Page 54 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)
ELENA
One Year and Six Months Later—Positano, Italy
The Mediterranean stretches endlessly before us, gold melting into turquoise as I nurse our daughter on the terrace overlooking the Amalfi Coast. Isabella Elena Rossi—named for a grandmother she’ll never meet and the woman I’ve become—makes soft sounds of contentment while seabirds circle fishing boats in the harbor below.
“Beautiful morning,” Alessandro says, emerging from our small kitchen with coffee and fresh cornetti from the village bakery.
“Every morning is beautiful here.”
He settles beside me on the wrought-iron chair, his silver hair catching the early light. At almost forty-four, he looks younger than he did a year and a half ago. Running a legitimate wine export business suits him better than ruling a criminal empire ever did.
The official story is simple enough. Kasimira Vale-Moretti and Alaric Moretti died in a car accident on a remote highway outside Albany while escaping the feds.
Their bodies burned beyond recognition in the resulting explosion.
The closed-casket funeral drew hundreds of mourners, including federal agents who finally closed the books on the investigation.
The truth is more complicated.
Within hours of the shootout that left Dante, Marco, and Boris Petrov dead in our mansion, Alessandro’s contacts had arranged new passports, bank accounts, and a complete digital history for Elena and Alessandro Rossi.
The car crash was meticulously staged using dental records from unclaimed bodies and DNA evidence that pointed to a conclusion without providing certainty.
The shell companies died with their legal owner, their assets frozen in bureaucratic limbo that will take years to untangle.
Fifty million in laundered money sits in legal purgatory while federal prosecutors debate jurisdiction, and international law enforcement agencies point fingers at each other.
The trafficking networks Alessandro spent weeks dismantling remain broken, their victims repatriated or relocated to safe homes across three continents. That work continues under new management now.
“Papà!” Isabella makes a demanding sound that we’ve learned means she wants attention from her father.
“Coming, principessa,” he says, lifting her from my arms with practiced ease.
We never discussed what to call him in our new life, but Papà emerged naturally during the long nights when she had colic and he walked the floors singing Italian lullabies his grandmother taught him.
The tenderness in his voice when he talks to her erases any doubt about his capacity for redemption.
“Dr. Marelli says she’s developing perfectly,” I tell him as he bounces her gently. “Above average weight, strong reflexes, excellent lung capacity.”
“She gets that from her mother. The strong lungs, I mean.”
“Very funny.”
Our daughter has his green eyes and my dark hair, plus a stubborn streak that suggests she’ll never let anyone control her destiny. When she grows up, she’ll know her parents chose love over legacy.
She’ll never know that her mother was once trapped in a golden cage or that her father was one of the most feared men in America.
“The Torrino shipment arrived this morning,” Alessandro mentions, settling into his chair with Isabella in his lap. “Klaus wants to expand our German distribution by thirty percent.”
“Can we handle that volume?”
“With the new facility in Naples, yes. The Benedetti family has connections with shipping companies that specialize in temperature-controlled transport.”
It takes a moment for the name to register. “Benedetti? As in…?”
“Tony’s cousin runs legitimate wine import operations. Completely separate from family business, but the expertise transfers well to legal enterprises.”
Some threads from our old life have followed us to Italy, but only the ones that serve legitimate purposes.
Tony Benedetti— the man who once handled our security—now manages vineyard operations for small family businesses throughout Tuscany.
His skills at logistics and personnel management translate perfectly to agriculture.
Klaus Mueller remains a valued business partner, though he believes he’s working with a completely different wine exporter than the woman who once negotiated German shipping contracts for criminal enterprises. The irony amuses me.
“Signora Rossi?” Maria’s voice carries from the kitchen doorway.
Our Maria—not the same woman who once worked for the Moretti family, but another grandmother figure who insists on spoiling Isabella while managing our household with cheerfulness.
“Sì, Maria?”
“Telephone call for your husband. From the customs office in Naples.”
Alessandro passes Isabella back to me and goes to handle whatever bureaucratic question requires his attention. The wine business involves endless paperwork, shipping regulations, and quality certifications. It’s all perfectly legal and transparently boring compared to our previous occupation.
But I love every mundane detail.
“What do you think, sweetheart?” I ask Isabella, who’s trying to grab a butterfly that landed on our table. “Should we take a walk down to the village today? Visit Nonna Maria at the market?”
She makes a sound that I choose to interpret as enthusiastic agreement.
The cobblestone path winds down through terraced gardens where lemons grow alongside ancient olive trees. Other families are beginning their morning routines—children playing in small piazzas while their mothers hang laundry and their fathers prepare fishing nets for the day’s work.
Normal life. The kind I dreamed about during my years of captivity and never thought I’d actually experience.
“Buongiorno, Elena!” Giuseppe calls from his produce stand. “Come sta la piccola principessa?”
“Growing bigger every day,” I reply in Italian.
“She has her papà’s eyes.”
“And her mamma’s stubbornness.”
Giuseppe laughs and insists on giving Isabella a small stuffed toy—a tradition he’s maintained since we arrived in Positano. She clutches it with tiny fingers while I browse tomatoes and fresh basil for tonight’s dinner.
The marketplace bustles with tourists taking photographs and locals conducting actual business. No one pays special attention to the young mother shopping for groceries, which is exactly how we prefer it.
“Excuse me, miss?” A voice behind me makes my blood freeze momentarily.
I turn to find an elderly American couple studying a map with confused expressions. Tourists, not threats.
“Yes?”
“Could you help us find the Church of Santa Maria? We’re completely lost.”
“Of course. Just up that street, turn left at the fountain. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you so much. Your English is excellent.”
“I had good teachers.”
As they walk away, I realize my heart rate never accelerated beyond normal. A year and a half ago, being addressed in English by strangers would have triggered immediate panic. Now it’s just part of daily life in a place where Elena Rossi belongs.
That evening, Alessandro and I sit on our terrace watching sunset paint the sky in brilliant oranges and purples. Isabella sleeps peacefully in her crib beside us, one tiny fist curled around the toy Giuseppe gave her.
“Ti amo,” Alessandro whispers against my hair.
“Ti amo anch’io.”
The words feel different in Italian. It’s softer, more musical, carrying none of the weight our English declarations once bore. Here, love is simple. Pure. Uncomplicated by violence or fear or the ghosts of people we used to be.
Our daughter stirs in her sleep, making soft sounds that might be dreams or hunger or simple contentment. In the morning, she’ll wake to parents who chose peace over power, who built something beautiful from the ashes of something terrible.
She’ll never know how close she came to inheriting a legacy of blood and violence instead of wine and sunshine.
Once, a widow’s clause trapped me in legal chains designed to control even from beyond the grave. Now I’m completely free from all such constraints.
No forced marriages. No binding contracts. No legal documents controlling my destiny.
Just love, freely chosen and freely given.
The End
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