Epilogue Elena
The November air in Manhattan carries the sharp bite of approaching winter, and I pull my coat tighter around myself as Declan and I step out of the town car onto Fifth Avenue.
The city glitters around us with storefronts already decorated for the holidays and strings of white lights wrapped around bare tree branches.
The sky above the buildings has deepened to indigo, the last traces of sunset fading behind the skyline.
Declan's hand finds the small of my back as we walk toward the restaurant.
Six months have passed since we stood in my father's office and remade the rules of our world, and in that time, I've learned what it means to truly be his partner.
The Capetti territories are mine now, not in name only, but in practice.
I manage the operations, handle the capos, and make the decisions that keep the business running smoothly and profitably.
Some of the old guard resisted at first and tested me, pushing back against the idea of a woman in charge of them.
But Declan stood beside me through every challenge, his support unwavering, and eventually even the most stubborn of them learned that I wasn't going anywhere.
The man I once thought was lesser than the world I grew up in has proven how wrong I was, how much better he is than everyone else I’ve ever known. His way of doing things, his refusal to bend to the old rules, has made my life—our lives—into something beyond my wildest dreams.
"You're thinking too much," Declan murmurs near my ear as we reach the restaurant entrance. "I can see it on your face."
I glance up at him and smile. "I'm thinking about how far we've come. Six months ago, I didn't know if we'd survive what happened. Now we're here."
The restaurant is exactly my kind of place, elegant and luxurious.
The ma?tre d' greets us by name and leads us through the dining room to a corner table with a view of the street.
The lighting is soft and golden, cast by small lamps on each table and the glow of candles in crystal holders.
The walls are paneled in dark wood, and the ceiling is coffered, giving the space an intimate, almost library-like quality.
Classical music plays quietly in the background, and the murmur of conversation from other diners creates a pleasant hum.
Declan holds my chair for me, and I settle into it, watching as he takes his own seat across from me.
He's wearing a charcoal suit tonight, perfectly tailored. He looks every inch the powerful man he is, commanding and confident. But I notice the small tells that still show he’s not entirely comfortable here.
His fingers drum once against the edge of the table before he stills them, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze flicks around the room as if he’s waiting for someone to tell him to leave, rather than simply enjoying the ambiance.
He's trying, though, and that's what matters. He's here with me, in my world, making the effort because he knows it's important to me.
The sommelier appears with the wine list, and Declan accepts it with a polite nod.
I watch as he opens it, his eyes scanning the pages.
I know he's not fond of wine—he's a whiskey man and always has been—but he's learned enough over the past six months to navigate a wine list without looking lost. When the sommelier asks if we'd like a recommendation, Declan glances at me, and I give him a small, encouraging smile.
"What do you think?" he asks me. "Red or white?"
"Red," I say. "Something bold. We're celebrating."
His mouth curves slightly. "We are?"
"Six months of partnership.” I smile. "Six months of making it work. That's worth celebrating."
The sommelier suggests a wine, and Declan nods his agreement.
When the man leaves to retrieve the bottle, Declan leans back in his chair and looks at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"You're happy," he says. It's not a question, but there's something tentative in his tone, like he's checking to make sure.
"I am," I tell him honestly. "Are you?"
"Yeah." He reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "I am. It's been... different than I expected. Harder in some ways. Easier in others."
"The capos are coming around. Salvatore especially. He was the most resistant at first, but last week he actually asked for my advice on a shipment issue instead of going straight to you."
"I noticed." Declan's smile widens. "You handled it well. Better than I would have, honestly."
"You would have handled it fine," I say, squeezing his hand. "But thank you."
The sommelier returns with the wine, and we go through the ritual of tasting and approving it.
It’s rich and complex, with notes of cherry and tobacco, and it pairs beautifully with the menu the waiter presents.
Declan studies the menu with the same careful attention he gave the wine list, and I notice the way his brow furrows slightly as he reads.
The dishes are described in elaborate detail—seared diver scallops with cauliflower purée and truffle oil, duck breast with cherry gastrique and roasted root vegetables, handmade pasta with wild mushroom ragù.
"What are you thinking?" I ask.
He chuckles. "I'm thinking I have no idea what half of these words mean."
I laugh softly. "Gastrique is just a fancy way of saying a sweet and sour sauce. And ragù is just sauce with more tomato and wine and vegetables. This one is mushroom instead of meat."
"Right." He sets the menu down and meets my gaze. "You know I'm never going to be completely comfortable in places like this."
"I know. But you're here. That's what matters to me."
"I want to be able to give you this," he says quietly. "The life you're used to. The things you grew up with."
"Declan." I lean forward, my voice firm.
"I don't need you to give me the life I grew up with.
I need you to give me the life we're building together.
That includes places like this, yes. But it also includes dive bars and diners and everywhere in between.
I don't want you to be someone you're not. I just want you."
He's quiet for a moment, his green eyes searching mine. Then he nods slowly. "Okay."
"Okay," I echo, and I smile at him.
When the waiter returns, Declan orders the duck, and I choose the scallops.
We share a starter of burrata with heirloom tomatoes and basil, and we chat about business and the past week over wine and the creamy cheese.
Declan tells me about a meeting he had with one of the other Irish families, and I tell him about a negotiation I handled with a supplier who was trying to raise prices without justification.
"You told him no?" Declan asks, his eyebrows rising.
"I told him if he wanted to renegotiate, he could do it with someone else," I say. "We have other options. He came back the next day with a better offer."
Declan laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "That's my girl."
The phrase sends a flutter through my chest. My girl. When we were first married, those words would have felt possessive and suffocating. Now they feel like an endearment, just as they’re supposed to.
Our entrées arrive, and the duck is perfectly cooked, the skin crispy and the meat tender, and the scallops are seared to golden perfection.
We eat slowly, and I watch Declan relax incrementally as the meal progresses.
His shoulders loosen. His fingers stop drumming.
He even makes a joke with the waiter when the man comes to check on us, and the ease in his voice makes me smile.
By the time we finish dessert—a dark chocolate tart with salted caramel and a scoop of vanilla bean gelato—the tension has completely left him.
He's leaning back in his chair, his wineglass in hand, looking at me with a content expression. "Thank you," he says quietly.
I raise an eyebrow. "For what?"
"For being patient with me, and not making me feel like an idiot when I don't know what something is."
I thread my fingers through his, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine. "I love you," I tell him. "You know that, right?"
"I know. I love you too."
We leave the restaurant hand in hand, stepping back out into the cold November night.
The city feels alive around us, and I breathe in the crisp air with a sense of contentment I haven't felt in years.
Declan hails a cab, and I expect him to give the driver the address of our hotel.
Instead, he rattles off an address in the East Village, and I turn to look at him with raised eyebrows. "Where are we going?"
"My turn to pick," he says, grinning. "You got your fancy restaurant. Now I get my dive bar."
I laugh, shaking my head. "Fair enough."
The cab drops us off in front of a narrow bar wedged between a bodega and a laundromat.
The sign above the door is flickering, and the windows are fogged with condensation.
Inside, the air is thick with the smell of beer and fried food, and a jukebox in the corner is playing something guitar-heavy.
The bar is crowded, packed with people in jeans and leather jackets, and the energy is completely different from the refined elegance of the restaurant.
This is the kind of place where no one cares who you are or where you came from.
Declan's entire demeanor shifts the moment we step inside.
His shoulders relax fully, and the tension I noticed earlier disappears completely.
He's in his element here, comfortable and confident, and he guides me through the crowd with a hand on my lower back, nodding to a few people who recognize him.
We find a spot at the bar, and Declan orders us both whiskey, neat. The bartender pours generous measures into heavy glasses, and Declan hands me mine with a grin. "To us," he says, raising his glass.
"To us," I echo, and we clink glasses before drinking.