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"Stefano," I finally manage, "I have spent most of my life running. From my family legacy, from connections, from anything that felt like it could trap me." I squeeze his hands, drawing strength from his solid presence. "I ran from you too. From what I felt for you. From the life I was afraid to want."
The ocean breeze carries my words, lifting them like prayers. "I'm done running. Today, I choose to stay. To build a life with you. To love you through the darkness and the light." My lips curve into a smile. "To even love the Monster of Chicago, because he's part of the man I adore."
Soft laughter ripples through our small gathering.
"I promise to be honest, even when it's hard. To trust you with my heart, my fears, and our future. To raise our son with love rather than fear." I take a shaky breath. "And I promise that no matter where life takes us, I'll always find my way back to you."
The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of rings and promises and finally, finally, a kiss that feels like sealing our fate. Not the desperate, claiming kisses of our earlier days, but something deeper. Sweeter. A promise of the life we're choosing together.
As we turn to face our family—our small, unlikely, precious family—Gianni lets out a delighted squeal from his grandmother's arms, as if adding his approval to the proceedings.
"Mrs. Rega," Stefano murmurs against my ear as we walk back down the aisle, "at last."
I lean into him, savoring the solid strength of his arm around my waist. "Second time's the charm," I tease.
His laughter is light, free in a way I rarely hear. "I'd marry you a thousand times if that's what it took."
The beach villa has also been transformed for our reception—simple elegance with tropical flowers, fairy lights, and tables set for an intimate dinner. As Stefano and I take our seats at the main table, Alessia approaches with Gianni in her arms.
"I believe this little gentleman would like to congratulate his parents," she says, gently transferring my son into my waiting arms.
Gianni blinks up at me with those startling blue eyes—Stefano's eyes—his tiny hands reaching for my face with perfect infant curiosity. My heart clenches with love so fierce it's almost painful. This miracle we created, against all odds. This perfect blend of us both.
"He's getting so big," Angela says, leaning over to tickle her nephew's cheek. "And more handsome every day."
"Takes after his father," I say, glancing at Stefano with a smile.
"His mother's nose, though," Stefano counters, one finger gently tracing the tiny feature in question. "Thank God."
The casual banter, the easy affection, the sense of family—it all feels foreign yet somehow right. Like stepping into a role I was always meant to play, if only I'd allowed myself to believe it possible.
Dinner unfolds with laughter and stories, toasts and tears. Tomasso surprises everyone with uncharacteristic emotion in his best man speech. Tony teases me mercilessly about my "criminal-to-soccer-mom transformation". Angela presents us with a scrapbook she's been secretly creating, documenting Gianni's first weeks.
As the evening progresses, Alessia corners me during a quiet moment, her expression thoughtful.
"I've been thinking," she says, looking out at the pristine beach, the endless horizon. "About staying here on the island."
I blink in surprise. "Permanently?"
She nods, a serene smile softening her features. "I feel...lighter here. Like I can breathe again." Her eyes find Stefano across the room, holding court with Tomasso and Tony. "My son has his own family now. His own life to live. And I think...I think I might be ready to find mine again."
"Have you told him?" I ask gently.
"Not yet." She sighs. "He'll worry. Try to protect me, even from happiness."
I laugh softly, knowing she's right. "I'll help you tell him. He just wants you to be happy, Alessia."
"I know." She squeezes my hand. "You make him happy, Ava. Happier than I've seen him since he was a boy. That's all a mother wants for her son."
Before I can respond, Stefano appears at my side, his hand finding the small of my back in that possessive yet gentle way that's become so familiar.
"Stealing my wife, Mother?" he teases, though the word “wife” holds a reverence that makes my heart skip.
"Just sharing mother-in-law secrets," Alessia replies smoothly. "Very classified information."
He arches an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"
"Always," I quip, leaning into his side. "Keeps you on your toes."