27. Amara #2
He reaches out, his hand finding the small of my back and pulling me flush against him. It’s a public claim, a silent "mine" that I’ve stopped trying to fight. In fact, I lean into it. I’m tired of being the only thing holding me up.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
"I’m fine," I say, looking around the room. "Is it really happening? We’re just... leaving? Closing the door on Chicago?"
"The door is already closed," Alessio says. "We’re just walking away from the house."
"I’ve never lived in a house for more than six months," I admit, my voice small. "The idea of building one... of staying... it’s still a little terrifying, Alessio."
He tilts my chin up, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are dark, intense, and filled with a certainty that I don't quite possess yet.
"You’re not building it alone," he says. "And you’re not staying because you have to. You’re staying because this is where you belong. With me. With them."
He gestures to the chaos of the brothers. They aren’t only a crime family anymore. They’re a collection of trauma and violence trying to figure out how to put the pieces back together into something that looks like a future.
"I need to finish the scholarship paperwork," I say, though I don't make a move to leave his arms. "I want the first check to be cut before we even see the Pine Valley sign."
The afternoon passes in a blur of activity. The Costas don't do anything halfway. If they’re moving, they’re moving with the force of a tectonic shift. Boxes appear from nowhere. Lists are made. Calls are placed. I stay tucked in my corner with my laptop, finalizing the details.
Every time I type Curtis’s name, it feels a little less like a bruise and a little more like a heartbeat. The scales are finally moving. Vane’s blood money is being stripped and turned into something that might actually save a life.
As the sun starts to dip below the peaks, casting long, purple shadows across the valley, the house finally starts to quiet down. Most of the brothers have drifted off to their respective rooms or out to the garage to check the vehicles.
I’m sitting on the porch swing, my legs tucked under me, watching the sky turn purple over the peaks. The cold is starting to seep through my sweater, but I don't want to go inside yet. I want to sit in this silence.
The door creaks. I don't need to turn to recognize the weight of his presence. Alessio walks out, carrying two mugs of something that smells like cinnamon and bourbon. He hands one to me and sits down on the swing, his weight making the chains groan.
"Thinking about leaving?" he asks, his shoulder brushing mine.
"No," I say, and the truth hits like a cold snap. "I was thinking about the furniture. Do you think we should go for mountain rustic or something a little more... not-mafia?"
Alessio chuckles, a deep sound that warms me more than the bourbon. "Whatever you want, Amara. You want a house made of glass and chrome? I’ll build it. You want a log cabin with a bear rug? I’ll find the bear."
"No bears," I shudder. "I’ve had enough things trying to eat me for one lifetime."
I take a sip of the drink. It’s hot, sweet, and kicks like a mule.
"Dominic is leaving at dawn," Alessio says. "He wants to be in Pine Valley by tomorrow night to meet with Lucia and the builders. The rest of us will follow in waves."
"And us?" I ask.
Alessio reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small, tarnished key. He places it in my palm and closes my fingers over it.
"This is the key to a cabin on the far edge of the property," he says. "It’s separate from the main house. It’s quiet. It has a view of the lake and enough room for a library and an office that doesn't feel like a bunker."
I look at the key. It’s cold in my hand, but it feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
"Is this where we’re going?" I whisper.
"It’s where I’m going," Alessio says, his voice thick with an emotion he usually keeps under lock and key. "I’m hoping you’ll decide to meet me there. No one is making you stay, Amara. But that door stays unlocked for you."
I look at him—really look at him. The early silver in his hair, the scars on his hands, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world that makes sense.
For eleven years, he carried the secrets of his family’s slaughter alone.
For ten years, I carried the grief of my brother’s murder alone.
We’re both tired of carrying things.
I lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels like a vow.
"I’ll be there," I say. "But I’m picking the curtains."
"Deal."
He wraps his arm around me, pulling me into the crook of his shoulder. We sit there on the swing, swaying back and forth in the gathering dark. The wind whistles through the pines, and for once it doesn’t sound like a warning.
It sounds like home.
I think about the compound back in Chicago. I think about the steel doors, the cameras, the blood in the courtyard. It feels like a horror flick I finally walked out of.
I’m still Amara Osei. I’m still the woman who can find a needle in a digital haystack and a lie in a hundred-page ledger.
I’m still the woman who knows how to turn a ledger into a weapon.
But I’m also the woman who is going to endow a scholarship in her brother’s name.
I’m the woman who is going to live in a house with no panic room.
I’m the woman who is loved by a man who would burn the world down just to keep me warm.
"Alessio?" I mutter, my eyes drifting shut.
"Yeah?"
"Don't let me oversleep tomorrow. I want to see the sunrise over the mountains."
"I’ve got you," he whispers.
And at last, I actually believe him.
The morning comes early, the light gray and soft against the windowpanes. I wake up before the alarm. Beside me, Alessio is still asleep, his face relaxed in a way I rarely see. He looks younger like this, the weight of the last eleven years loosened from his shoulders.
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake him, and pull on a thick sweater. I walk through the quiet house, past the rooms where the other brothers are still sleeping, and out onto the porch.