Epilogue - Sarah
Three Years Later
I pace nervously in our kitchen, glancing at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour. Franco texted that he'd be home by six, and it's nearly that now.
My hands can't seem to stay still. I've already reorganized the spice rack, wiped down every counter twice, and arranged the dinner plates three times.
Tommy pokes his head into the kitchen, now eight years old and growing like a weed.
"Is dad home yet?" he asks, already dressed in his baseball uniform for tonight's little league game. Franco never misses a game, has taught Tommy to throw a perfect curveball, and helps with homework every night he's home before bedtime.
"Not yet, honey. Soon." I try to keep my voice steady, not wanting Tommy to pick up on my nervousness. "Are you ready for your game?"
"Yep! Coach says I might pitch tonight." His chest puffs with pride. "Dad’s been helping me practice my fastball. It's getting really good."
"I know, I've seen the dents in the backyard fence to prove it," I say with a smile.
Tommy grins, unrepentant. "He says a few dents mean I'm getting stronger."
Of course he does. Franco's approach to parenting is a fascinating mix of strict discipline and unexpected indulgence.
The man who once broke a teenager's wrist without hesitation now spends hours building elaborate blanket forts in the living room of our new house—a modest but comfortable three-bedroom that Franco insisted on buying after we'd been together for a year.
"Ten more minutes of video games, then homework until Franco gets home," I tell Tommy, who nods and disappears back to the living room.
I return to my anxious pacing, the small white stick I've hidden in my pocket feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds. Positive. Definitely positive. After three tests with the same result, there's no denying it.
I'm pregnant with Franco Salvatore's child.
It wasn't planned. Especially since we both agreed that our unusual family structure was working well as it was. Franco stepped into the role of Tommy's father figure with a dedication that still amazes me, but we've never discussed having a child of our own.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway makes my heart race.
Franco's home. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself.
In three years together, I've learned that Franco values directness.
No point in dancing around the subject or trying to create some elaborate reveal. Just tell him straight.
The front door opens, and I hear Tommy's excited greeting, followed by Franco's deeper voice responding. Their ritual of Tommy recounting his day's adventures while Franco listens with complete focus is something I never tire of witnessing.
I step into the hallway, and my breath catches the way it still does whenever I see him.
At forty-three, Franco has only grown more handsome.
The gray at his temples has spread slightly, giving him a distinguished look that suits him.
He's still imposingly fit, his body maintaining the hard-earned strength of a man who can never afford to be physically vulnerable.
But his eyes, those dark, intense eyes that once revealed nothing, now soften visibly when they land on me.
"Sarah," he says, just my name, but in that voice that makes me want to rub my thighs together.
"Hi," I reply, aware of how inadequate the greeting is given what I need to tell him. "How was your day?"
Franco tilts his head slightly, a gesture I've come to recognize means he's assessing, analyzing. He can read me too well now; he knows something's up.
"Routine," he answers, which could mean anything from actual paperwork to something I'm better off not knowing about.
Franco has kept his promise to keep his work life separate from our family, though I know he still serves as Dante's right hand.
The Veneziano organization has grown more legitimate in recent years, with Dante's wife Elena steering many operations toward legal businesses, but I'm not naive enough to believe it's all above board.
"Tommy, why don't you go finish that homework?" Franco suggests, his eyes never leaving my face. "I need to talk to your mom for a minute."
Tommy, perceptive as always, looks between us before nodding. "Okay. But we're still going to the game, right?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Franco assures him. "I want to see that fastball in action."
Once Tommy's upstairs, Franco moves closer, his expression concerned. "What's wrong?"
I take a deep breath. Direct. Simple. "I'm pregnant."
Franco goes completely still, the way he does when processing unexpected information. His face reveals nothing, which might have frightened me three years ago but now I recognize it as his default response to surprise.
"You're pregnant," he repeats.
"Yes. About six weeks, I think. I've taken three tests." I pull the last one from my pocket, holding it out as evidence. "All positive."
Franco takes the test from me, looking down at the two pink lines as if they might contain encoded messages. When he looks back up, I still can't read his expression.
"This wasn't planned," I continue, words spilling out to fill his silence. "I know we never talked about having more children. I know Tommy is enough for you, and our life is good as it is. I'm not even sure how it happened. I mean, I know… But..." I trail off, uncertain what else to say.
Franco sets the test on the hallway table. Then he does something I don't expect. He kneels before me, one knee on the ground, his large hands coming to rest gently on my still-flat stomach.
"A baby," he says, and finally there's emotion in his voice—wonder, amazement, a hint of vulnerability I rarely hear.
"Yes," I whisper, hope beginning to bloom in my chest. "Our baby."
He looks up at me, and the raw emotion in his eyes takes my breath away.
"I never thought..." he begins, then stops, seeming to struggle with words.
"I never expected to have a family at all.
Tommy was already a miracle I didn't deserve.
And now..." His hands press gently against my abdomen. "Another child."
Relief floods through me, making my knees weak. I drop down to his level, taking his face between my hands. "You're happy about this?"
"Happy doesn't begin to cover it," he says, and there's a roughness to his voice that tells me he's fighting powerful emotions. "Terrified. Amazed. Grateful." His hands move to cup my face. "Are you? Happy?"
I nod, tears filling my eyes. "Yes. I was just worried you wouldn't want—"
"Everything," he interrupts. "I want everything with you. Everything you're willing to give me." He presses his forehead to mine. "A family. My family. Something I never thought I'd have."
I kiss him then, pouring all my relief and joy into it. When we part, he helps me to my feet with the same care he's shown me since we met.
"Does Tommy know?" he asks.
I shake my head. "I wanted to tell you first."
Franco nods, his tactical mind already planning. "We should tell him together. Before the game tonight."
"You think he'll be okay with it?" I've worried about this too, how Tommy will feel about no longer being an only child after eight years.
"He'll be thrilled," Franco says with complete confidence. "He asked me last month if we could get a baby brother for him. I told him that wasn't exactly how it worked."
I laugh, surprised. "He never mentioned that to me!"
"He said it was 'man talk,'" Franco explains with the hint of a smile. "Apparently at eight, he's decided some conversations are just between men."
The idea of my son having "man talk" with Franco warms me to my core. From that first night when Franco appeared in our lives, he's become so much more than just my partner. He's become the father Tommy deserved all along.
"Mom? Dad?" Tommy calls from upstairs. "Is everything okay? Can I come down now?"
Franco and I exchange looks. "Yes," Franco answers. "Come down. Your mom and I have something to tell you."
Tommy appears at the top of the stairs, looking concerned. "Is it bad news? Are we not going to the game?"
"No, nothing like that," I assure him. "It's good news, actually. Very good news."
Tommy comes down the stairs cautiously, still clearly uncertain. When he reaches us, Franco puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Your mom and I are going to have a baby," Franco says, direct and simple as always. "You're going to be a big brother."
Tommy's eyes widen, darting between Franco and me. "For real? Like, a real baby? When?"
"In about seven and a half months," I tell him, watching his face closely for his reaction.
A grin spreads across his face, bright and genuine. "That's awesome! I told dad I wanted a brother!" He pauses, considering. "Or a sister, I guess. As long as she likes baseball."
I laugh, relief washing through me. "We don't get to choose, buddy. And no guarantees on the baseball."
"Dad will teach the baby baseball, just like he taught me," Tommy says with absolute certainty. Then his expression turns serious. "Does this mean he’s officially going to be my dad now? Like, legally?"
The question catches me off guard. I look at Franco, whose expression has softened in the way it only does around Tommy.
"Would you want that?" Franco asks.
Tommy nods emphatically. "Yeah. All the other kids on my team have dads. And you do all the dad stuff anyway. You help with homework and come to my games and taught me how to throw a curveball and scare away the monsters under my bed."
Franco kneels to Tommy's level, something he's done since the beginning, always making sure they speak eye to eye. "Then we'll make it official. If that's what you want."
"Cool," Tommy says with the easy acceptance of childhood. Then, as if the matter is settled, "Can we go to my game now? Coach said I might get to pitch!"
Franco stands, ruffling Tommy's hair. "Go get your gear. We'll leave in five minutes."
As Tommy races upstairs, Franco turns to me, something vulnerable in his expression. "Did you know he wanted that? For me to adopt him officially?"
I shake my head. "No. But I'm not surprised. You've been more of a father to him in three years than his biological father was in his entire life." I step closer, wrapping my arms around his waist. "You're an amazing dad, Franco. To Tommy, and you will be to this baby too."
He places his hand on my stomach again, the gesture protective and tender.
"I never thought I'd have this," he admits quietly.
"A woman who knows everything about me and still chooses to stay.
A child who wants me as his father. And now another baby.
" His voice roughens. "After everything I've done, all the blood on my hands. .. I don't deserve this happiness."
"Yes, you do," I say firmly, taking his face between my hands. "Everyone deserves love, Franco. Even dangerous men with complicated pasts."
He smiles faintly at that. "Is that what I am? A dangerous man with a complicated past?"
"Among other things," I tease. "You're also the man who reads bedtime stories with different voices for each character. The man who taught himself to tame Tommy’s wild curly hair when I had that wrist surgery last year so Tommy wouldn't go to school with his hair a mess.
The man who holds me every night like you're afraid I might disappear. "
Franco pulls me closer, his arms encircling me completely. "Because for all my life, I had nothing that mattered. Nothing I couldn't walk away from. Now..." He presses his lips to my forehead. "Now I have everything."
"Mom! Franco! Let's goooo!" Tommy calls from the top of the stairs, his baseball bag slung over his shoulder. "I can't be late if I'm pitching!"
Franco and I break apart, both smiling at Tommy's impatience. "We're coming," I call back. To Franco, I whisper, "We'll finish this conversation later."
"Count on it," he murmurs, his eyes promising more than words could say.
As we head out to Franco's car—he finally traded in the Audi for a more family-friendly SUV last year—I watch my son chattering excitedly to Franco about baseball statistics, Franco listening with genuine interest. In a few months, we'll add another child to this unconventional family we've built.
It won't be easy, nothing with Franco ever is, but it will be worth it.
Three years ago, I was a struggling single mother working two jobs and barely staying afloat.
Now I'm running my own small physical therapy practice (completed my degree with Franco's encouragement), raising an amazing son, and building a life with a man who most people fear but who looks at me like I'm the miracle.
As Franco helps Tommy secure his baseball bag in the trunk, he catches me watching them and smiles. One of his rare, full smiles that transform his entire face. My hand drifts to my stomach, to the tiny life growing there, and I silently promise our baby the same thing I've come to count on myself:
Your father may be dangerous to the rest of the world, but to you, he will be nothing but protection, love, and absolute devotion. He will move mountains for you, just as he has for Tommy and me.
Because that's who Franco Salvatore truly is. Not just Dante Veneziano's feared right hand, but a man who found his heart in the most unexpected place: a chance encounter in a dark alley with a woman and child who needed saving.
What he didn't realize then, but I hope he knows now, is that in saving us, he also saved himself.