Chapter 29 - Van
Three days of nightmares. Three hours of peaceful sleep beside her.
The math is simple, but the miracle isn't. I study Carmela's sleeping face in the dawn light filtering through my apartment windows, still processing that for the first time since my rescue yesterday, I managed more than an hour of uninterrupted sleep.
No imagined rope burns jolting me awake. No cold sweats. Just peaceful sleep with her warm body curled against mine, her soft breathing keeping time with my heartbeat.
She didn't just save me—she's remaking me.
My phone buzzes. Marco's name appears on the screen.
"Van." I keep my voice low, glancing at Carmela's sleeping form.
"It's done." Marco's voice carries dark satisfaction. "All Torrino assets have been permanently eliminated. Every threat to our family, every connection to their organization. Chicago is clean."
"The scope," I say carefully. "How extensive?"
"Extensive enough to require permanent solutions.
" Each word lands with lethal precision.
"Lucia Torrino developed sudden terminal illness.
Giovanni's heart condition proved fatal.
Peter disappeared during business dispute.
Clean, efficient, no complications." He pauses.
"You were unconscious for most of your rescue, but this was always the plan once they took you. No one threatens family."
The casual mention of my unconscious state clicks pieces into place. I remember fragments—Marco's voice, movement, pain—but the full scope of the operation was beyond my awareness.
"Thank you."
"The briefing is simple—they never existed."
Problem solved. Threats eliminated.
After ending the call, I study her peaceful face in the morning light. The custom collar I had made before everything went to hell sits in my jacket pocket. Italian leather, hand-stitched, her name engraved in silver. Not a traditional ring, but something that honors what we've built together.
My hands shake as I touch the velvet box. Not from trauma this time. From fear she might say no.
Two days ago, I thought I might never see her again. Now I can't imagine breathing without her.
Carmela stirs beside me, green eyes opening slowly before focusing on my face. Her smile is immediate, no grogginess or confusion, just pure daylight directed at me.
"Good morning." She stretches like a cat. "You look different."
"Different how?"
"Peaceful. Like you actually slept." She sits up, studying my expression. "Van…"
"Yes, princess?"
Her expression shifts suddenly, giving way to storm clouds. "We need to talk about that note."
My chest tightens. I knew this was coming.
"You sent me away." Her voice shakes. "A note, Van. After everything we've been through, you sent me to New York with a goddamn note."
"Carmela—"
"No." She pulls back, creating distance between us. "Do you have any idea what that felt like? Racing to the airport thinking you didn't want me anymore? That you were throwing me away like everyone else who claimed to love me?"
"I was trying to protect you."
"From the Torrinos?" Her green eyes blaze with disbelief. "Don't lie to me. Not now."
The truth sits heavy in my throat.
"From me. I was protecting you from me."
Her breath catches. "What?"
"The nightmares, the PTSD, checking exits constantly. You deserve someone whole, someone who doesn't wake up screaming, someone who—"
"Someone who doesn't need me?" Her voice cracks. "Because that's what you're really saying. You decided I was too weak to handle your trauma. Too fragile to love you through the dark parts."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what you did." Tears shine in her eyes but don't fall. "You looked at us, at what we were building, and decided you were too damaged to deserve it. So you made the choice for both of us."
Every word lands with precision that cuts deeper than Lucia's torture ever could.
"I'm not some doll who only exists in the light, Van. I'm a Rosetti. I was raised on blood and loyalty and loving people through their darkest moments. But more importantly, I'm yours. That means all of you—the nightmares, the trauma, the pieces you think make you unworthy."
"I couldn't burden you with—"
"With the truth? With the chance to choose?" She moves closer, her hand finding my scarred wrist. "You think you're damaged? I just killed someone for you. I led a rescue mission. I've been sleeping in hospital chairs for three days. Does that sound like someone who can't handle your darkness?"
The silence stretches between us, heavy with truth.
"I'm sorry. You're right. I had no right to decide you couldn't handle it."
"Promise me." Fierce. Certain. "Promise you'll never send me away again. Not because you think you're too damaged, not because you think I deserve better. We decide together what we can handle."
"I promise." I catch her hand, pressing it against my chest where my heart beats steady despite everything. "We face everything together from now on."
She studies my face for a long moment, then nods. The anger fades, replaced by something softer but no less intense.
"Good. Because I want us to go home. Back to New York."
The word 'home' hits unexpectedly. Not Chicago, where I've built my medical career. New York, where her family is. But she includes me in that belonging.
"You want to return to New York?"
"I want to go where we can build a future together. Where your medical practice can flourish and where I can contribute to the family alliance." Her voice carries new authority. "Dom's been making arrangements. Hospital privileges, medical licenses, everything you'll need."
"Our world," she says naturally, no longer fighting her identity. "We go back as a united front. Partners in everything."
The moment is here. My surgical training taught me that hesitation kills—in the operating room and in life. When you know what needs to be done, you do it steady and absolute.
I pull the collar from my jacket pocket, the leather catching the morning light. Carmela's eyes widen as she recognizes what I'm holding.
Her breathing quickens. She looks at the collar with hungry recognition that tells me everything about her answer before I ask.
"This isn't a traditional proposal," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "But nothing about us has been traditional."
The collar is butter-soft leather in blue-black, the exact shade I've seen her wear. Her name engraved in silver, elegant and permanent.
"Carmela Rosetti." I meet her gaze directly, letting her see past every wall. "Will you wear my collar? Will you be mine permanently, in marriage and in all the ways that matter to us?"
My hands don't shake as I wait. Something about how she looks at the collar, at me, tells me this isn't really a risk at all.
Her smile transforms her entire face. She doesn't hesitate. She turns, lifting her hair to expose the elegant line of her neck.
"Yes. In every way, for always. Marry me, Van. Own me. Love me."
The yes floods through me like adrenaline, like relief, like coming home. My hands are perfectly steady as I lift the collar from its velvet box, as I position it around her throat with careful precision.
"Turn around. Let me see how perfectly this fits."
My fingers work the buckle, adjusting until it sits exactly right. Not tight enough to restrict, but snug enough that she'll feel it with every breath, every movement.
The leather settles against her throat like it belongs there. When she turns back, her eyes shine with happiness and certainty.
Her hand goes to her throat instinctively, fingers tracing the collar's edge—unconscious, natural, already adapting to its presence.
"How does it feel?"
"Perfect. Like it was made for me. Like I was made for this."
She was. Made for submission, for my dominance, for the exchange that heals us both. Made to be claimed by a man who understands that owning her means protecting her, cherishing her.
"We're engaged," Carmela says, testing the words. The collar moves with her throat as she speaks. She giggles then, and jumps into my arms. "Engaged!"
I stagger under her weight, my leg giving way, shoulder collapsing, but I don't give a damn.
I capture her mouth in a kiss that tastes like forever, like healing, like home. She melts against me when I take control, when I claim what's mine. The collar presses against my hand as I cup her throat.
"Are you ready to go home?" she asks when I finally release her mouth.
Home. New York. The place where we'll build our permanent life together, where she'll wear my collar with pride, where we'll be partners in medicine and marriage and all the ways that matter.
"With you?" I study the collar gleaming against her throat, her submission freely given, our future secured by love and lethal family protection. "I'm ready for anything."