Chapter 31 - Emma
Lake Michigan stretches endless and blue, nothing like the murky Chicago River where bodies disappear.
Three weeks since I took a bullet for Alessandro, and my chest still aches when I breathe deep, but the doctors say that’s normal.
What’s not normal is being invited onto the Rosetti family yacht as myself—not Frances, not the servant girl, just Emma.
The Serenità rocks gently in the July heat.
Seventy feet of pristine white fiberglass and teak wood, it's modest by billionaire standards but perfect for a family gathering.
Marco stands at the helm with Valentina, his arm around her waist as she laughs at something he's whispered.
Dante and Ana are settled on the cushioned benches, baby Antonia sleeping in Ana's arms despite the noise.
Nico's manning the grill, arguing with Luca about proper meat temperatures while Faith rests in a deck chair, one hand on her seven-month bump.
And Sofia stands alone at the railing, her white sundress whipping in the wind. She hasn't looked at me directly since that night, but she's here. That means something.
"Stop watching her like she's going to jump," Alessandro says, his hand finding the small of my back. The touch still sends electricity through me, even after everything.
"She's been avoiding me for three weeks."
"She's been avoiding everyone." He presses a kiss to my temple, careful of the fading bruises. "Give her time."
But Sofia's already walking toward us, two glasses of wine in her manicured hands. Her oversized sunglasses hide her eyes, but her chin is lifted in that distinctly Rosetti way—pride even in penance.
"Emma." She offers me one of the glasses. "The good stuff. The 1947 Chateau d'Yquem. Figured if I'm going to do this, might as well do it right."
"Do what?" I accept the wine, noting how her hand doesn't shake. Steel spine, even now.
She removes her sunglasses, and I see the shadows under her eyes, the weight she's been carrying.
"I don't do groveling. But I owe you a debt I can never repay.
" She takes a sip of wine, gathering herself.
"You bled for my mistake. You almost died because I was too proud to see the truth.
Because I wanted to be the one who saved him. "
"You were protecting your family," I say.
"No." Her laugh is bitter. "I was protecting my ego. There's a difference." She pulls down the shoulder of her sundress, revealing a fresh tattoo over her collarbone—a small dagger through a heart. "Had this done last week. So I never forget what my pride cost."
Alessandro's hand tightens on my waist. "Sofia—"
"I need to say this." She looks directly at me now.
"I brought those monsters to our door. I gave them the keys to our kingdom because I was so desperate to prove you were the enemy that I became one myself.
You took a bullet meant for my brother after everything I did to you.
That makes you more family than I've been. "
"We all made mistakes," Alessandro says, and I hear the guilt in his voice. "I should have told you the truth from the beginning. About Emma. About who she really was."
Sofia's smile is razor-sharp and sad. "Would I have listened? Or would I have just found another way to prove myself?" She touches her throat where faint bruises still mark her fight with the Russians. "Our secrets, brother. We all pay for them eventually."
I sip my wine, feeling the sun on my skin and the gentle rocking of the boat.
Alessandro is the one who breaks the silence.
"To be fair, Sofia, my wife has a talent for making even the most observant people miss the obvious. She had me convinced she was boring for almost three whole hours. Still my record for being wrong about someone."
Sofia smiles, genuine and bright, and is like a second sun shining through.
"Enough heavy talk!" Marco calls from the helm. "Nico's about to burn the steaks, and I'm not eating charcoal because you three want to have a therapy session."
The tension breaks, and we move toward the others. Luca takes the tongs from Nico with exaggerated disgust. "This is what happens when you let children near fire."
"I'm literally two years younger than you," Nico protests.
"In experience? You're an infant." Luca flips the steaks with practiced precision. "Faith, tell him about proper meat preparation."
Faith laughs, rubbing her belly. "I'm seven months pregnant with your psychotic spawn. I'm not getting in the middle of your weird sibling dynamics."
We settle around the massive deck table as the sun starts its descent toward the horizon, painting the lake gold and crimson.
The steaks are perfect—Luca's disturbing tendencies apparently extend to culinary precision.
Conversation flows easier than it has in weeks, the open water and warm weather loosening something that's been wound tight since the attack.
Marco stands, raising his glass. "Before we eat, a toast." His dark eyes find mine. "To Emma Rosetti. Who proved that family isn't about blood or birth certificates. It's about choosing to stay when leaving would be easier. It's about taking a bullet for someone who lied to you."
"To Emma," Valentina adds, "who showed us that strength doesn't always roar."
Dante signs something, and Ana translates with a grin: "To the only woman brave enough to call Alessandro an idiot to his face. Multiple times."
"To someone actually interesting," Luca says, that unsettling smile playing at his lips. "You'd be surprised how boring most people are when you really look inside them. But you… you're full of surprises."
Faith shivers slightly at her husband's words but raises her glass. "To the woman who showed me that strength comes in different forms."
"To better aim," Nico adds with a wink. "Next time, dodge the bullet instead of catching it, yeah?"
"To my sister," Ana says softly, adjusting Antonia against her shoulder. "Who understands what it means to fight for your place at this table."
Sofia is last. She stands, her glass catching the dying light. "To Emma. Not Frances. Not the servant girl. Just Emma. Who is more than enough." She meets my eyes. "Who is everything."
The words hit harder than any apology could. I blink back tears as we all drink, the ancient wine sweet and complex on my tongue.
"Now eat," Marco commands, "before Luca starts dissecting the meat to show us the muscle structure."
"I did that one time," Luca protests.
"At Christmas dinner," Faith reminds him. "With the turkey. While everyone was trying to eat."
"Education is never inappropriate," he says, but he's already cutting into his steak with disturbing precision.
As conversation flows around me, I watch this family—my family—with new eyes.
Dante makes Ana laugh with silent jokes only she understands.
Marco feeds Valentina bites of his steak when he thinks no one's looking.
Nico steals food from everyone's plates with the confidence of the perpetual younger brother.
Even Luca seems almost normal, discussing baby names with Faith, though his suggestions lean toward historical poisoners.
"Walk with me," Faith says suddenly, appearing at my elbow as the others debate whether Lucrezia or Agrippina is worse for a baby name.
We move to the bow of the yacht, away from the noise. She moves carefully, one hand supporting her belly, the other gripping the railing. The sun is almost gone now, the lake turned to liquid copper.
"I grew up believing in clear lines," she says without preamble. "Good and evil. Right and wrong. My father was a judge, and I was raised in the church. Everything was black and white until I met Luca."
"And now?"
She laughs, soft and knowing. "Now I understand that darkness isn't always evil, and light isn't always good.
The things Luca does, the things we all do…
they're terrible. But they're done for love, for family, for survival.
" She turns to look at me. "You knew who Alessandro was when you saved him.
You knew the monster and chose to save him anyway. "
"He's not a monster."
"He is," she corrects gently. "They all are. We all are, now. But we're other things too. Parents, siblings, lovers. The trick isn't pretending the darkness doesn't exist. It's learning to live with it without letting it consume the rest."
"How do you do it? Love someone capable of such violence?"
Her hand finds her belly again, a protective gesture.
"By remembering that his violence keeps us safe.
By accepting that the world isn't as clean as I once believed.
By choosing to see all of him, not just the parts that are easy to love.
" She smiles. "And by occasionally reminding him that there are lines even monsters shouldn't cross. "
"Does it get easier?"
"No. But it gets more familiar. And eventually, you stop flinching when he comes home with blood on his hands. You just hand him a towel and ask if he's hurt."
Baby Antonia's cry carries across the deck, and we turn back toward the others. Alessandro is holding her now, the tiny infant looking impossibly small in his arms. He's cooing at her in Italian, completely unbothered by her fussing, and something in my chest cracks open at the sight.
"That's worth the darkness," Faith says quietly. "Those moments. That family."
We rejoin the group as night fully claims the lake.
Fairy lights strung around the yacht's deck create a warm glow, and someone has brought out a speaker playing soft jazz.
Ana and Dante sway together, her head on his chest, seeming to communicate through movement.
Marco and Valentina have claimed the cushioned bench, her legs across his lap as they share a bottle of wine.
"Sofe," Alessandro says suddenly, using the childhood nickname I've rarely heard. "Tell Emma about the time you tried to run away to become a Formula One driver."
"I was nine!" Sofia protests, but she's laughing. "And I would have made it if you hadn't tracked me down at the train station."
"You had a suitcase full of stuffed animals and no money," Marco adds dryly. "Where exactly were you planning to go?"
"Monaco, obviously. Where else would a future racing champion go?"
The stories flow—childhood adventures, family disasters, moments of unexpected tenderness between the violence.
They're gifting me their history, weaving me into their narrative not as Frances but as myself.
Sofia tells me about teaching young Mikhail Italian words, her voice only breaking once.
Nico shares how Alessandro took the fall for him when he crashed their father's favorite car.
Even Luca contributes, describing how Marco once fought off six men to protect him, back when Luca was still small and strange and vulnerable.
"He was always odd," Marco says, but there's affection in it. "But he was ours."
"Still am," Luca says, tilting his head at that wrong angle. "Just with better knife skills now."
The yacht rocks gently as we motor back toward the harbor, Chicago's skyline glittering in the distance like a promise or a threat. I stand at the railing, watching our wake disappear into the dark water, when Alessandro finds me.
"Regrets?" he asks, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
"No." I lean into his warmth. "This is exactly where I'm supposed to be."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "Sofia's going to be okay. Whatever the Russians have planned, we'll protect her."
I think about Alexei Volkov's pale eyes, the way he looked at Sofia like she was already his. "She's stronger than she seems."
"She'll have to be." His voice is grim. "But that's tomorrow's war. Tonight, we're just a family on a boat, pretending to be normal."
"Is that what we're doing?"
"Trying to." He turns me in his arms, and I see the city lights reflected in his green eyes. "Thank you. For saving me. For staying. For becoming Emma Rosetti even when I gave you every reason to run."
"Alessandro—"
"No more lies between us. Ever. No more manipulations, no more hidden truths. Just us, as we are."
"Forever," I add.
He chuckles then leans in to kiss me on the lips, murmuring into my mouth. "I should probably mention that refunds are not available on this marriage. You've been using the husband for several months now, clearly past the return window. I'm afraid you're stuck with me."
Behind us, Nico has started an argument about who's the better shot, which has Valentina demonstrating knife throws using breadsticks as targets.
Ana is teaching Sofia a lullaby in Italian while Dante holds Antonia.
Marco watches over them all with the satisfied expression of a king surveying his kingdom.
Faith and Luca sit apart, her reading to him from a book of Renaissance poetry, his hand possessive on her thigh.
"Come on," I tell Alessandro, taking his hand. "Our family's being weird without us."
As we rejoin them, Sofia catches my hand, squeezing once. A promise, an apology, an acceptance all in one gesture. The yacht cuts through the dark water toward home, toward whatever comes next, and I realize I'm not afraid.
The Rosettis chose me. More importantly, I chose them back.
Even knowing what's coming for Sofia, what shadows the Russians will bring to our door, tonight we're untouchable. Tonight, on this yacht beneath the stars, we're just a family.
Tomorrow, we'll be monsters again.
But tonight, we're home.