Epilogue #2
Before, the house always felt like it was holding its breath. Staff moved quietly, quickly, carefully, like every sound needed permission before it existed. Doors closed softly. Conversations ended when Matteo entered a room. Even the flowers in the entry hall looked arranged instead of alive.
Now Gianna hums in the kitchen when she thinks no one can hear her.
The guards at the front door talk in low voices that almost sound like normal men having a normal morning.
Someone leaves fresh jasmine in the vase by the stairs because I mentioned once, weeks ago, that I liked the smell.
The curtains in the breakfast room are open more often, letting sunlight spill across a table Matteo used to pass like eating was an interruption to his life.
And Matteo?—
Matteo sits there now.
Not every morning. Not always for long. But enough.
Enough that people notice.
I am pouring coffee when Enzo says it.
"He's easier now."
I look over my shoulder.
Enzo stands near the back door, arms crossed, watching the courtyard with the same expression he wears when he is guarding against assassins, bad weather, and possibly overcooked pasta.
"Who?" I ask.
He gives me a flat look.
Right.
There is only one man in this house everyone discusses like a difficult climate system.
"Matteo?"
"He stops in rooms now."
I blink. "That's your observation?"
"It's an important one."
I lean back against the counter, mug warm between my hands. "Explain."
Enzo's gaze shifts toward the hall, where Matteo's voice carries faintly from the direction of the study. Low. Controlled. Still him. But not sharp enough to cut glass.
"He used to move through this house like he was passing through enemy territory," Enzo says. "Study. Office. Bedroom. Meetings. Calls. He never stayed anywhere unless duty required it."
I say nothing, because I know exactly what he means.
When I first came here, the estate felt less like a home and more like a place built to preserve a name. Every room had a purpose. Every silence had weight. Even comfort seemed arranged for appearance, not use.
"He stays now," Enzo says.
The words are simple.
They do something strange to my chest anyway.
"He drinks coffee in the kitchen," Enzo continues. "Lets Gianna put food in front of him. Sometimes he even eats it before it gets cold."
"That sounds serious."
"It is."
I smile into my mug.
Enzo does not smile back, but the corner of his mouth considers it for half a second before discipline wins.
"Gianna has been trying to take care of him for twelve years," he says. "You're the reason he finally lets someone care."
The warmth in my chest turns soft.
Too soft.
I look down because I do not know what to do with it.
Outside, the courtyard is washed in morning light. A gardener crosses the stones with a basket of cut stems. Somewhere deeper in the house, Gianna says something in Italian, and one of the younger staff members laughs.
Laughs.
In this house.
A small sound. Ordinary. Almost nothing.
But I remember when almost nothing would have felt impossible here.
"He's still Matteo," I say quietly.
"Yes."
"He still gives orders like people are chess pieces."
"Yes."
"He still acts like sleep is optional and coffee is a food group."
"Yes."
I glance at Enzo.
He shrugs.
"Improvement does not mean miracle."
That pulls a laugh from me.
This time, Enzo almost smiles for real.
Almost.
Then his expression settles into something quieter. Something that is not humor anymore.
"He is not light," he says. "He will never be light."
"No," I say. "I know."
"But he is less alone."
The words land deep.
I look toward the hallway.
Less alone.
That might be the truest thing anyone has said about Matteo De Santis.
Because he is still powerful. Still controlled. Still capable of making grown men straighten their backs with a single look. But there are pieces of him now that the house gets to see. Small pieces. Careful pieces.
The way he pauses at the kitchen doorway when he hears Gianna humming, not interrupting her, just listening for one second before he makes himself known.
The way he asks Marco questions instead of only giving instructions.
The way he lets his jacket hang over the back of a chair sometimes, like he plans to come back to that room.
The way his eyes find me.
Always.
No matter how many people are around. No matter how many things demand his attention. He looks for me like some part of him still cannot believe I stayed, and another part of him is slowly learning he is allowed to be glad.
As if summoned by the thought, Matteo appears in the kitchen doorway.
Dark suit. Clean collar. Watch straight at his wrist. Every inch the man the De Santis name taught him to be.
But then he sees me.
And something changes.
Not enough for strangers to notice. Maybe not even enough for the staff, once.
But they know him now.
Or maybe they know what I have done to him.
His eyes soften first. Then his mouth, barely. A small curve that would mean nothing on another man, but on Matteo feels like sunlight breaking through a locked room.
"Good morning," he says.
Just that.
Two ordinary words.
But Gianna, standing near the stove, suddenly becomes very focused on stirring something that does not need stirring. Enzo looks out into the courtyard like the stones have become fascinating.
And I understand.
They all see it.
They see the way he warms when he looks at me.
They see the way the house warms with him.
"Good morning," I say.
Matteo steps farther into the kitchen. He reaches for the coffee, but Gianna is already moving, setting a cup in front of him before he can pretend he does not need one.
He looks at it.
Then at her.
"Thank you, Gianna."
She pauses.
Not because he has never thanked her before. He has. Matteo has manners carved into his bones.
But this is different.
This is not politeness.
This is him accepting the care inside the gesture.
Gianna's face softens for half a breath.
"You should eat," she says.
Matteo opens his mouth, probably to argue.
Then his gaze flicks to me.
I raise an eyebrow.
He closes his mouth.
Enzo mutters, "Progress."
I laugh.
Gianna smiles.
And Matteo, poor Matteo, looks around the kitchen like he has walked into an ambush made entirely of affection and has no tactical response prepared.