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Later, we sit on the floor, backs against the old couch, our hands tangled between us.

“I never thought I’d have this,” I say, voice barely a breath.

“You were always meant to,” he answers.

Outside, the world is still dark and loud and dangerous. But in here, in apartment 3C, in the place where he was once just a boy with nothing—he gave me everything.

Not power.

Not protection.

But love.

And it will always be enough.

30

Alessio

The morning light spills through the tall windows of Antonio De Angelis’s estate, soft and golden. I stand in the center of the guest room, still and quiet, watching my reflection in the mirror. There’s a tension in my chest that I don’t recognize. It’s not nerves; it’s something quieter, something that feels almost ethereal.

My hands move with precision as I button the white shirt Maria once picked out for me. She bought it for a day she hoped would come, though she never said it outright. I always thought I’d bury it with the past. Now, it feels like her hand on my shoulder, steadying me.

The door opens and Vittorio steps in, carrying the suit jacket I had made for this day. It is midnight blue, understated yet sharp, stitched with reverence. No gold. No crest. Just dignity.

He doesn’t speak as he helps me shrug into it. We’ve stood in a thousand rooms together—preparing for war, bracing for betrayal. But this is different. This is the one room where silence doesn't come from danger, but from something sacred.

He steps back, adjusts the collar, then meets my eyes in the mirror.

“You’ve changed,” he says simply.

I don’t answer right away. I take in the reflection. The weight in my shoulders is still there, but it’s not the same kind. It’s not burden. Its purpose.

“She brings out the best in me,” I say finally.

Vittorio nods once. “She made you honest. Not just with her. But with yourself, too.”

He’s right. The man I was before, Isadora, would have never let himself need something so badly. Would have never believed he deserved it.

A breeze filters through the open window, carrying with it the faint scent of the garden below. That garden.

It’s where she played as a child—where she climbed trees and picked roses when no one was looking. Where her laughter once echoed through the hedges before she ever knew what loyalty cost.

Today, she’s marrying me there.

I close my eyes briefly, letting the moment anchor itself in my chest. The world has gone quiet in the aftermath of Giancarlo’s death. The story—crafted and sealed with influence and money—was accepted easily by the press: a fatal car crash that claimed every member of his family. His nephew, an identity invented by a trusted associate, has stepped in to handle the affairs. The Calviño name will be carried forward by me. The empire will henceforth grow in dignity because peace, for once, has taken root.

And I’ll fight if I have to—to protect what we’ve built, to preserve this chance at something wholesome.

I descend the stairs alone. Vittorio walks beside me until we reach the edge of the open double doors.

The garden stretches out like something from a dream. Antonio’s pride. Isadora’s secret joy. Wisteria trails along the trellises. Roses bloom in soft pinks and cream. Lanterns sway gently from above, catching the sunlight like fireflies caught mid-flight.

There are only a few guests. People we trust. Faces that have seen us bleed and stayed.

I step into the garden and take my place at the makeshift altar, ready to wait for her to come to me.

And then she steps out onto the far end of the path, and I stop breathing.