Epilogue–Ana
It’s six months since I discovered the miracle growing inside me, the life we created from all our death and violence.
The nausea still hits some mornings, though gentler now that I'm showing.
My hand curves over my swollen belly as I stand before our bedroom mirror, marveling at how my body has transformed.
The silk dress Marco gifted me last week flows over my new curves, designed to accommodate my growing stomach while still allowing access to the knife strapped to my thigh.
Because even pregnant, especially pregnant, I stay armed in this world that would test us.
"Madonna mia," I whisper, feeling our child shift inside me.
Active already, this little warrior. Dante says they're practicing their combat moves, preparing for a world that will require both tenderness and teeth.
My fingers trace patterns on my belly, and I swear the baby responds, pressing against my palm like they already know my touch.
Tonight is family dinner. Marco demands attendance regardless of what territories burn or which enemies need burying.
All the siblings will be there, gathered around that massive table where we've celebrated victories and planned vengeance in equal measure.
These dinners have become my favorite tradition, proof that I belong here, that this family claimed me completely.
Papa would understand this, choosing to create life in a world that takes it so easily. He'd be proud that his daughter found love where she sought revenge, built family from ashes.
The dining room glows with candlelight and barely contained chaos.
Marco sits at the head of the table, surveying his siblings with that measured authority.
Sofia passes the wine, her laugh bright as she teases Alex about his latest romantic disaster.
Nico cleans his gun at the table, a habit Marco's given up trying to break, while Luca scrolls through his phone with unusual focus.
Guards check windows even during our family meal, a reminder that joy here always exists alongside danger.
"To family," Marco raises his glass, the crystal catching light. "To another week survived in this city that wants us dead."
"To Ana not poisoning the pasta," Alex adds with that devastating smile. "Though after six months of practice, she's actually getting decent. Almost edible now."
"It wasn't that bad last week," I protest, but I'm smiling. These dinners have become my altar, these people my religion. Every scar on these walls tells our story.
Dante's hand finds my belly under the table, palm warm and possessive over where our child grows. He's been unable to stop touching me since we found out, his hands constantly seeking proof of the miracle we created. His fingers span my entire stomach now, protective even in this simple touch.
"How's my nephew doing?" Sofia asks, practically glowing with excitement. She's been buying baby clothes since the day we told everyone, designer onesies mixed with tiny bulletproof vests.
"Niece," Nico corrects, not looking up from his Glock. "It's definitely a girl. I can tell by how Ana carries."
"Blood type probabilities suggest either is equally likely," Luca murmurs, but he's distracted, checking his phone again with that wrong smile playing at his lips. "Though the bone structure development at this stage is fascinating."
"Hot date?" Alex jokes, noticing Luca's focus on his phone. "Someone finally crazy enough to match you?"
"Something like that," Luca says softly, and for just a moment, he turns the phone toward us. A young woman in a church, blonde hair catching stained glass light, completely unaware she's being photographed.
"Pretty," Sofia says, though something in her voice suggests discomfort. "Who is she?"
"Faith Winters." Luca says her name like he's tasting it. "The judge's daughter. She prays for her father's safety every Sunday. Such a devoted daughter." His smile widens in that way that makes sane people reach for weapons. "I wonder what she'll pray for when she's mine."
Marco's voice cuts like a blade. "The judge is the problem. Leave his daughter alone."
"Define 'alone,'" Luca murmurs, pulling up another photo. This one shows her inside her apartment, unaware. "I haven't touched her. But she has such interesting habits. Did you know she sleeps with a knife under her pillow? Just like Ana used to."
The table goes silent. That's too much detail, too much observation. He's been watching her. Studying her.
"Leave the family alone," Marco warns, his voice carrying the weight of absolute command. "The judge is the only thing we need to handle, not the civilians."
"I won't touch her," Luca murmurs, that wrong smile never wavering. "But watching isn't touching, is it?"
An uncomfortable tension settles over the table. Even in our world of necessary violence, Luca's particular interest feels different. Darker. More personal than business.
Sofia shifts the conversation desperately. "We should discuss baby names. I vote for something strong. Nothing Russian though." She says it firmly, almost aggressively. "No Russian names."
Luca laughs, soft and knowing. "Still having nightmares about Mikhail?"
Sofia's wine glass slips from her hand, shattering on the marble floor. Red wine spreads across the white marble, and her face drains of color. For a moment, she looks exactly like the frightened girl she must have been that night ten years ago.
"What did you say?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
"Nothing important," Luca says, tilting his head with false innocence.
"Just remembering that Russian kid I killed.
Years ago. During the unpleasantness. What was his name?
Mikhail? Yes, Mikhail. He screamed so much at the end.
Kept calling for his sister. In Russian.
Fascinating language structure when someone's in pain. "
Sofia stands abruptly, her chair scraping against marble. "Excuse me. I need air."
She's gone before anyone can respond, practically running from the dining room. I start to follow, but Dante catches my wrist, signing quickly: "Give her space first."
But I can't. Something about the way she looked, the terror in her eyes, pulls me after her. I find her on the terrace, crying into her hands, mumbling in what sounds like Russian.
"Sofia?" I approach carefully, the way you'd approach a wounded animal.
She spins, mascara streaming down her perfect face. "It's my fault," she whispers, the words tumbling out like they've been trapped for a decade. "That boy, Mikhail. He died because of me. They all died because of me."
"What do you mean?"
But she's already pulling herself together, that Rosetti control slamming back into place. "Nothing. Pregnancy hormones are affecting me too. Sympathy symptoms." She forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "We should go back before they worry."
When we return, Luca's chair is empty.
"Where did he go?" I ask, something cold settling in my stomach.
Marco sighs, suddenly looking older. "To handle the Winters situation. He insisted."
My hand finds my belly protectively, our child shifting as if sensing my unease. Whatever Luca's about to do, whatever that girl in the church means to him, it feels like the start of something. Something that will ripple through our family the way my arrival did.
"Sofia knows something," I tell Dante, his hands still mapping my belly. "About that night. About the Russians. About what really happened to our families."
He nods slowly, unsurprised. Has suspected, maybe always known. My husband keeps his siblings' secrets as carefully as he kept mine.
"And Luca's about to do something terrible," I continue, remembering that blonde girl's innocent face, the way she knelt in prayer, unaware of the monster watching from shadows.
"Luca always does something terrible," Dante signs, but even he looks concerned.
Later, as the family celebrates around us, I catch Luca watching from the doorway. Not looking at me or Dante, but at something on his phone. That wrong smile plays at his lips as his fingers trace across the screen.
"What are you looking at?" Sofia asks, approaching him carefully.
"The future," he says softly. "Dante got his happy ending. Maybe it's time I found mine."
The look in his pale eyes makes my blood run cold despite the warmth of Dante's arms around me. Because Luca's version of a happy ending won't look anything like ours.
He shows the screen to Sofia, whose face drains of color. "You can't be serious."
"When have I ever not been serious about something I want?" He pockets the phone and leaves, humming something that sounds like a hymn.
Sofia's eyes lock with mine across the room, and she crosses toward me and grabs my hand, squeezing hard enough to hurt. "That girl," she whispers. "Faith Winters. Someone needs to warn her."
"Warn her about what?"
Sofia's eyes follow Luca's retreating form. "That the devil doesn't always come with horns. Sometimes he comes with pale blue eyes and knows exactly which prayers to answer."
Thank you so much for reading Dante and Ana’s story!