EPILOGUE 1
The once-immaculate, sleek minimalism of the tenth-floor penthouse had, over the course of the last five years, surrendered to a hostile, joyful takeover.
Where there had once been pristine expanses of dark hardwood and carefully curated Italian leather, there were now structural anomalies: a brightly colored plastic fire truck parked haphazardly near the base of a multimillion-euro sculpture, a small fortress constructed out of sofa cushions in the center of the living room, and a stack of watercolor paintings aggressively magnetized to the black marble refrigerator.
Dr. Cassia Fazzari stepped out of the master suite, tying the belt of her silk robe, and surveyed the wreckage of her living room. It was just past seven on a Saturday morning, and the golden light of the Roman sun was spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
It had been nearly eight years since the day she had stood on the stone terrace of the ancestral estate and bound her life to Dante’s. Almost eight years of navigating the dangerous realities of the underworld alongside the chaotic, exhausting, incredibly mundane demands of motherhood.
Luca, their eldest, had just celebrated his fifth birthday.
He was an amalgamation of their genetics—he possessed Dante’s dark, wavy hair, and his father's unyielding, stubborn streak, but he had inherited Cassia’s pale blue eyes and her razor-sharp, irreverent wit.
He was observant, overly articulate, and missed nothing.
And then there was Micah.
Micah, who was nearly four, had been something of a massive surprise.
Cassia and Dante hadn't been certain they wanted another child after the sheer exhaustion of their first, but the universe and biology had conspired otherwise, unfolding as it pleased.
Despite the initial shock, they had welcomed him wholeheartedly, and Micah had quickly proven himself to be the physical embodiment of a whirlwind.
Between the two boys, the penthouse had become a place of complete, unapologetic pandemonium.
"Mama! Micah took my blue marker, and it is the only one that works for the ocean!"
The shrill, demanding voice of her eldest son echoed from the kitchen. Cassia let out a long, sigh, pressing two fingers against her temple before walking toward the noise.
In the kitchen, Dante was standing at the stove, wearing dark sweatpants and a fitted grey t-shirt, effortlessly flipping a pancake with his right hand while holding a squirming, giggling Micah under his left arm like a sack of flour.
Luca was sitting on a tall stool at the marble island, scowling fiercely at a piece of drawing paper.
"Micah," Dante murmured, his voice a low, rumbling baritone that carried zero actual authority. "Give your brother back the marker. We do not steal from our associates."
"It's my ocean now!" Micah shrieked happily, waving the blue marker in the air.
"It's not your ocean, it's a mine for my drawing," Luca argued, crossing his arms with a huff that was a perfect mirror of Cassia’s own body language.
"Alright, that is enough," Cassia announced, stepping into the kitchen. The sheer commanding edge of a trauma surgeon instantly cut through the noise.
Micah immediately stopped waving the marker.
Dante gently set his youngest son down on his feet.
Cassia held out her hand, and Micah, recognizing the futility of arguing with his mother, dutifully handed over the blue marker.
Cassia placed it in front of Luca, who offered a satisfied, victorious smirk.
"Thank you," Cassia said dryly, moving past her children to pour herself a cup of coffee. "Dante, if you continue to hold him upside down while he negotiates, you are only encouraging the behavior."
"He was helping me cook," Dante reasoned smoothly, leaning over the counter to press a warm, lingering kiss to the side of Cassia’s head.
Before Cassia could respond, the private elevator chimed in the foyer.
The steel doors slid open, and Zoran Valente walked in, carrying a thick leather folder containing the morning security briefings.
The massive enforcer looked as lethal as he always did—clad in a dark suit, his scarred face stoic and imposing.
"Good morning, Boss. Doctor," Zoran greeted, stepping into the kitchen.
"Uncle Zoran!" Micah yelled, abandoning the kitchen island to launch himself at the giant man’s legs.
Zoran’s stoic demeanor instantly evaporated. A massive grin broke across his face as he dropped the classified syndicate folder onto the counter, scooping the nearly four-year-old up into the air with one hand.
"Little Don!" Zoran cheered, tossing the boy upward just enough to elicit a squeal of laughter before catching him securely against his chest. "Are you terrorizing your mother this morning?"
"Yes!" Micah answered proudly.
Cassia took a slow sip of her coffee, leveling a flat, deeply unamused stare at the enforcer.
Of everyone in the sprawling Fazzari family, Uncle Zoran was, without question, the one who spoiled the children the most. He was a man who could dismantle an assassination squad with his bare hands, yet he was reduced to pliable putty the moment either of the boys looked at him.
Luca, who had been quietly coloring the ocean, set his blue marker down. He looked up, his pale eyes fixing on his mother with a serious intensity.
"Mama," Luca stated, his five-year-old voice ringing with matter-of-fact clarity. "You really shouldn't bother giving Uncle Zoran orders anymore."
The kitchen went still. Dante paused mid-flip of a pancake, biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile.
Cassia leaned against the counter, her curiosity piqued. "Is that so, Luca? And why shouldn't I bother?"
"Because," Luca explained calmly, gesturing toward the towering enforcer with a small, dismissive wave of his hand, "he doesn’t listen well."
Zoran let out a sudden, choking cough, his dark eyes widening in sheer disbelief. "Excuse me?"
"You give him rules," Luca continued, ignoring Zoran and focusing on his mother.
"You say, 'Do not let them have extra ice cream,' and 'Hold the line at bedtime.
' But he doesn't follow any of it. Last week when you and Papa went to dinner, he let us stay up until ten o'clock and we ate gelato on the sofa. "
Luca paused, turning his critical gaze upon Zoran. "Isn't he supposed to be an enforcer? The men downstairs say he is the head enforcer. Why does he let us do whatever we want, then? He is terribly bad at enforcing."
Cassia slowly lowered her coffee mug. She turned her head, shooting Zoran a piercing, lethal glare that could have frozen boiling water.
Zoran, to his credit, looked genuinely panicked. He set Micah down on the floor, holding his hands up in immediate surrender as he backed away from the kitchen island.
"Cassia, please, you must be reasonable," Zoran protested, his deep voice carrying a note of frantic desperation.
He pointed an accusatory finger at the five-year-old traitor.
"I am one grown man! I am completely and hopelessly outnumbered.
What am I supposed to do? They are unleashed Fazzari children! "
"You command a small army of mercenaries, Zoran," Cassia pointed out, her voice dangerously. "And you cannot enforce a simple eight-o'clock bedtime?"
"Have you tried enforcing a boundary with them?" Zoran argued, waving his arms dramatically. "They negotiate like their father, and when that fails, they glare at me like you do! It is a psychological nightmare! I am trying to survive the evening!"
Dante could no longer contain himself. He threw his head back, a rich, booming laugh echoing off the marble walls of the kitchen.
"He is right, Zoran," Dante chuckled, walking over to plate the pancakes. "You are useless when it comes to discipline. You are a terrible babysitter."
"I am an excellent babysitter," Zoran muttered defensively, adjusting his suit jacket. "They are alive, are they not?"
The truth was, Cassia and Dante occasionally left Zoran in charge when they needed an evening to themselves, and the children lived for those specific days.
They adored the giant enforcer precisely because there was virtually no discipline enforced whatsoever the moment their parents' private elevator doors closed.
Zoran was a soft touch, a man who had survived unimaginable violence and found his greatest joy in the unrestrained laughter of the two boys running around his boots.
And Zoran was not alone in his indulgence.
The elevator chimed again, and Concetta Fazzari swept into the penthouse.
The matriarch of the family had fully, unapologetically leaned into her era as a grandmother.
She embodied every classic, doting Italian grandmother stereotype anyone could possibly imagine, and she wielded her spoiling capabilities like a weapon.
"My angels!" Concetta cooed, dropping her designer handbag on the floor and opening her arms wide.
Both boys immediately abandoned their breakfasts and ran to her. Concetta knelt on the hardwood floor, pulling them into a fierce embrace, ignoring the fact that Micah’s hands were currently sticky with maple syrup.
"Nonna!" Luca cheered.
"I brought presents," Concetta whispered conspiratorially, pulling two small, brightly wrapped boxes from the pockets of her immaculate coat. "But we must hide them from your mother. She believes children should only play with wooden blocks and medical journals."
"I can hear you, Donna Concetta," Cassia remarked dryly, taking another sip of her coffee.
"I know you can, dear," Concetta replied effortlessly, waving a dismissive hand as she ushered the boys toward the living room to open their illicit gifts.
Cassia sighed, though a faint, undeniable warmth bloomed in her chest as she watched them go.
Beyond Zoran’s particular brand of chaos and Concetta’s endless doting, the entire family spoiled the children without exception. But beneath the indulgence lay a foundation of uncompromising security.