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"They have something special."

"They do." For a while, I thought my dad lost sight of that.

I'm glad he pulled his own head out of his ass before me and Salvatore had to help him do it. With a hammer and a chisel.

Nesto turns toward me and pulls my body around so we're facing each other. "So do we."

"Yes."

"Something I never want to lose. Your dad could leave me bleeding on the pavement." Nesto's voice is filled with gravel. "I’d still choose you. Every time."

The air sucks right out of my lungs.

He’s not dramatic. Not prone to speeches or sentiment. That makes this moment mean so much more.

I reach up, wrap my hand around the back of his neck, and pull his forehead to mine. "Choose me again tomorrow," I whisper. "And the day after. Because I'll be choosing you too."

His breath hitches.

And then his mouth brushes mine—slow, reverent, and achingly tender.

Not a kiss made for seduction. A vow.

When we break apart, his hand slides down my arm to take mine as if he’ll never let go.

And I hope he never does.

SAL

I notice Nerissa and Ernesto are missing and after making sure Ilaria is ensconced in "our" chair, I say, "I'm going to check on our daughter."

She rolls her eyes.

My dignified, perfect mafia wife rolls her eyes .

I trace my finger down her cheek. "What?"

"Nerissa is an adult. You do realize this?"

Managing not to roll my own eyes, I nod. What the hell alternate universe am I in right now that I even have that urge?

Ilaria gives me a look that has been keeping me on my toes for over thirty years. "Be nice."

"I'm a Cosa Nostra consigliere." Leaning down, I kiss her and I take my time about it. I lift my head and speak against her lips. "There is nothing nice about me, cuore mio , and we both know that is the way you prefer it."

Her eyes are unfocused and her cheeks glow pink when I walk away.

Nerissa and Ernesto are across the hall, a few yard to the left of the door, completely lost in their own bubble.

My daughter leans her head against her boyfriends in a show of vulnerability so rare it takes my breath from my body.

He’s holding her like she’s the most precious thing in the world. No grabbing. No groping. Just a man steadying the center of his gravity.

And when she pulls him down to whisper something I can’t hear, his face changes.

Softens.

Then he kisses her.

Not with hunger.

With care.

I should look away. It’s a private moment, one I have no right to.

But I don’t.

Because no matter what I've been telling myself, this is what I’ve been waiting for. Not to see how well he shoots, or how high he rises within la famiglia .

To see how he loves her.

I spent too many years measuring men by what they could do for the Genovese, but Ilaria has reminded me what really matters.

And that is how a man treats the woman he claims.

Ernesto reveres my daughter. I recognize the signs because anyone looking at me with Ilaria in a private moment would see them as well.

I've been caught up in finding someone worthy of my highly intelligent, beautifully ruthless daughter, but I've been using the wrong measuring stick. The only one that matters is the depth of Ernesto's love.

If I'm not misreading things, it's as deep as I could want it to be. Hell, he showed up today, didn't he?

Outsiders don't feel comfortable among us De Lucas. I have to admit, I'm part of the reason why. And entirely on purpose. But he's here for my daughter regardless.

That says a lot.

Leaving them without interrupting, I return to my wife who is right, as she has been so many times throughout our life together.

This time about what is best for our daughter.

It’s late.

The hospital suite's lights are dim now, the bustle of family replaced with hushed conversations and quiet anticipation.

Catalina is still in labor, but the mood has shifted. The initial excitement muted to quiet anticipation of my great-nephew's birth.

Angelo and his girlfriend, Candi, arrived earlier with coffee, mulled cider and cookies baked by her mother and little sister. A sweet gesture, according to Ilaria.

So, not Angelo's idea, but the only woman in the world my nephew-by-choice will ever love. Could ever love, according to my wife. It looks like she's right again.

Ilaria and I shared mulled cider from a single mug, the rest of the family fading into the background as we reminisced about Salvatore's birth.

Now, she's asleep, her head resting against my chest.

Miceli, Salvatore, Bianca and Nerissa are playing cards at the table. Aria is asleep with her feet up in one of the wingback chairs.

Candi and Angelo are tucked together on one of the oversized chairs, whispering. If I didn't know better, I'd say my nephew-by-choice is looking broody. Brooding I'm used to, but he's got his hand on Candi's lower belly and look of longing on his face.

The Christmas proposal he's planning can't come soon enough if he's that keen to start a family.

Róise is curled up under a bright pink fleece throw, listening to an audiobook, but Ernesto stands alone, leaning against the wall by the card players.

Still on duty. Always watching.

Rising slowly, I'm careful not to disturb Ilaria. I cover her with my suit jacket like a blanket. She turns her head and inhales, snuggling down with a peaceful look on her beautiful face.

I'm tempted to stay right where I am, but it's time to settle some things.

Ernesto notices my approach immediately and meets my eyes. There's no worry in his, no fear. His nod of respect is welcome, so is his lack of anxiety.

My daughter cannot live her life with a man intimidated by her father. She needs strength to match her strength and it looks like she's found it.

I jerk my head toward the door. "I'm getting some coffee. Join me."

It's not a request and he doesn't take it as such. After leaning down to kiss Nerissa's temple, he follows me from the suite.

I wait to speak until we are downstairs in the nearly empty cafeteria. There's a skeleton crew in here this late at night, but the coffee is fresh and a chef's on duty.

Rather than get the espresso I planned, I reach for a bottle of water, knowing that would make Ilaria happy. She's all about keeping my heart healthy these days and wants me to limit my caffeine intake.

Ernesto gets coffee and joins me at a table by the windows. Oh, to be thirty-five again. Ilaria never got on me about eating steak back then.

There are a lot of benefits to being fifty-five though. Not least of which is more wisdom than I had twenty years ago.

I take a long swig from my bottle of water and put it down so I can pull a small velvet pouch from my coat pocket and hold it out.

No words. No preamble.

He looks at it, then at me.

A flicker of something crosses his face: surprise, maybe. Wariness. He takes the pouch and opens it.

Inside is a vintage gold tiepin. Simple. Elegant. Embossed with the De Luca crest.

It has been passed down in my family for over one hundred years. My father wore this tiepin the night he made his vow as the first De Luca to be Don of the Genovese. When our father passed, Enzo got the ring and I got the tiepin.

Both hold significant family history.

"Sir…" Ernesto’s voice is low, steady. But I hear the edge. The question.

"It's been in our family since the first De Luca came from Sicily to New York.

Enzo wore it the night he became don, so did my father.

I wore it when I took my vow as capo. I leant it to my nephews when they took their vows as dons and when Severu took up the mantle of godfather.

Salvatore wore it when he took his vow as a capo. "

Understanding registers in Ernesto's gaze. He stares down at the pin like it’s a weapon. Like it’s a promise.

"You wear it when you ask her." My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"She’s everything." Our gazes locked, I let mine show how much I mean my words. "You treat her like it."

"Always."

I nod. That’s enough.

Because I’m giving my daughter and this man my blessing, not my permission.

Not that he asked for it. And that's something else I can respect. Ernesto is fully aware that Nerissa is the only one he needs to convince. Because even if I refused my blessing, if she loves this man, she'll marry him.

Ilaria is right about that too. Our daughter is too strong to bow to any man's dictates for her life, even her father's.

As it should be, no matter what tradition in la famiglia says.

When we return to the suite, Ilaria is sleepy eyed, but awake. As soon as I walk into the room, her eyes latch onto mine. I nod at the question in hers and she gives me a drowsy smile.

Cupping her face when I reach her, I ask, "Why are you awake?"

If Catalina had given birth, the suite wouldn't be so quiet.

"You were gone." Ilaria yawns, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Now I am back."

Ilaria allows me to shift her so I'm back in the chair and she's curled against me. Brushing her back under my jacket, I whisper, "I leant Ernesto the tiepin."

"I knew you'd do the right thing." She leaves the eventually unsaid but we both know it's there.

"We're a family of hard heads but we get there in the end."

She pats my chest. "That's what matters."

Seconds later, she's asleep again and I'm filled with a contentment I never knew at thirty-five. How could I? Back then I was driven by ambition and duty.

It took Ilaria's gentleness and courage to bring my heart back to life.

Cuore mio is still somnolent and I'm dozy many hours later when Severu comes out to inform us that Enzo Matteo, future godfather, is a healthy seven pounds nine ounces with the lungs of a lion.

He does not stay to be congratulated, but returns immediately to his wife's side.

As it should be.