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As consciousness slips away, I don't fight it. Because I know now that she'll be there when I return. That we have time—a lifetime—to say all the things that need saying. To heal all the wounds we've inflicted on each other. To build something new from the ashes of our mistakes.
Something real. Something chosen.
Something that might even be called love.
I drift off to dreams of white sand and clear blue water. Of Ava in a flowing dress, her face tilted toward the sun. Of a life beyond the blood and violence of Chicago. Beyond the legacy that has nearly destroyed us both.
A life we might actually get to live.
Together.
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
Ava
The waves kissthe shore in a gentle rhythm, foam-edged and perfect. I stand at the window of our beachfront villa, watching palm trees sway in the tropical breeze, hardly believing this moment is real.
"Are you ready?" Angela asks, her voice stronger than I've ever heard it. These last few months of recovery have done wonders for both her and Stefano. Her hair is growing back in soft curls, and today she's radiant in the pale blue bridesmaid dress we chose together.
"Almost," I say, turning to face her. The simple white dress I'm wearing catches the light, making the delicate lace overlay shimmer. Nothing extravagant or princess-like—just elegant, comfortable, and entirely my choice. The complete opposite of the cream-colored prison uniform from our first "wedding”.
Angela smiles, her eyes suspiciously bright. "You look beautiful. Stefano's going to lose his mind when he sees you."
I laugh, smoothing my hands over the gentle curve of my stomach. The pregnancy weight is coming off slower than I had hoped. We had to adjust my dress a little. "I think your brother's seen me in more flattering states."
"You look beautiful," she says again. She reaches up to adjust the single white hibiscus flower tucked into my hair. "This time you're choosing him. That means everything to him."
Her words hit me with unexpected force. She's right, of course. The first time, there was no choice—just desperation, fear, and the cold calculation of survival. This time, standing on a perfect beach in the Bahamas with no threat hanging over our heads, it's entirely my decision. My choice. My heart leading instead of my fears.
A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
"Come in," I call, expecting the wedding coordinator or perhaps Tony.
Instead, Alessia Rega enters, looking more present and alive than I've seen her since we met. Island life has been good for her—the sunshine bringing color to her cheeks, the slower pace helping her find her way back from grief's shadow.
"Oh, Ava," she breathes, eyes widening as she takes me in. "You're a vision."
She crosses the room to take my hands in hers, squeezing gently. "I brought something. If you'd like to wear it, that is." From her pocket, she produces a delicate gold bracelet, tiny charms gleaming in the sunlight. "It was given to me on my wedding day. And my mother's before me."
"Alessia, I..." Emotion clogs my throat as she fastens it around my wrist. This woman, who has lost so much, offering me a piece of her history, of her family legacy. "Thank you."
"My son has loved you since you were children," she says simply. "I'm grateful I lived to see you become his wife. His real wife." Her smile turns mischievous. "And the mother of my perfect grandson."
The mention of Gianni makes my heart swell. Our beautiful baby boy, born seven weeks ago, with Stefano's shocking blue eyes and my dark hair. The most perfect thing I've ever seen—and miraculous for having survived everything we went through.
"Where is the little prince?" I ask, suddenly needing to see him.
"With his father." Alessia's smile softens. "He’s teaching him important wedding duties, I believe."
The mental image of fierce, dangerous Stefano Rega carefully instructing our infant son makes me laugh. He's taken to fatherhood with the same intensity he brings to everything—completely, obsessively, with every ounce of his being.
"It's time," Angela says, checking her watch. "Tony's waiting to walk you down the aisle."
I take a moment for one final glance in the mirror. The woman looking back at me is so different from the one who walked into The Silk Rose all those months ago.
No longer running. No longer afraid. No longer alone.
"I'm ready," I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.