Chapter 36
NIKKI
The car winds up the same damn driveway to Rafe’s villa where I was first taken, and I swear my heart does this weird hiccup thing.
Like muscle memory, but for trauma.
Which sounds like something I'd caption on a wellness post, except this is real life and my husband is holding my hand while we drive back to the place where he first held me prisoner.
But here's the thing that makes my chest go all fluttery and weird.
The trees. Those same ancient, intimidating trees that felt like prison bars six months ago?
They're wrapped in thousands of tiny fairy lights.
Golden sparkles threading through every branch, turning the whole driveway into something out of a fairy tale.
"Holy shit," I breathe, and Rafe squeezes my hand.
"Language, Mrs. Valentino," he says, but he's smiling, and God, I love when he calls me that. Mrs. Valentino. Like I'm some Italian socialite who was born to this instead of a Florida girl who learned to be fancy through YouTube tutorials.
"Excuse me, holy shitballs, Mr. Valentino," I correct. "Better?"
His laugh is low and warm and does things to my insides that should probably be illegal. "Much better."
The fairy lights get denser as we approach the villa, and suddenly I can see the entrance, the same imposing stone archway that felt like the gates of hell when I first arrived.
Except now it's covered in flowers. Like, covered.
White roses and peonies cascading everywhere, with a banner stretched across that says "Benvenuti Mr. & Mrs. Valentino" in elegant script.
My eyes start doing that annoying watery thing they do when I'm overwhelmed. "Did you plan this?"
"The staff wanted to celebrate," he says, but his voice has that careful quality that means he absolutely planned every detail. "I may have provided some... guidance."
Some guidance.
Right.
Like how I provide "some guidance" when I tell my photographer exactly which angle makes my nose look smaller.
The car stops, and I just sit there for a second, staring up at the villa. Same cream stone. Same intimidating windows. Same massive front door that I once thought I'd never walk through again as a free woman.
But now? Now there are balloons. Actual balloons, in soft pastels, bobbing gently in the evening breeze. And more flowers than a celebrity funeral, except happy. It looks like a wedding venue from one of those magazines that costs thirty dollars and makes you feel poor.
"You okay?" Rafe asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice. He knows what this place was for me. What it meant. The terror, the helplessness, the way I paced that white room like a caged animal.
"Yeah," I say, and I mean it. "Just... it's different now."
Everything's different now.
Enzo silently appears at my door, because of course he does, the man is like a well-dressed ninja. He opens it with a little bow that would be mocking from anyone else but somehow feels genuine from him.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Valentino," he says, and there's the faintest smile on his usually stoic face.
Home.
Not prison. Not safehouse.
I step out and the first thing I notice is the sound. Instead of the oppressive silence I remember, there's soft music floating from somewhere, and... laughter?
The staff is lined up along the entrance, every single person who works here, and they're clapping. Actual applause, like I'm some kind of returning war hero instead of the crazy American girl who once threatened to haunt their boss in full glam and threw stiletto heels at the wall.
"This is insane," I whisper to Rafe as we walk through what I can only describe as a fairy-light tunnel of flowers.
"This is your family now," he corrects, and something in his tone makes my throat tight.
We reach the front door, the same door I was dragged through six months ago, kicking and screaming about my lack of coffee options, and I pause. My hand goes to the handle, remembering.
But then Rafe's behind me, his chest warm against my back, his arms coming around my waist. "Different now," he murmurs into my ear, like he can read my mind.
"Very different," I agree, leaning into him. "For starters, I'm wearing better shoes."
He laughs, and I turn in his arms to face him. The fairy lights catch in his dark hair, making him look like some kind of beautiful, dangerous angel.
My beautiful, dangerous angel.
Who I married. In a secret chapel. While his bodyguards stood watch.
My life is unhinged and I'm living for it.
"You know what the best part is?" I ask, going up on my tiptoes to whisper in his ear.
"Tell me."
"This time, I get to stay because I want to. Not because you'll disappear me forever to Portugal if I try to leave."
His arms tighten around me. "I'd never let you leave anyway."
"I know," I say, and kiss him. Soft and sweet and perfect under the fairy lights and flowers, with applause still echoing around us.
When we break apart, I grin up at him. "So, husband mine, ready to carry me over the threshold like a proper mafia bride?"
He sweeps me up without warning, making me shriek with laughter. "Always," he says, and carries me through the door.
The same door.
The same villa.
But everything, everything is different now.
Because this time, I'm not a prisoner.
I'm home.
And honestly? The aesthetic upgrade is chef's kiss.