Chapter 30 - Carmela
The silk scarf hides Van's collar perfectly.
My fingers drift to touch the hidden leather through expensive fabric as we approach my family's gathering.
Three months ago, he would have dropped me at the door and disappeared.
Now he's walking into the mansion wearing the Tom Ford suit I picked out, looking like he was born to own rooms like this.
"Stop fidgeting with it," Van murmurs. "Unless you want your brothers to figure out exactly what you're wearing under that pretty dress."
Heat flushes through me, but there's pride too. Being claimed by this man who notices every exit even at his own engagement party.
The terrace glows with elegant lighting, crystal fountains catching afternoon sun. White linens, champagne flutes, servers moving like choreographed dancers between guests. Everything I once ran from, now mine by choice.
Van stays steady, but I catch how he assesses every guest, every server, every possible threat. Old habits from Afghanistan that love helps manage but hasn't erased.
"Breathe," I murmur, squeezing his arm where rope burns have faded to thin white lines beneath the suit. "They love you."
"They tolerate me because I'm useful," he says, but without his usual edge.
Dom spots us first, raising his glass. "There they are."
The family turns as one. Instead of the intimidating wall they can project, their faces show genuine warmth. Nonna Toni actually claps, her diamond bracelet catching light.
"Finally," she calls out. "Now we can properly celebrate."
Papa steps forward with that particular smile reserved for me. When he extends his hand to Van, my surgeon hesitates—just a heartbeat—before accepting the handshake.
"Van. Welcome to the family."
The handshake lasts longer than necessary, Papa's gold signet ring glinting as he clasps Van's scarred hand.
Van accepts whiskey from Matt, holding the crystal tumbler like he's still adjusting to drinking from something that costs more than most people's rent. He stands at parade rest even while trying to relax, shoulders squared, weight evenly distributed.
"So," Leo says, grinning as he joins us with Eleanor tucked against his side, "thirty-five and finally settling down. What took you so long?"
Van's jaw clenches. "Hard to focus on dating when you're trying to keep soldiers from bleeding out. Some things can't be rushed."
Eleanor's hand touches Leo's arm—gentle correction. "Age gaps work when both people grow."
"And neither of them runs," Milo adds from where he sits with Mara curled against him.
"Says the man who stalked his wife through half of Europe," Matteo adds dryly.
Laughter breaks the remaining tension. Van's hand finds mine as he realizes they're including him in their usual verbal sparring rather than targeting him.
"Thirty-five isn't old," I say. "It's… vintage. Like a nice wine. Or cheese. Actually, let's stick with wine."
Van chuckles.
"December wedding," Mama announces, appearing with auburn hair gleaming silver in the light. "Before Christmas, after Thanksgiving."
"December?" Van's military bearing cracks slightly. "That's—"
"Eight weeks," I finish. "To plan a Rosetti wedding? I hope you're prepared for organized chaos with a side of Italian dramatics."
"Cara mia," Nonna Toni pats my cheek, "when you've waited this long for the right man, why wait longer? Besides, December weddings photograph beautifully."
Van's fingers unconsciously trace the marks on his wrists—old rope burns that have healed but left their memory. Dom raises his glass again.
"To experience meeting energy," Dom says. "Van, you've got the maturity to handle our Carm. God knows she needs someone who can keep up."
Van's free hand settles on my lower back. "She grounds me. More than I deserve."
"You ground each other," Papa corrects. "That's what good partnerships do."
I watch my brothers with their wives. Dom and Besiana share quiet conversation, her hand resting on his arm as she tells him something in rapid fire.
Rafe keeps Sloane tucked against his massive frame while she laughs at something on her phone.
Matt spins his silver coin one-handed while Isabella watches, occasionally snatching it mid-flip just to make him chase her for it.
Leo has Eleanor swaying slightly to music only they hear—her hand rests on her stomach in a way that makes me wonder if they have news.
Milo and Mara communicate in their intense silence, entire conversations in a glance.
"The next generation might not be far behind," Mama murmurs to Nonna Toni.
I catch the words, cheeks warming. Van's thumb traces over my knuckles.
"Complete," Papa says quietly, surveying his domain. "This is what it was all for."
Van's arm slides around my waist. Standing here on the terrace where I played as a child, I watch him finally understand that he's not just tolerated or useful.
The man who spent years expecting abandonment now has five brothers-in-law who would kill for him, a mother-in-law planning his wedding, and a father-in-law who just handed him responsibility for their most precious asset—me.
"Perfect love," Nonna Toni says, approaching with two espressos. The rich scent mixes with evening jasmine from the gardens. "When two people make each other stronger."
She passes Van his cup, taking his empty tumbler of whiskey. Instead of the awkward fumbling of someone unused to delicate china, he accepts it with the same steady hands that stitch soldiers back together. He's learning to handle beautiful things without breaking them.
The party continues around us. Besiana orchestrates conversations with subtle gestures, moving people like chess pieces.
Sloane shows Rafe something on her tablet that makes him pull her closer, whispering something that makes her blush.
Isabella successfully steals Matt's coin for the third time, making him tackle her onto a garden bench where they dissolve into laughter.
Eleanor whispers something to Leo that makes his whole face transform with joy—definitely baby news.
Mara demonstrates a knife technique to Milo using a butter knife from the catering table, making him smile in that quiet way that transforms his whole face.
"Dance with me," Van says suddenly.
There's no dance floor, just the terrace stones where I learned to roller skate as a child. The string quartet is taking a break. But Van pulls me against him anyway.
"You know what I realized?" he says against my hair.
"What?"
"You never needed my protection. You needed someone who could match you."
His hand finds the hidden collar through my scarf—the briefest touch that sends electricity through me.
"And you needed someone who could see past the surgeon to the man underneath," I reply.
"The broken soldier?"
"The protector who forgot he deserved protecting too."
We turn slowly on the terrace. Through the windows, I can see the dining room where we'll have Sunday dinners. The kitchen where Mama will teach me her sauce recipe. The garden where our children will play while their aunts and uncles argue about who gets to babysit.
Children who will grow up knowing that families can be complicated and messy and violent and still be worth choosing.
Who will understand that love sometimes looks like a collar hidden under silk, like rope burns that heal into proof of survival, like a surgeon's hands learning to hold crystal without shattering it.
"I love you," Van says, and the words carry weight different from the first time. This isn't desperate or possessive or uncertain. This is recognition of something that has grown from debt to need to choice.
"I love you too," I reply, and mean it in ways I couldn't have imagined when I first ran to Chicago.
The future spreads before us like the view from the mansion terrace. Whatever brought us together—debt, duty, fate—has transformed into something neither expected but both deserve.
This is what happiness looks like: not the absence of darkness, but the choice to build light strong enough to shine through it.
Not the place you start from, but the place you choose to return to.
Not perfect people, but perfect love—the kind that makes you stronger, braver, more yourself than you ever knew you could be.
Home.