Epilogue
Gilly
I never thought we’d get here.
Just waves crashing against the shore and laughter in the air. The scent of salt and sun-warmed sand. The low hum of the breeze tangling in my hair. This is what we were meant for.
I stretch out on the wooden deck, my legs draped over the side of the chair, my body loose and lazy beneath the afternoon sun. The only thing I’m wearing is Luca’s shirt—the sleeves rolled up, the fabric soft from too many washes, the faint scent of him still clinging to the collar.
Below, Rafa’s voice carries over the wind, full of excitement. He’s a blur of movement in the sand, his small hands scooping and shaping, his face scrunched in deep concentration.
“Papa, look!” he shouts, grinning as he pats the side of a lopsided sandcastle.
Luca doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching us from the deck.
He’s been quiet today, but not in the way he used to be—not in the way that held violence just beneath the surface. This is different. It’s the quiet of a man who finally understands what he fought for.
I tilt my head, teasing. “You know, you can actually relax, Marchesi.”
His gaze drags over me, slow and smoldering. He’s stretched out in the chair beside me, one arm resting lazily on the armrest, his other hand wrapped around a lowball glass of whiskey he’s barely touched.
“I am relaxed,” he murmurs, his voice like smoke and silk.
I arch a brow. “You’re watching him like he’s about to be ambushed.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he tips his chin toward Rafa. “He deserves to be seen.”
Something tightens in my chest.
Because I know exactly what he means.
Luca was never given this—not the safety, not the love, not the feeling of someone always watching because they cared. No one ever looked out for him like this.
But Rafa? Rafa will never go unseen.
I glance back at our son, watching as he throws his arms up victoriously, the sandcastle standing proudly at his feet. His curls bounce as he spins, beaming up at us.
“Did you see, Papa?”
Luca pushes up from his chair, moving toward the edge of the deck. He doesn’t hesitate. “I see you, figlio mio.”
Rafa beams, his small chest puffing up, and my throat gets tight because I know how much that means.
Luca isn’t just watching him.
He’s letting Rafa know he’ll always be seen.
Luca steps off the deck, his bare feet sinking into the warm sand as he moves toward Rafa. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t call out, but Rafa knows—he feels his father coming before he even looks up.
The second he does, his grin stretches even wider.
“Did you see, Papa?” Rafa asks again, eyes shining. He gestures at the sandcastle like it’s the greatest feat of architecture in the world.
Luca crouches beside him, studying it with the same intensity he used to have when planning attacks in back rooms filled with smoke and blood.
I smirk from my spot on the deck. A Marchesi through and through.
Luca nods, solemn. “It’s strong,” he says, running a finger along the side of the uneven tower. “Good structure. But…” He shifts slightly, dragging a line in the sand with his fingertip. “If you put a moat here, the waves won’t reach it when the tide comes in.”
Rafa gasps like his father just handed him the secret to the universe.
“A moat!” He claps his hands together, already digging again. “Good idea, Papa.”
Luca watches him for a moment before reaching down and helping, his large hands moving the sand carefully, precisely. He’s spent years using them to destroy, to tear things down. Now, he’s helping his son build something.
I press my lips together, my chest aching with something too big to name.
It’s not just the sight of him in the sand, patient and unguarded. It’s not just the way he glances at Rafa every few moments, as if committing every movement to memory.
It’s that Luca Marchesi—once a man only defined by war—is on his knees in the sand, helping his son build castles instead of burning kingdoms.
I force myself to breathe.
Instead of walking toward them, I stay on the deck, watching, letting them have this.
The breeze shifts, warm and thick with salt, carrying the sound of their quiet conversation back to me. I don’t catch every word, but I hear the steady hum of Luca’s voice, the laughter in Rafa’s.
My eyes burn.
I tear my gaze away, tilting my head back against the chair, staring at the sky.
“You’re going to cry, aren’t you?”
I snap my head to the side, startled by the voice.
Matteo leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
He’s dressed down for once, his usual sharp suits replaced by a loose white linen shirt and dark swim trunks.
The tan he’s developed over the last few weeks suits him, makes him look healthier, lighter.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t cry.”
Matteo snorts. “Right.” He steps onto the deck, glancing down at the beach. “Can’t blame you, though. That’s a sight I never thought I’d see.”
I follow his gaze. Luca is still crouched in the sand, listening as Rafa chatters about the size of his moat. There’s no tension in his body, no flickers of darkness in his expression. He is completely, entirely present.
Matteo exhales. “You did that, you know.”
I blink. “What?”
Matteo gestures toward them. “Him. This. The fact that my brother is actually playing in the sand instead of plotting someone’s downfall.” He shakes his head. “You made him this version of himself.”
Something swells in my chest, warm and full, but I shake my head. “He made himself this version of himself.”
Matteo tilts his head, conceding. “Fair enough.” A pause. “Still. Don’t ever let him forget it.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you actually being sweet right now?”
He smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”
I laugh, but something about his expression shifts slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but I see it—a small flicker of something softer, something almost… happy.
I arch a brow. “Speaking of unexpected things…” I shift in my chair, grinning. “I hear Claire’s been visiting you.”
Matteo sighs, running a hand through his sun-lightened hair. “Jesus Christ. I should’ve known you’d bring this up.”
I lean forward, giddy. “So, it’s true?”
He glances at me, eyes glinting with something just shy of irritation. “She’s nosy as hell.”
I smirk. “Sounds like someone else I know.”
He points at me. “Shut up.”
I laugh, delighted. “Does Luca know?”
Matteo groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “He will soon, considering you’re worse than a gossip column.”
I grin wickedly. “I bet he’ll be thrilled.”
Matteo mutters something under his breath before stepping toward the railing, arms braced against it as he looks down at his brother and nephew.
“They suit each other, don’t they?” he says quietly.
I follow his gaze. Luca lifts Rafa into his arms, tossing him in the air just enough to make him squeal with laughter before catching him against his chest.
My throat gets tight again.
“They always did,” I whisper.
Matteo exhales, then pushes off the railing, stretching. “I’m heading inside before you start crying for real.”
I flick a piece of seaweed at him as he retreats. “I don’t cry.”
He laughs. “Liar.”
Matteo disappears into the house, his laughter still lingering in the air.
I shake my head, but my smile remains as I turn back to the beach.
Luca stands near the shoreline, Rafa still in his arms. Our son wiggles, trying to escape his father’s grip, but Luca only tightens his hold slightly before leaning down and whispering something in his ear.
Whatever it is, it makes Rafa giggle—his full-bodied, breathless kind of laugh that always makes my heart ache in the best way.
Luca shifts, adjusting Rafa’s weight, and for a second, his eyes lift, meeting mine across the distance.
A slow, deliberate smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Damn him.
It should be illegal for a man to look at his wife like that while still holding their child. Deadly and domestic all at once.
I arch a brow, challenging him from my spot on the deck, but his gaze just darkens, promising something I’ll deal with later.
“Go to your mama, piccolo.”
Luca sets Rafa down on his feet, giving him a small nudge toward me before stepping back, letting him run ahead. His smirk lingers as he watches us, hands resting on his hips, as if he knows exactly where my thoughts just went.
He’s insufferable.
I barely have a second to prepare before Rafa launches himself into my lap, arms flung around my neck.
“Mama! Did you see?” His curls are damp with sweat and sea spray, his cheeks flushed from the sun.
“I saw, sweetheart.” I squeeze him, inhaling the scent of salt and sunshine that always clings to him after long days outside. “That was the best sandcastle I’ve ever seen.”
Rafa beams. “Papa helped.”
I glance at Luca, who’s now making his way back toward us at a leisurely pace, the picture of a man with nowhere to be but here.
I run my fingers through Rafa’s curls. “Did he?”
Rafa nods eagerly. “He made the moat! And he said next time, we can build an even bigger one!”
“Did he?” I repeat, giving Luca a look as he reaches the deck.
Luca smirks. “I did.”
I hum, pretending to consider. “I never knew you had such a talent for sandcastle construction, Mr. Marchesi.”
Luca leans down, gripping the arms of my chair, caging me in. His lips hover just above mine, teasing. Daring.
“Stick around, Mrs. Marchesi.” His voice is low, smooth, dark. “You might learn a few things.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t pull away. “Oh, I’m sure.”
His smirk deepens.
Rafa, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between his parents, climbs onto my lap again, sighing dramatically. “I’m hungry.”
Luca chuckles, pushing off the chair. “Come on, piccolo. Let’s get you something to eat before your mother decides to starve us both out of spite.”
I toss a piece of seaweed at him. “Rude.”
Luca winks before lifting Rafa into his arms, carrying him toward the house.
I watch them go, my heart pressing against my ribs.
My entire world—walking up the steps of our beach house, heading inside for something as simple as a meal.
Something so normal.
Something I once thought we’d never have.
---
Later That Night
The house is quiet.
Rafa fell asleep hours ago, curled between us on the couch as we watched a movie. Luca carried him to bed, and I lingered outside his door, listening to his soft, steady breathing before finally making my way back to our room.
Now, I sit on the edge of our bed, combing my fingers through my damp hair, letting the cool air from the open balcony doors brush against my skin.
The ocean is dark tonight, waves rolling in and out, slow and endless.
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing it in.
A deep voice rumbles behind me.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard.”
I open my eyes as Luca moves into view, freshly showered, a towel slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, a few drops of water trailing down his chest.
I should be used to him by now, but my pulse still jumps the way it always does.
I arch a brow. “Maybe I am.”
Luca steps closer, placing his hands on my shoulders, thumbs brushing the base of my neck. His touch is light but firm, grounding me.
“What about?”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “Matteo and Claire.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, kneading his fingers into my shoulders. “Should’ve known.”
I smirk. “It’s fascinating. Who would’ve thought your brother and my paralegal?”
Luca’s smirk is pure sin. “Marchesi men have a way of pulling people in.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s one way to put it.”
He tilts his head. “Worried about her?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “Claire can handle herself.”
He chuckles. “Then what’s that look on your face?”
I exhale, tilting my head to the side, letting his hands trail lower, thumbs sweeping along my collarbone. “Just wondering…”
He leans down, lips brushing my ear. “Wondering what, little hellcat?”
I turn in his grip, sliding my hands up his chest, smirking when his muscles flex beneath my touch. “If she knows what she’s getting into.”
Luca’s mouth curves into a smirk. “She doesn’t.”
My brows lift.
His hands slide lower, gripping my hips, pulling me against him. His voice drops, rough and teasing.
“No one ever really does.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart is pounding, and he knows it.
He bends down, pressing his lips against mine, slow and deep. A promise. A reminder.
When he finally pulls back, his smirk returns, lazy and satisfied.
“Marchesi men can never be trusted.”
I laugh, shaking my head, curling my fingers into his damp hair.
And then I kiss him again—because I’m his. And he’s mine. And that will never change.
Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not ever.
The End