Epilogue
Three years later…
The Sunday afternoon sun filtered through the ancient olive trees at Villa Ferraro, bathing the terrace in a lazy golden glow.
I was leaning against the stone railing, a glass of sparkling water in my hand, watching the chaos below. It was the scene I had once despised: the noise, the mess, the unfiltered emotion, and the domestic happiness I used to call weakness.
That day, I called it a victory.
On the lawn, Enzo was running, sweating in the sun, trying to teach four-year-old Leo how to kick a soccer ball. My son, with his tuft of unruly black hair and his father’s stubborn chin, was far more interested in knocking over his cousin, Sofia, than in following his uncle’s rules.
Matteo was on a nearby lounge chair, pretending to read a business report, but his eyes were closed, and a gentle smile curved his lips as Luca, a smart ten-year-old boy, read a storybook aloud to him, adjusting his father’s posture after every paragraph.
Further along, Larissa and Priscilla were sitting on a checkered blanket, laughing at something I couldn’t hear, with a new Ferraro baby—Matteo’s newborn daughter—sleeping peacefully between them.
I smiled, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. My empire. It wasn’t made of stocks, mergers, or contracts signed with a cold, calculated hand. It was made of this. Of this glorious, noisy chaos.
Suddenly, I felt a movement inside me. A kick… Gentle, but unmistakable, like a little reminder that life continues to expand.
I instinctively placed my hand on my six-month-old belly. This time, it was a girl. A little heiress who, if she had half her father’s stubbornness and half my determination, would rule the world before she turned ten.
Firm footsteps sounded behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The rhythm of that walk was etched into my soul.
Marco approached from behind and said nothing at first. The quiet between us—once a weapon and then a barrier—had become a comfort.
He slipped his arms around my waist, cupping my belly with his large, warm hands, caressing the curve where our daughter was growing. He rested his chin on the top of my head, breathing in the scent of my hair, which I wore loose, free from the strict buns of the past.
“She’s quiet today,” he murmured, in a rough, velvety voice that still made my heart race.
“She was waiting for you to get here,” I replied, leaning against his chest, letting him hold me.
We stood there, watching the scene below, and as I watched Leo laughing and running toward Enzo’s open arms, I realized that none of that mattered as much as this moment.
“Who would’ve thought…” Marco teased softly, his warm breath on my ear, echoing Matteo’s mockery from years ago. “The Ice Queen. Surrounded by noisy kids, diapers, and lazy Sundays.”
I turned in his arms to face him. I gazed into those green eyes that had once looked at me with hatred, then with despair, and now looked at me with such absolute devotion that it sometimes took my breath away.
I ran my hand over his face, tracing the jawline I loved so much.
“It’s not chaos, Marco,” I corrected him gently. “It’s… a fusion. The only one that really mattered.”
He smiled, that crooked, devastating smile that was mine alone.
“I love you, Signora Valenti.”
“I love you too, Signor Valenti.”
He kissed me—a slow, deep, sweet Sunday-afternoon kiss.
I held him tight, watching our son run across the lawn and feeling our daughter kick in my belly. The wolf and the queen were no longer at war. They didn’t need to be; they had both won.