Page 100 of Damon

"Good scared. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing you're about to jump, but trusting that someone will catch you."

"I'll always catch you."

We spend the rest of the morning in bed, talking about the house, about our plans for the baby, about the future we're building together. The conversation flows easily, without the careful politeness that marked our first few weeks of engagement.

For the first time since this all began, I feel like we're truly partners instead of two people trying to make the best of an impossible situation.

"There's one more thing," I say as we're finally getting dressed for lunch.

"What's that?"

"I want to know everything about your business. Not the sanitized version you'd tell any other wife. The real version."

He pauses in buttoning his shirt. "Viviana—"

"I'm serious. If we're going to be partners, real partners, then I need to understand all of it. The legitimate businesses, the not-so-legitimate ones, the risks, the responsibilities. All of it."

"It's dangerous knowledge."

"I'm already in danger by being your wife. At least this way, I'll understand why."

He considers this for a long moment. "It's not pretty."

"I don't need it to be pretty. I need it to be honest."

"Okay," he says finally. "But not today. Today is about us."

As we head down to lunch on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, I feel something settle into place. This is our real beginning—not the wedding, not the pregnancy announcement, but this moment when we decided to be completely honest with each other about who we are and what we want.

"Mrs. Lombardi?" Damon offers me his arm as we step onto the terrace.

"Yes, Mr. Lombardi?"

"I think this is going to work out better than either of us expected."

Looking out at the endless blue water, feeling the warm sun on my face and my husband's hand in mine, I couldn't agree more.

Epilogue: Damon

Several months later…

The first thing I notice when I walk into Viviana's hospital room is how small our son looks in Roberto's arms.

The second thing I notice is that my father-in-law is crying.

"He's perfect," Roberto whispers, his voice thick with emotion as he stares down at the baby. "Absolutely perfect."

Seven pounds, two ounces of pure miracle, born after fourteen hours of labor that nearly killed me with worry. Lorenzo Roberto Lombardi—named for both his grandfathers—has been in the world for exactly six hours, and he's already managed to reduce two of the most dangerous men in Italy to complete mush.

"Let me see my grandson," my father says from the chair beside Viviana's bed, and there's something in his voice too that I've never heard before. Wonder, maybe. Or the kind of love that transforms everything it touches.

Roberto reluctantly passes the baby to him, and I watch my father's expression soften in ways I didn't think were possible. Lorenzo shifts in his arms, making the small sounds that newborns make, and my father's eyes fill with tears.

"He looks like you did," he tells me. "Same dark hair, same serious expression. Even as a baby, you looked like you were contemplating the meaning of life."

"He's beautiful," Viviana says from the bed. She’s exhausted from the long labor, but also joyful. She's been through hell over the past day, but she's glowing in a way thathas nothing to do with pregnancy hormones and everything to do with being a mother.

"He's perfect," I correct, moving to sit beside her and taking her hand. "Just like his mother."