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There’s chaos unfolding now in what used to be Marco’s pristine living room, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Two identical tornadoes with dark hair—our sons—are currently wreaking havoc on everything within their tiny reach.

Lorenzo has somehow managed to pull every cushion off the sofa and is now attempting to scale the resulting mountain, while Alessandro is methodically emptying a basket of toys with the focused determination of a tiny demolition expert.

I used to think war zones were loud. Clearly, I’d never experienced twin toddlers on their first birthday.

“Alessandro, no,” I call out as he reaches for one of Marco’s expensive crystal decanters that someone—probably Nicolo—left on the coffee table. “That’s not a toy, baby.”

My son looks at me with those devastating green eyes he inherited from his father, considers my words for exactly two seconds, then continues reaching for the crystal.

Of course.

The Bianchi stubbornness starts early.

I scoop him up before he can destroy something worth more than most people’s cars, and he immediately starts babbling in that adorable gibberish that somehow sounds distinctly Italian.

Even though they are only one right now, I know that someday, these boys will be heartbreakers.

“You’re getting heavy, little man,” I murmur against his dark hair, breathing in that sweet baby scent that still makes my chest tight with love.

A little more than a year ago, I didn’t know if I’d ever get to hold them. If Marco would survive to meet them. If any of us would make it through the war I’d started.

And now—look at us.

“Trouble already?” Chiara’s voice carries across the room, warm with amusement.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, having given up any pretense of keeping her designer dress clean while she helps Lorenzo with his cushion fort.

My sister looks radiant—truly happy in a way I haven’t seen since we were children.

“They take after their father,” I reply, shifting Alessandro to my hip. “Stubborn, destructive, and far too charming for their own good.”

“I heard that.” Marco’s voice rumbles from the doorway, and my pulse still does that ridiculous flutter whenever I hear it. Even now, he still makes my heart race like the day we first met.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching our domestic chaos with a softness in his eyes and something like wonder on his face. The man who once ruled an empire through fear and intimidation is completely undone by the sight of his sons destroying his living room.

It’s possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“You’re outnumbered now,amore,” I tell him, grinning. “Two against one. You don’t stand a chance.”

Marco pushes off from the doorframe and crosses to where Lorenzo is now attempting to use a throw pillow as a launching pad. He sweeps our son into his arms in one smooth movement, earning a delighted squeal.

“They take after me,” he says, his voice full of pride and mock arrogance. “Which means they’re smart enough to know who to team up with.”

“God help us all,” Chiara mutters, but she’s smiling as she says it.

My sister has found her own happiness in the past year—a good man who treats her like the queen she is, makes her laugh, and never once asks her to be anything other than exactly who she is.

I’ve never seen her so settled, so at peace with herself.

Maybe we were never meant to be only daughters of war, after all.

“The guests should start arriving soon,” I say, glancing at the antique clock on the mantel. “You sure you’re ready?”

Marco shifts Lorenzo to his other arm and reaches for me with his free hand, pulling me close until we’re a tangle of parents and babies in the middle of our sunlit living room.

“Ready for what? Having my former enemies in my house to celebrate my sons’ birthday?” His mouth quirks up at the corner. “Dolcezza, you once broke into my compound with an army. I think I can handle a birthday party.”