Page 132 of Enzo

I looked down at my hands and could still remember the blood stains, but it was the blood of those who deserved it. Those who hurt innocents.

“It doesn’t work like that. We don’t undo things, but we do the best we can with the cards we’ve been dealt and aspire to be the best possible versions of ourselves. We make the world a better place for the innocent among us.”

I smiled faintly. Penelope was probably the only woman who could pierce my soul and inject light into it, and I suspected my sister-in-law had known it all along.

“Your sister knew that I’d need you to grow old with,” I said.

“I’m proud of you. Wouldn’t want you any other way.” Pen stepped closer, sliding her hand into mine. “And she would be too. My sister made us all better people.”

That was the truth of it.

Amara saw something good in all of us. In me. Every time I got close to slipping into dangerous, gray territory—because let’s face it, it was part of my everyday job—I’d hear her voice. Not angry. Just disappointed.

It stopped me more times than I’d like to admit.

“She always saw things differently,” Pen said with a small smile. “Like she was older and wiser.”

“She did,” I said. “She understood things most grown men never will.”

I’d forever be grateful to her. And I’d make sure she was remembered.

Five years after we lost her in the physical sense, this hospital and that wing gave people hope. Parents from all over the world brought their children to be treated at the hospital bearing Amara’s name.

The organization that killed people and sold their organs on the black market had been dismantled and in its place was a not-for-profit based on the software I developed that saved hundreds of thousands. The centralized software tracked volunteer donors from all over the world and connected them to patients in need without a third party playing God.

Pen leaned her head against my shoulder.

“I love you, Enzo, and I’m so grateful you’re mine.”

I swallowed hard and nodded, because I knew she meant it.

“Our parents did something right, huh?” I said, unlocking the car. “Let’s go home.”

We got in and drove past the church and rows of tombstones amid the slow-falling leaves. In the mirror, the cherry blossoms danced behind us, caught in the wind. And ahead—in thedistance, across the city skyline—that new wing glowed like a beacon.

Amara had asked me to make a better world.

So I did.

CHAPTER EPILOGUE-PENELOPE

Eight Years Later

Our new house smelled like morning coffee and sunshine. Every wall, every window, every scuffed floorboard was a promise of a happy life. Happiness lingered in every corner of the house that had become our home.

Or maybe it was just the fact that we were together: my husband, daughter, and I.

Rosalia was sprawled on the living room rug, humming as she carefully arranged her stuffed animals. She was three—full of life, fierce curiosity, and those stubborn little moments that reminded me of my sister. It made me both smile and sigh.

She had Enzo’s eyes—steady, warm, and too serious—and my smile, or so he said. Sometimes, when she looked at me, I caught flashes of my sister, and something bright inside me swelled.

I sat by the window of our living room, cradling a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. Above the mantel hung the photo my sister had taken years ago in Milan, in front of the cathedral.

My lips curved into a smile, remembering Amara as she was then: happy, having the time of her life, and always kind and thoughtful.

She wasn’t healthy at the moment she took that photo, of course, but the mind was a peculiar thing and only remembered the good things. Not the sadness and sorrow, but her giddiness and zest for life.

Sometimes I wondered if Amara knew exactly what she was doing when she insisted on taking a photo of Enzo and me that day. Maybe she knew she’d capture pure magic, a sliver of time when the mind conjured the most beautiful moment and immortalized it with the three of us, even though she wasn’t in it.