Epilogue #2
We move together with the rhythm we have perfected over countless nights in this very office, in our bedroom, in the shower and the kitchen and once memorably in the back of his SUV while his driver pretended not to notice.
His thumb finds the bundle of nerves that makes me see stars, circling with devastating precision while his hips maintain their relentless pace, and when I shatter around him I cry out his name loud enough that his brothers will definitely hear.
He follows me over the edge moments later, burying himself to the hilt as warmth floods my center, and we collapse together across his desk in a tangle of limbs and sweat and the satisfied exhaustion of two people who have found their way home to each other against impossible odds.
"The terms are acceptable," he murmurs against my throat once we have both remembered how to breathe. "But I have a counter-proposal."
"Oh?" I trace lazy patterns across his shoulder blade, feeling the raised edges of ink beneath my fingertips.
"Three heirs." His voice carries the particular smugness of a man who knows he has already won this negotiation. "A little brother for Sofia and then one more for good measure. And we start trying immediately."
I laugh and pull him down for another kiss, tasting the future on his lips. "Consider the terms agreed."
We dress slowly, neither of us in any hurry to return to the chaos of a living room full of dangerous men with too much whiskey in their bloodstreams. Through the baby monitor, I hear Sofia stir and then settle, and the sound of her soft breathing anchors me to this moment in ways I could not have imagined a year ago when I was a desperate girl in a ruined wedding dress, writing wishes on silk and praying for someone to save her.
I saved myself, in the end. I walked away from Rafael when I needed to become someone who could choose him freely, and he loved me enough to let me go.
Everything that has grown between us since—the marriage, the baby, the life we are building in the ashes of the one Magnus tried to burn—exists because we both chose this.
Chose each other. Chose to be partners instead of captor and captive, lovers instead of contractor and contracted.
We rejoin his brothers in the living room, and Drake catches my eye with a knowing smirk that tells me the soundproofing in Rafael's office is not nearly as effective as we thought.
I refuse to blush, meeting his steel-gray gaze with the particular defiance I have cultivated since becoming the Queen of Rafael Milano's empire.
"Brother," Drake says, lifting his glass in Rafael's direction. "You look pleased with yourself."
"I am always pleased with myself." Rafael pulls me into his lap on the leather sofa, one hand settling possessively over my stomach in a gesture that makes Konstantin bark out a laugh. "But tonight I am especially pleased."
"Another bambino?" Luca's dark eyes sparkle with mischief. "Already? Sofia is not even walking yet."
"Best to start early." Rafael's thumb traces circles against my belly through the silk of my dress. "We have an empire to fill with heirs."
The conversation flows around us, easy and warm and punctuated by the kind of banter that exists only between men who have bled together and survived.
I lean into Rafael's chest and let the sound of their voices wash over me, watching the way the firelight plays across familiar faces while the city glitters beyond our windows like a thousand scattered diamonds.
My attention drifts to Drake, who has grown quieter as the evening progresses.
He sits apart from the others with his whiskey untouched in his hand, his steel-gray eyes fixed on something only he can see.
There are shadows gathering behind his careful composure, secrets pressing against the seams of the man who has been Rafael's right hand through every crisis and triumph of the past year.
I lean up to whisper in Rafael's ear. "Is Drake alright?"
Rafael follows my gaze, and something complicated moves across his features. "He received a letter this week. A wish he should not have claimed."
"What kind of wish?"
But Rafael just shakes his head, his arm tightening around me in a gesture that speaks of protectiveness and concern for his oldest friend. "That is his story to tell, little dove. When he is ready."
I look at Drake again—at the silver hair that catches the firelight, at the steel in his eyes that cannot quite hide the storm brewing beneath—and I wonder what kind of wish could unsettle a man who has survived decades in Chicago's underworld without ever losing his composure.
Whatever it is, I have a feeling the Red Letter Syndicate is about to face a new challenge.
And knowing the men gathered in this room, they will face it the way they face everything: together, with blood and loyalty and the kind of love that builds empires from ashes.
I settle deeper into my husband's arms and press a kiss to the corner of his jaw, breathing in the scent of cedar and smoke that has become my definition of home.
"I love you, Rafael Milano," I murmur against his skin.
His arms tighten around me, and his voice is rough with emotion when he responds. "And I love you, my little dove. Today, tomorrow, and every day after that."
Outside our windows, Chicago spreads in every direction like a kingdom waiting to be ruled. And here in the heart of it, surrounded by dangerous men and impossible love and the soft sounds of our daughter sleeping down the hall, I finally understand what it means to be free.
Not the absence of cages.
But the presence of someone worth staying for.
Thank you for reading Wicked Mafia King.