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At eighteen months, he's a force of nature—all determined energy and boundless curiosity. His dark curls bounce with each step, his chubby cheeks flushed with excitement as he points to something in the grass.
Ava follows a few steps behind him, her smile tender as she watches our son's discovery. She's wrapped in one of my old flannels, her growing belly just starting to show beneath the fabric. Four months along with our second child, and somehow even more beautiful than the day I found her again.
"Be careful,piccolo," she calls, though there's no real worry in her voice. Not here, where the greatest danger is a scraped knee or a splinter.
How far we've come from that warehouse in Chicago. From blood and violence and desperate gambles. From mistrust and forced vows and obsession that bordered on madness.
I set my coffee down and descend the porch steps, crossing the yard to join my family. Gianni looks up at me, his face—so like mine but softened by Ava's features—splitting into a delighted grin.
"Frog,Papà!" he exclaims, pointing to a small green amphibian making its unhurried way across our lawn. "Big frog!"
I crouch beside him, feeling the familiar twinge in my left knee—a souvenir from the Fiori warehouse that the Montana winters don't let me forget. "That's right,campione. A very big frog."
His blue eyes—exact replicas of mine—widen with wonder. "Take home?"
Ava laughs, the sound still my favorite melody after all this time. "I think Mr. Frog would rather stay outside with his family, don't you?"
Gianni considers this with adorable seriousness before nodding. "Okay. Bye-bye, frog." He waves solemnly as the creature disappears into the tall grass.
I scoop him up, settling him on my hip with practiced ease. His weight against my chest, solid and warm, still feels like a miracle some days. A gift I never thought I'd deserve.
"Did you call Tony?" Ava asks, coming to stand beside us. Her hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining automatically.
"This morning. He's finishing a big project, but he'll be here next weekend."
Her smile widens. "Good. He needs a break from all that studying."
Tony's transformation has been almost as dramatic as our own. Two years sober now, he’s thriving in his third year of architecture school.
The angry, scared teenager who once stole our car and got drunk at parties now calls every Sunday, sends Gianni little models he's built, and has a girlfriend who seems to be smoothing his remaining rough edges.
"He said to tell you he's bringing the plans for that greenhouse you wanted." I press a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "Still trying to grow those Italian tomatoes?"
"Some of us weren't raised importing everything we want," she teases, bumping her hip against mine. "Besides, Gianni loves tomatoes."
"'Matoes!" our son confirms enthusiastically, though I suspect he'd declare his love for anything Ava suggested.
The ranch spreads out around us, three hundred acres of Montana wilderness that's become more home than anywhere I've ever lived.
The main house—all timber and stone and massive windows—sits nestled against the mountains like it grew there naturally. The barn is to the east. The clear lake to the west is where Gianni had his first swim this summer.
All of it was purchased with legitimate money, through legitimate channels. The final step in my extraction from "the life", as Ava calls it.
Tomasso runs things back in Chicago now. We speak weekly, his updates becoming increasingly business-like as the Rega empire transitions into something more corporate, more above-board.
He never mentions the other aspects of the organization—the ones that still operate in shadows—and I never ask.
Some knowledge is better left behind.
The girls are still taken care of, still working at The Silk Rose. Kira came to visit last week and threatened to make Ava hire her as a nanny so that she could stay in the beauty of our home. I wouldn’t be surprised if my wife actually takes her up on the offer.
My only other connection to Chicago—my mother and sister—moved to the island a few months after our wedding. It was hard to accept the change at first, especially being away from Angela. They also visit us at least twice a month, but much like Tony, they’ve settled into a routine that brings them peace—at least when it comes to my mother. Angela is getting restless the older she gets.
"Breakfast?" Ava asks, reaching up to smooth a wild curl from Gianni's forehead. "I made those blueberry pancakes you love."
Our son squirms to be let down, already racing toward the house at the promise of his favorite food. I keep hold of Ava's hand, pulling her back gently when she moves to follow him.
"Hey." I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, allowing my fingers to linger against her cheek. "Have I told you today?"