He calls Nico Dad without hesitation now, like it was always meant to be that way.
Like there was never a time when that wasn’t true.
Our other kids—four of them—never lived through a time without Nico. Noah is the only one who remembers.
But when I see them like this, it’s like those seven years never passed at all.
Nico smirks. “I don’t know,” he says as I walk up to them. “Let’s ask her.”
I huff out a laugh. “Be good, you two. I’ll be right with you.”
Sometimes, I catch Nico staring at the small birthmark behind Noah’s ear—the same one Nico has. The Neri mark. A quiet little signature from the universe. Every time he sees it, his expression goes still. Like he’s remembering every moment he almost denied himself this life.
Suddenly, a hand slides around my waist.
“Enough networking,” Nico murmurs.
I laugh softly. “I’m working.”
“You’ve been working all night.”
“It’s my restaurant.”
“And it’s thriving,” he says. “You’re allowed to enjoy it.”
I turn slightly in his arms.
“You proud of me, Don Neri?”
He looks at me like the question is ridiculous. “Always.”
That one word settles somewhere deep inside me.
Slow music begins drifting through the restaurant.
Before I can protest, Nico pulls me toward the center of the room.
“I still have tables to check,” I say weakly.
“They’ll survive.”
“You’re very confident about that.”
“I married the woman who runs this place.”
I laugh and rest my head lightly against his shoulder as we start to sway to the music.
“You clean up well, by the way,” I tell him.
“You say that every time I wear a suit.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
His mouth curves slightly.
“You’re biased.”
“Extremely.”
The restaurant blurs around us as we dance. For a moment it feels like the entire room fades away until it’s just the two of us moving slowly under the soft lights.
“I have a car waiting,” Nico murmurs near my ear.
I groan. “You’re kidnapping me again?”
“Weekend at the beach.”
“That I can handle,” I say. “I’d feel guilty leaving the restaurant for longer.”
“I know,” he replies. “That’s why I didn’t spirit you away to Thailand.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you love it.”
“Yeah,” I sigh theatrically. “I do.”
His hand reaches for a glass on a nearby tray. He offers it to me.
“Champagne?”
I shake my head. “No thanks.”
His brows lift immediately. “Since when do you refuse champagne?”
I smile slowly. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
Understanding hits him like lightning.
“Isabella,” he calls, throwing his head back in curiosity.
“Our sixth,” I say quietly. “Another girl.”
For a second he just stares at me.
Then he laughs—a deep, startled sound I don’t hear nearly enough.
He spins me in the air. I squeal, but it’s mostly delight. I never feel unsafe with Nico. Not even when he literally makes me fly.
“You’d better have a list of baby names ready,” he whispers into my ear. “This one’s yours to choose, remember?”
I think about it for exactly one second.
“How about Bianca?”
His smile softens instantly.
“Perfect.”
Before I can react, he lifts me clean off the ground and spins me once in the middle of the dance floor.
“Nico!”
He sets me down and kisses me like we’re still that reckless pair from seven years ago.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you too.”
Around us, the restaurant erupts into cheers.