EPILOGUE ONE
ONE MONTH LATER
Present
Long Island, New York City
I stood alone in the quiet room, facing myself in the mirror.
This time, the dress was different. Lace instead of silk. No veil this time.
White roses rested in my hands, their scent clean and gentle. My blonde hair fell loose down my back, kissed by the open windows and the warm June air drifting in from the gardens. Sunlight spilled across the hardwood floors, turning everything golden and real.
And on my left hand, the true diamond ring caught the light. The one Matteo had slipped onto my finger as the sun rose behind him, voice steady and eyes full of love that had never once felt forced.
I swallowed, blinking at my reflection.
Four months ago, I had stood in a cathedral, wearing a much different white dress. Bigger. Heavier. Armor disguised as a gown. I remembered the way I’d looked at myself then – composed, prepared, detached.
I had no idea how much my life was about to change.
My gaze dropped to my hands, to the red flower clip Matteo had given me.
Hawaii.
Before love had a name.
I smiled softly and lifted it, sliding it into my hair just above my ear. Not hiding it this time.
We were back at my family’s mansion on Long Island, the grounds alive with green and sunlight and laughter drifting in through open doors. The excuse was a vow renewal.
But this was real.
Matteo and me – standing in front of the people who knew us best, choosing each other again. Not because we had to. But because we wanted to.
I took one last look at myself.
Not a Made woman carrying out a job.
But a woman in love.
And the reflection smiled back like it knew everything would be okay.
The door behind me opened softly.
I turned just as Matteo stepped inside – and my breath caught instantly.
“Babe! The groom is not supposed to see the bride,” I said, heat rushing to my cheeks despite myself.
He closed the door behind him with an easy confidence, eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t believe in bad luck when it comes to you, amor.”
And then he was standing in front of me.
His hands came to my waist like they belonged there – because they did – and he leaned in, kissing me gently, reverently, like this moment was already sacred. The room fell away. The summer light. The mirror. Everything except him.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his gaze slow and full. “You’re so beautiful, mi amor,” he spoke like it was a fact written into the universe.
I barely had time to smile before he kissed me again, deeper this time, his thumb brushing my jaw. My hand rose on instinct, cupping his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under my palm.
He pulled away, eyes dropping to my left hand.
“What?” I asked softly, already laughing when his fingers gently caught mine. He tugged my engagement ring down just enough to reveal the delicate cursive beneath it.
His name.
Inked into my skin.
Matching my own name tattooed on his ring finger.
A month ago – late at night, too spontaneous – we’d stayed up talking until the city slept.
One thing had led to another, and somehow we ended up in a tiny tattoo shop in the middle of the night, laughing quietly while ink etched permanence into our skin.
I never would have guessed he’d do this – Matteo, who’d always sworn off tattoos.
But I guessed love had a way of changing rules.
He lifted my hand, pressing a kiss to my ring finger, right over the ink. Then another to my knuckles. Then my palm. Each one slower than the last, like he was committing the moment to memory.
“I love this,” he murmured. “I love that it’s ours.”
Before I could answer, he was kissing me again – hungry now, unapologetic. I leaned into him, lace brushing his suit, heart racing, knowing the world was waiting outside that door.
But for a few stolen seconds, it was just us.
And it always would be.
So, when he lifted my dress up, over my waist, I was already undoing his belt.
Ten minutes later, we walked out together, fingers laced, hearts still racing – not from nerves, but from each other. My lips still tingled and I still ached between the legs from just having Matteo inside me. My dress felt warmer, lived in. Loved in.
The garden opened up before us, sun-drenched and intimate, white chairs arranged in a soft curve beneath flowering trees. Roses climbed the stone walls. The air smelled like summer and promises. Everyone was already there – family, friends, the people who mattered – turning as one when they saw us.
This time, when I stepped forward beside Matteo, there was no performance to hold together.
This time, I meant every word I was about to say.
When the officiant spoke, I listened – not because I had to, but because I wanted to. When I said my vows, my voice didn’t waver. My hands didn’t shake. I wasn’t thinking about strategy or optics or survival.
This time, my heart was pure.
This time, my love was true.
I looked at Matteo as I spoke, really looked at him, at the man who had broken me open and stitched me back together with patience and devotion. He watched me like I was the only thing in the world, like the sun itself had paused just to see what I would say next.
When it was his turn, I felt every word land somewhere deep in my chest, permanent and steady.
When we said I do, it wasn’t an agreement.
It was a choice.
“You may kiss,” the officiant said, smiling.
Matteo didn’t hesitate. He cupped my face and kissed me fully, openly, without turning away this time. No secrecy. No restraint. Just love – warm and real and overwhelming.
Cheers, laughter, applause – pure happiness spilling out around us. I heard Maria and Kali cry. Natalia laughed with joy. Trevor whistled. Zach shouted something joyful.
“Mi Donna…” Matteo kissed my cheek after we pulled away, smiling like he couldn’t believe this was real.
But it was.
And for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly right.
My father’s home office smelled like old leather, espresso, and polish – the same way it had my entire life.
Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the manicured gardens, sunlight cutting through the room in long, golden stripes.
Somewhere beyond these walls, florists adjusted peonies and musicians tuned their strings for my wedding.
But in here, it was business.
Matteo sat beside me, jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless.
My hand rested lightly against his wrist – grounding, familiar.
Across from us sat my father behind his desk, Enzo DeMone in full command of the room without raising his voice.
Gìo leaned back in one of the armchairs, smoking a cigar, calm and unreadable.
And then there was Salvatore Moretti.
He sat comfortably by the window, cradling a one-month-old baby girl like she weighed nothing at all, yet the entire world at the same time.
Amaya Rose. Pink bow, sleepy eyes, tiny fist curled against his chest. The contrast was almost absurd – one of the most powerful men in New York’s underworld gently rocking a newborn, murmuring nonsense under his breath when she shifted.
He didn’t look scary. He looked… Softened. Changed.
Natalia had made up with her father. I knew that much. I didn’t know how, or what it had cost, but seeing him like this told me it was real.
And seeing how happy she was earlier, and the fact that she trusted her father with her baby girl… I knew it all must’ve worked out.
The meeting moved quickly – territories, timing, alliances.
Then Gìo straightened slightly, shifting the air in the room without saying a word.
“I’m ready to move forward with my marriage,” he said evenly. “Everything’s in place.”
Both Matteo and I were surprised. He’d been secretive for months. Meticulous. Too quiet about it.
I looked between them. “You do?”
Dad's gaze flicked to me, something knowing in his eyes. “I approve of Gìovanni’s choice.”
Of course he did.
Gìo’s mouth twitched – barely a smile as he smoked his cigar. He said nothing else.
I opened my mouth to ask who, but a knock at the door came first.
My father glanced up from his desk. “Come in.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see the door open, and for no one to step inside, but Carmen Moretti.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked, voice calm, posture perfect – light brown hair swept back, dress immaculate.
I didn’t react. Not outwardly.
Inside, something cracked.
My gaze slid immediately to Gìo.
His face was composed, apathetic at first glance – business as usual. But this time, I didn’t miss it. The glint beneath the calm. The tension held too carefully in his jaw. The look of a man standing exactly where he intended to stand.
Oh…
Oh.
It all clicked with a sickening, elegant logic.
After Natalia and Trevor broke up in college – because of Gìo meddling – Natalia had still been the oldest sister. Carmen couldn’t have been arranged before her. That was tradition.
Now, Natalia was married. And a mother. Tied to the Sus.
And suddenly, the two strongest Italian families in New York – the Morettis and the DeMones – were meant to merge their bloodlines.
I leaned subtly into Matteo’s side, grounding myself as the realization settled heavy in my chest.
It was almost insulting how perfect it was.
Why hadn’t it happened earlier? Why not Gìo and Natalia back then, before Trevor was ever in the picture?
My mind flickered to that afternoon years ago – when I was supposed to meet Natalia at her dance class…
But ended up running into Gìovanni instead.
In the halls of Juilliard of all places.
Coincidence, I’d thought. After he made up some bullshit excuse.
Now? Nothing felt accidental anymore.
Not with Carmen Moretti in the picture – Prima Ballerina and Julliard graduate.
I remembered laughing months ago, when Natalia called Gìo Cupid.
Now, I scoffed.
More like Cupid from Hell.
We left my parents’ mansion a little after four in the morning, the party still roaring behind us – music spilling into the gardens, laughter echoing off marble and glass like the night refused to end without us.
Matteo drove east, the G-Wagon cutting through the quiet Long Island roads while the world slowly softened from black to blue.
I kicked my heels off somewhere between the driveway and the highway, my wedding dress pooled around my legs, tulle and silk catching on everything.
Matteo laughed once, low and fond, and reached over to hold onto my thigh.
I’d always wanted to see Montauk Lighthouse at sunrise. Ever since I watched What Happens in Vegas for the first time – the way the ending felt like choosing love when the chaos settled. I’d told myself I’d come here one day when my life finally made sense.
We parked just as the sky began to open, the horizon brushing itself with pale pinks and molten gold. The lighthouse stood tall and quiet, a witness to everything and nothing at all.
We stepped out into the cold salt air, and I laughed softly at the beauty of it.
Matteo took my hand, and we walked down the beach together. The ocean breathed steadily, endless and patient.
We stopped at the shore.
Matteo slipped his arms around me from behind, solid and warm, his chin resting against my temple. The sun crested the horizon slowly, like it was taking its time just for us – light spilling across the water, igniting it into fire.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I just felt – his chest against my back, the warmth of the sun on my face, the salt in the air, the quiet hum of a world that didn’t need anything from me.
I leaned my head back into him, fitting perfectly, like I always had.
I felt safe.
I felt loved.
I felt truly, impossibly happy.
And standing there – on the edge of the ocean, at the edge of dawn, with the man who chose me and whom I chose back – I finally felt free.
I stood at the edge of the shore with her in my arms, the ocean stretching endlessly in front of us, the sunrise bleeding gold and rose into the sky like the world was being reborn just for us. Waves whispered against the sand, steady and eternal, but I barely registered them.
All I could see was Francesca.
She leaned back into me, perfectly molded to my chest, her eyes closed, her wedding dress catching the first light of morning.
The wind lifted a few loose strands of her hair, brushing them across my wrist. She looked peaceful – unguarded in a way I’d never seen before.
And for a man who had spent his life watching over his shoulder, calculating exits and threats, that sight nearly undid me.
The sun rose higher, brilliant and warm, but it could never compete with her.
She opened her eyes slowly, as if waking from a dream, then twisted in my arms to face me. Her hands found my neck, steady and sure.
“Matteo?” She murmured.
I smirked, already knowing. I raised a brow. “Kiss?”
She nodded, smiling as she pulled me closer.
I leaned down and met her halfway. The kiss was slow, unhurried – salt on her lips, warmth everywhere else. Her fingers slid into my hair, anchoring me, while my arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against me like there was nowhere else either of us belonged.
“I love you, Matteo,” she vowed softly against my mouth.
“I love you more, Francesca,” I promised, smiling into the kiss.
We kissed again, longer this time, the sun warming our faces, the ocean bearing witness.
And for the first time in my life, I was exactly where I was meant to be.
I felt safe.
I felt loved.
I felt truly, impossibly happy.
And standing there – on the edge of the ocean, at the edge of dawn, with the woman who chose me and whom I chose back – I finally felt free.
THE END