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The front door chimes, and I hear Nicolo’s voice echoing through the foyer. “Where are my godsons? Uncle Nicolo has presents!”

“Uncle Nicolo needs to learn how to knock,” Marco mutters, but there’s affection in his voice.

Nicolo appears in the doorway moments later, looking ridiculously pleased with himself and carrying what appears to be half a toy store in his arms. His usual lazy confidence fills the room as he surveys the destruction.

“I still can’t believe you managed to civilize him, Aria,” he says, nodding toward Marco with a grin. “I mean, look at this place. Toys everywhere, baby-proofed corners, actual laughter. It’s like a completely different house.”

Marco scoffs. “I’m still debating whether I should kill you for that comment.”

“You wouldn’t,” Nicolo replies without missing a beat, setting down his mountain of gifts and immediately reaching for Alessandro, who goes to him willingly. “I’m your only competent second-in-command. Plus, Aria would probably shoot me herself if I made her find a replacement.”

Marco doesn’t argue with that assessment, which is probably wise. I’ve become something of a legend in our organization—not as someone to be commanded, but as an equal partner. The backbone of operations, as Nicolo once put it. It’s a role I never expected to love, but somehow fits me perfectly.

“Besides,” Nicolo continues, bouncing Alessandro expertly, “someone has to teach these boys how to properly terrorize their father. It’s a sacred duty.”

“Absolutely not,” I say firmly. “They’re already little demons without your influence.”

The door chimes again, and I hear Ettore’s distinctive laugh mixing with a woman’s voice and the sound of children. My heart does a complicated little flip of happiness and nerves.

Ettore Greco was once my strongest ally in the war against Marco. The man who stood at my side, ready to burn down the Bianchi empire.

Now he’s coming to my house as a guest, with his wife and twins, to celebrate my sons’ birthday.

Strange how life works out sometimes.

I smooth my dress and go to greet them. Marco falls into step beside me, Lorenzo still balanced on his hip, and I feel that sense of rightness that’s become as familiar as breathing.

Ettore stands in the foyer with Mirabella—Bella, as I’ve learned to call her—and their own set of twins, who are, of course, older than ours. Seeing Ettore in my house, looking completely at ease, still feels surreal.

“Never thought I’d enter a Bianchi estate without a gun in my hand,” he says by way of greeting, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Marco steps closer to me, his free arm sliding around my waist in that possessive way that used to annoy me and now just makes me feel cherished.

“I still remember when you wanted to put a bullet in me,” Marco replies, his tone conversational but with an edge of steel that suggests he hasn’t completely forgotten, either.

Ettore raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “Still do. Some habits die hard.”

“You two are impossible,” Bella groans, shifting her daughter to her other hip. “We talked about this. No death threats at the birthday party.”

I can’t help but laugh as I reach for Bella, embracing her warmly. She’s become one of my closest friends over the past year—a sharp, funny woman who somehow always manages to keep Ettore in line.

“You look incredible,” I tell her, and mean it. Despite being busy raising two energetic kids, she’s glowing.

“I’m running on two hours of sleep and pure caffeine, but I’ll take the compliment,” she replies with a tired smile. “How are you holding up? One year with twins is no joke.”

“Some days I think the war was easier,” I admit, watching Alessandro immediately reach for Ettore’s son with grabby hands. “At least enemies were predictable.”

“Speaking of predictable,” Ettore says, watching Marco carefully, “how are you adjusting to domestic life? Last time I saw you, you were convinced the world would end if you couldn’t control every variable.”

Marco’s arm tightens around me slightly. “I’m learning that some variables are worth the chaos.”

There’s something in his voice—a contentment I never thought I’d hear from him. This man, who once needed to control everything, has found peace in the beautiful unpredictability of family life.

The afternoon unfolds in a blur of laughter. Watching Ettore and Marco slowly warm to each other—not quite friends, but no longer adversaries—feels like watching a small miracle.

Lorenzo grabs a fistful of cake and tries to shove it in his mouth. Alessandro, not to be outdone, immediately tries to follow and ends up face-first on the carpet, howling his displeasure until Marco scoops him up and whispers something in Italian that makes him giggle.

“They’re going to be trouble,” Bella observes.