Epilogue
GIA
Six Months After the War
The Caruso Estate, New York
"Rafael! If you ask me one more time if I need a pillow, I am going to sharpen my favorite fountain pen and stab you with it! I mean it, Rafael!"
I’m standing in the middle of the sun-drenched nursery, my hands on my hips—or where my hips used to be before they were annexed by the tiny human currently using my bladder as a trampoline.
I am six months along, and according to the full-length mirror, I have officially transitioned to 'Human Watermelon.
' My bump is prominent, a round, solid curve that Rafael seems to think is made of spun glass, hope, and prayer.
Rafael doesn't even flinch at the threat. He just stands there in the doorway, looking devastatingly handsome in a charcoal-grey vest and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. He’s holding a plush velvet pillow like it’s a shield.
"The doctor said you need to keep your feet elevated, Gia," he says, his voice a low, possessive rumble that still makes my toes curl despite my irritation. "You’ve been standing for twenty-four minutes. You’re starting to tilt to the left. Sit the fuck down."
"I was picking out wallpaper! It’s a vital maternal instinct!
The baby needs to know his mother has impeccable taste in French florals and isn't just a vessel for your obsessive hovering!
" I huff, brushing a stray dark curl out of my face.
My hormones are currently swinging between 'I want to kiss him until we both pass out' and 'I want to throw him into the koi pond.
' "And stop shadowing me. You’re blocking the light. You’re like a very large, very well-tailored eclipse. "
"I’m not hovering. I’m monitoring." He steps closer, the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
He drops the pillow on the glider and wraps his hand around the nape of my neck, pulling me into his space.
The sexual tension between us hasn't dimmed an inch; if anything, the pregnancy has made him even more primal, more territorial. He treats me like a sacred object, but the look in his eyes says he still wants to devour me. "You’re carrying my heir, little Gia. I’m not letting you tire yourself out because you have an obsession with rosebuds and pastel greens. "
"It's not an obsession, it's an aesthetic," I correct him, though my body is betraying me, leaning into his strength. He smells like cedar, expensive scotch, and the crisp autumn air from outside. "And he's not an 'heir.' He's a baby. He’s going to play with blocks and spit up on your silk ties."
"He can do both," Rafael mutters, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
"It's adorable," a small, cheeky voice pipes up from the doorway.
We both turn. Laura is leaning against the frame, her arms crossed over her chest, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes.
She’s ten now, and she’s grown so much in the last six months.
Her curls are bouncy, her cheeks are full, and the terror that used to live in her gaze has been replaced by a sharp, sassy wit that she definitely inherited from me.
She’s no longer the girl hiding under the stairs; she’s the princess of the Caruso estate, and she knows exactly how to handle the Butcher.
"Uncle Rafe is just being a clingy bear again, Gia," Laura giggles, walking into the room with the confidence of someone who owns the place.
She goes straight to Rafael and hugs his waist. He doesn't even have to think about it; his hand drops to her head, ruffling her hair with a tenderness that still makes my throat ache.
"He was pacing the hallway while you were napping.
I told him you weren't going to float away, but he said he was 'verifying the structural integrity of the floorboards. '"
"I was checking the security logs," Rafael grumbles, though he doesn't pull away from her. "And the air filters. The dust levels in the east wing were unacceptable for a developing respiratory system."
"Liar," I tease, reaching out to tug on his vest. "You were hovering. Laura, tell him he’s being overbearing. "
"He's being totally overbearing," Laura agrees, looking up at him with a grin. "But he also told the chef to make those almond cookies you like for dessert—the ones with the extra powdered sugar and the orange zest that his mother used to make him—so maybe we should keep him for another week."
Rafael looks down at her, a small, genuine smirk playing on his lips.
He’s become a father to her in every way that matters—protecting her, teaching her, and making sure she never hears a hostile gunshot again.
The man who used to find "quiet spaces" only in the dark now finds them in the middle of a room filled with baby clothes and a ten-year-old’s laughter.
I watch them together, and the ghost of the past feels thin, like smoke clearing after a storm.
This nursery used to be part of a museum, a locked shrine to a woman I never knew.
Now, it’s a riot of color. There are books on the shelves about everything from salt-making to Sicilian myths.
There’s a hand-carved rocking horse in the corner that Rafael spent three nights assembling, swearing at the instructions in two different languages.
"See?" Rafael looks at me, his eyes dark and burning with that familiar hunger. "The kid likes me. She recognizes quality management. Now, sit down before I have to carry you."
"You wouldn't dare. There are painters in the next room and I will tell them you’re a big softy," I challenge, my stubbornness flaring.
He doesn't say a word. He just sweeps me off my feet in one fluid motion, cradling me against his chest as if I weigh nothing at all. I let out a startled shriek, my hands flying to his shoulders.
"Rafael! Put me down! You have a bad shoulder! The doctor said you shouldn't be doing heavy lifting!"
"The doctor said I shouldn't lift heavy machinery, not my wife," he growls, his mouth ghosting over mine, his breath warm. "And you’re as light as a feather, even with the watermelon.”
“The painters!”
“Let them look. Let the whole goddamn world look. They need to know exactly who owns my heart."
He settles me into the glider, kneeling between my legs so he can rest his head against my stomach. I feel the flutter of the baby—a sharp, rhythmic kick—and Rafael goes perfectly still. He presses a soft kiss to my dress, his eyes closing as he listens to the life we made.
"He’s going to be a menace," Rafael whispers against my skin. "I can feel it. He has your temperament, Gia. God help us both."
"Just like his father," I murmur, my fingers tangling in his dark hair. "Stubborn, arrogant, and entirely too fond of getting his own way. He’ll probably be demanding a glass of aged scotch before he’s out of diapers."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, though he nuzzles closer. "I'm the picture of restraint."
Laura wanders over, sitting on the rug by his feet, her doll forgotten for a moment as she watches us. "Gia? When the baby comes, can I teach him how to bake the almond cookies? Uncle Rafe says I’m the only one he trusts with the oven besides Carla."
"Of course, Sweetie Pie. You can be the cookie commander. We’ll even get you a little hat."
The afternoon sun stretches across the floor, painting the room in gold.
It’s hard to believe that only half a year ago, I was sleeping with a burner phone under my pillow.
I think about the "one wish" Rafael is still holding over my head from that horse race.
I used to be terrified of what a man like him would ask for.
I thought it would be a cage. I thought it would be a demand for total submission.
But looking at him now, kneeling on the floor, I realize he’s already used it. He wished for a home. He wished for a version of himself that didn't have to bleed every single day just to feel alive. And somehow, against all the odds of our bloodstained world, he got it.
"You're thinking again," Rafael says, his eyes meeting mine. They’re sharp, perceptive. He can always tell when I’m drifting back toward the ghosts.
"I know," I say, a small, genuine smile tugging at my lips. "I was just thinking about the cookies. And how lucky you are that I don't actually know where you keep your fountain pens."
He huffs a laugh and stands, pulling me up with him just enough to press a real kiss to my lips—one that tastes like a promise and smells like the future.
"I love you, you overbearing, clingy, beautiful brute," I whisper.
"I know," he says, pulling me into the crook of his arm as we look out the window at the meadows where Vindice is grazing peacefully. "And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it."
Laura stands between us, grabbing both of our hands. We’re a family, built on the ruins of two houses that tried to destroy us.
"Can we go see the horse now?" Laura asks, swinging our hands. "Vindice looks bored."
I let him wrap the heavy cashmere around my shoulders. Because for the first time in my life, I’m not running. I’m walking right beside my man, into a silence that finally, mercifully, belongs to us.
Betrayal brought them together. Love made them unbreakable. Now, with a new life in their arms, the Romano empire has never felt more whole. Witness the beginning of their forever…