Epilogue
ANTHONY
Several weeks later, Canada
I'm a father. I still can't wrap my head around the fact that Ivy is mine. I met her the same day Isabella was released from the hospital. They both moved into my New York apartment from that day on, and we’ve not been separated since.
When Isabella was well enough, we flew up to Canada and spent the better part of two weeks shopping for a lake house.
New York, the Romeros, and working for the Morettis were behind us both. It was time for a new future.
We find the one on the third day. I know it the moment I see it.
The dock stretching out over still water, the tree line dence and shadowy behind the cabin.
A house that was big enough to grow in and be an all-year-round home.
No neighbors to disturb our quiet, just an oasis that’s all ours to enjoy.
Isabella had stood on the porch, looking out at the lake like me. We had said nothing for a long moment, merely enjoying the tranquility, and then our eyes met, and that was it.
The decision was made.
We made an offer the same afternoon, and a week and a half later, the cabin was ours.
That was several weeks ago. I'm still not entirely sure how I got here, standing on a dock in Canada at ten in the morning with a fishing rod in my hand and a five-year-old sitting beside me with her legs dangling over the edge, her small, bright-red boots discarded somewhere on the lawn.
"Is it dead?" Ivy asks, peering at the water with great seriousness.
"Is what dead?"
"The fish." She looks up at me. She has Isabella's eyes. The same precise, evaluating green that misses absolutely nothing. My heart catches every time she turns them on me. I didn’t think I could love so quickly, so overwhelmingly, but by damn, I do. I’d die for this kid.
"The one we're waiting for. Maybe it's dead, and that's why it's not taking the hook. "
"Fish aren't dead. They're just busy."
She considers this. "What are they busy doing?"
"Swimming."
"That's not busy," she says, with the flat authority of someone who has given the matter considerable thought. "That's just existing."
I look down at her. "You sound like your mother."
She seems entirely satisfied and returns her attention to the water.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the lake glassy and still, the morning light slowly brightening the lake and its surroundings.
A bird calls somewhere in the trees behind us, while Ivy hums something tuneless under her breath.
Then her rod dips.
"Dad." Her voice drops to an urgent whisper, her eyes wide. "Daddy, it moved."
"I see it, sweetie. Hold your rod steady." I go to her, putting my own rod down beside my deck chair.
"I am holding it steady."
Her rod dips again. “Now pull," I say. "Reel it in, sweetheart."
She pulls with everything she has and nearly topples sideways off the dock.
I catch her by the back of her jacket with one hand and grab the rod with the other, and between us, we haul in a small, indignant fish out of the lake.
Ivy shrieks with delight, and I laugh, pulling out my phone and capturing the moment forever.
"We got one!" She grabs my arm with both hands. "We got one, we got one, we got one."
"We do." I crouch beside her, and we look at it together, this small, ridiculous fish, and she beams at it like it's the finest thing she's ever seen.
"Can we keep it?"
"We throw it back. It’s a little undersized to keep."
Her face falls. "That’s a shame."
She isn't wrong. "Yeah," I agree. "It really is."
We release it together, her small hands cupped around mine, and watch it disappear back into the dark water. She stares after it for a moment, satisfied in the way that only children can be.
The sound of footsteps on the dock behind us makes us both turn. Maeve comes to a stop at the end, coat on, coffee in hand, looking at us both with an amused expression. "Sorry to interrupt you both." Her eyes find mine. "Isabella's asking for you upstairs, Mr. Moretti."
I look down at Ivy, who’s already turned back to the lake and is dropping her line back in with great purpose.
"Go," she says, without looking up. "I'll mind the fish."
Maeve catches my eye over the top of Ivy's head and smiles.
I hand her my rod and head back up to the cabin.
I find Isabella in our bedroom. I can hear the shower running, so I close and lock the door. We’ve not been intimate since she’s been shot. Not because we didn’t want to, but because I’ve been terrified of hurting her.
And I’ll never hurt her again, not in any capacity if I can help it.
“I’m in here,” she calls, somehow always knowing when I’m nearby. I smile and pull off my t-shirt, more than willing to wash my girl, even if I can’t have her yet.
She’s shampooing her hair, her fingers massaging her scalp. The sight of suds washing over her body makes my cock hard before my gaze lands on the bullet wound on her stomach, and I’m reminded of how lucky she is to be here. How fortunate we are that she didn’t die.
I push the intrusive thought down and lean against the bathroom door, admiring my view. “Need some help rinsing?”
She chuckles, having almost completed her rinsing, still, one can never be sure. “Have you been fishing with Ivy?” she asks.
“Yes, and she caught her first fish today.”
“Oh, how wonderful.” Her eyes are alight, and I’m struck by the thought that had she not returned to New York, I may have never seen her again. Had never had her in my life, completing it, fulfilling it the way she does.
I strip off my jeans and enter the shower. “I'd better wash also since I’ve been busy on the dock.”
She grins, laughing softly before she wraps her arms about my neck, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss me. My cock is hard, my balls, well and truly blue, ache between my legs. Fuck I need to come. I want her so damn much.
“Mmm, my big, handsome fisherman,” she teases, her breasts brushing against my chest. I reach down and cup one, running my thumb over her nipple before pinching it.
I let out a frustrated breath. “I want you so much.”
She wiggles against me, my cock slipping between her legs. She teases me, strokes me with her thighs, and I’m certain I’m going to come.
“I think,” she says, running a finger down my cheek, before tracing my lips, “that it’s time we start having sex again. I feel well, better than ever, actually, and I want you too, Anthony. I’ve been having dreams…”
“Dreams?” I question “What kind of dreams?” This sounds good, and I want to hear more.
“Sex dreams,” she admits, her cheeks turning a pretty pink. “I think it’s my subconscious telling me I’m ready.”
I nod, more than willing to agree. “I think it’s that too.” I pick her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist. I can’t wait, there’s no time for foreplay. We both know what we want, and we both need to come.
Now.
I push her up against the shower wall, the hot water flowing over our skin, and thrust into her. We moan, the sweet sensation making my head spin. “Jesus, you feel good.” She’s wet, tight, and made for me, I’m sure.
She chuckles, a low, seductive sound that goes straight to my balls. “Fuck me, Anthony.”
My heart is thumping a thousand beats a minute.
I do what she asks, holding her pert, tight ass and fucking her with a savagery, a desperation that leaves me reeling.
I don’t want to hurt her, but I also want her so damn much.
It’s been a few weeks, and I’m frantic. “I’m never letting you leave the bedroom again,” I tease.
She smiles against my lips. “I like the sound of that.”
Damn, yes, so do I. I thrust into her, my cock like iron.
Her fingers score along my spine, her head thrown back with every glide of my dick.
I kiss her neck, lick my way up to the lobe of her ear, and bite.
I know she’s close. She grinds on me as I give her what she wants, and I feel the delicious ache start to thrum through my balls.
“Isabella,” I moan, taking her lips.
She kisses me back, her tongue tangling with mine. “I’m going to come.” Her breath comes out in little puffs. “Oh yes, right there. Just like that, Anthony.”
I’m certain I’ve died and gone to heaven. I feel her release contract about my cock, and I come almost immediately. She holds on to my shoulders, rocking onto me, taking what she wants but giving me everything at the same time.
I find her lips and kiss her again until our breathing calms. “I love you,” I say, overcome with emotion. “Will you marry me?” I blurt.
She gapes, my cock still inside her pussy as she considers my words. A wicked grin slips onto her lips, and she nods. “I was wondering when you were going to ask.”
I smile, having not known I would. Still, now that I’ve uttered the words, they’re right. They’re what I want more than anything in the world. I shouldn’t be this happy, surely it’s not possible for a Moretti to be so, yet I am. “You were? Did you think I wouldn’t ask?”
“No, I didn’t think that,” she says. “But I was contemplating asking you myself if you didn’t get a move on about it.”
I growl and slip her back on her feet, reaching between her legs and tickling her thighs. She tries to push me away with a squeak, but I don’t relent. “Oh, you’re naughty. I think I’ll have to teach you a lesson in manners.”
“Mmm, really?”
I turn her around and come up hard against her back, my hand slipping between her legs. “But first, you have to answer my question.”
“Oh, what question is that?” she throws over her shoulder.
“Minx.” I pinch her nipple, and she moans. My knees almost buckle. “Isabella Romero, will you marry me?” I ask again.
She meets my eyes, and I quickly steal a kiss. “I would love to marry you, Anthony Moretti. My one and only love.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m a Moretti. I don’t show emotion, but right now, I’m not sure I have it in me to keep it at bay. “I’ve only ever loved you too.”
“Well, a shame it won’t last,” she says.
I look at her questioningly. “Why won’t it last?” I wrack my brain over what could keep us apart. Nothing, of course, because I’ll never let anything come between us again.
She smiles. “Because I believe I said hell would freeze over before I ever loved you again, and so, I suppose our love affair will end before it truly begins since hell is certainly right at this moment freezing over.”
I chuckle. “I like the cold. We’ll survive,” I say, before rolling my thumb over her clit and distracting her once again. And again. And again.