Epilogue 1 Scarlett
ONE YEAR LATER
One year and three months after the cathedral massacre, I’m standing in the nursery of our countryside home, gently rocking our three-month-old daughter to sleep.
Gabriella has Dante’s grey eyes. He cheated me again with the eyes, but I’m consoled by the fact that she took my dark hair, and she’s perfect in every way possible.
Her tiny fingers are curled around the edge of her blanket, her rosebud mouth making little sucking sound even in sleep. I could watch her for hours. Sometimes I do. My little angel in human form.
Through the window, I can see Luca playing in the yard with Dante.
They’re kicking a soccer ball back and forth, both of them laughing when Luca scores a goal between the two lawn chairs they set up as goalposts.
My son pumps his fist in the air and Dante pretends to be devastated, falling dramatically to his knees in mock defeat.
Luca is healing beautifully. The nightmares come less frequently now, maybe once a month instead of every night.
His therapy sessions are showing real progress, his therapist impressed by how far he’s come.
He calls Dante “Dad” without any hesitation, like he’s been doing it his whole life instead of just over a year.
And he talks constantly about being a big brother, already protective of baby Gabriella in the sweetest ways.
He insists on checking on her before bed every night, whispering goodnight and promising to keep the monsters away.
The home we’ve built here is nothing like the estate in Manhattan.
It’s smaller, warmer, filled with actual life instead of just expensive things.
There are toys scattered across the living room floor that I’ve given up trying to organize.
Finger paintings cover the refrigerator door, Luca’s artistic masterpieces displayed with pride.
Rosa’s Italian cooking smells waft from the kitchen where she’s preparing Sunday dinner, the scent of garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread making my stomach growl.
I hear the front door open and close, followed by Luca’s excited voice telling Rosa about the goal he scored. Then footsteps on the stairs, and Dante appears in the nursery doorway.
He’s sweaty from playing outside, his t-shirt clinging to muscles that still make my mouth go dry even after all this time. When he smiles at the sight of me holding our daughter, my heart does that backflip thing it’s been doing for over a year now.
“She asleep?” he asks quietly, crossing the room to meet us.
“Finally. After twenty minutes.”
I carefully lay Gabriella in her crib, tucking the blanket around her tiny body, making sure she’s positioned safely on her back.
“Stubborn like her father,” I add with a smirk.
Dante wraps his arms around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. We stand there watching our daughter sleep, her little chest rising and falling with each breath. His hands settle on my hips, thumbs tracing idle circles that send warmth spreading through my body.
“Rosa says dinner’s in an hour,” he murmurs against my ear. “Luca’s watching cartoons. The baby’s asleep.” His voice goes lower. “Which means we have time.”
Heat floods through me as I feel exactly what he means pressing against my lower back.
“It’s been three months since Gabriella was born,” he continues, his lips brushing my neck. “The doctor cleared you two weeks ago. And I’ve been very, very patient, bellissima.”
I turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Have you now?”
“Saintly patience.” He’s already walking me backward toward our bedroom across the hall. “But I’m done being patient.”