Page 65 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

"My mother," he says softly, "before she got sick, she used to make breakfast for us every Sunday. Even when things with Massimo were bad, she'd insist on family breakfast. Said it was the one meal where we could pretend to be normal."

There's something wistful in his voice, a rare glimpse into the boy he used to be before the world carved him into a soldier. "She sounds like she was a good woman."

"She was. She believed in..." He touches his pocket again, that unconscious gesture that's becoming more pronounced. "She believed in a lot of things that seemed impossible at the time."

"Like what?"

"Like hope. Like second chances. Like..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Like love being stronger than fear."

The way he says it, like he's testing the words, makes my chest tight. "She was right about that."

His eyes find mine, and the intensity there makes my breath catch. "Yeah. She was."

We eat in companionable silence for a while, but I can sense Angelo's anxiety building. He keeps touching that pocket, keeps stealing glances at me like he's working up to something. Finally, I set down my fork and turn to face him fully.

"Okay, what's going on?" I ask directly. "You're acting like you're about to defuse a bomb."

Angelo freezes, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. "What makes you think something's going on?"

"Angelo." I give him my best 'don't even try it' look, the one that used to make grown men confess their sins. "I may have had gaps in my memory, but I'm not blind. You've been different since we got back from Chicago."

"Different how?"

"More... settled. Like you figured something out that's been bothering you for years." I tilt my head, studying his face. "Plus, you keep touching your pocket like you've got something important in there."

He sets down his cup and turns to mirror my position, his knees bracketing mine. For a long moment, he just looks at me, those dark eyes searching my face like he's memorising every detail.

"There is something," he admits finally. "Something I need to show you."

My stomach does a little flip. In my experience, when men like Angelo say they need to show you something, it's either very good or very bad. Given his expression, I'm hoping for the former.

"Show me what?"

Instead of answering, he reaches into his breast pocket—the one he's been guarding all morning—and pulls out a small piece of paper. It's yellowed with age, worn soft at the edges like it's been handled countless times. A fortune from a fortune cookie.

"This is going to sound completely insane," he says, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain. "This was the last fortune my mother gave to me."

I take the paper from his fingers, unfolding it carefully. The text is faded but still legible, written in that generic fortune cookie font:

Flames can burn. Flames can heal. Her red flames will make you kneel.

12.12

I blink at it, reading it twice to make sure I'm seeing it correctly. Then I look up at Angelo, who's watching me with an expression caught between hope and mortification.

"Your mother got this from a fortune cookie?" I ask.

He nods, his cheeks actually colouring slightly.

"The day she died. She was in the hospital, barely conscious, but she insisted on having Chinese takeout one last time.

This was in her cookie. She gave it to me and said.

.." He swallows hard. "She said it was meant for me. That I'd understand it someday."

I read it again, my mind working through the implications. "And you think this is about me because...?"

"Because of the date," he says quietly. "12.12. December twelfth."

My breath catches. "My birthday."

"Your birthday," he confirms. "The same day my mother died. And the red flames..." He gestures vaguely at my hair, then at me in general. "When you walked out of Jerzy's compound, wreathed in fire and smoke like some ancient goddess of vengeance, it was like watching a prophecy come to life."

I stare at the paper, then at him, then back at the paper. The rational part of my brain is cataloguing all the reasons this is ridiculous. Coincidence. Confirmation bias. The human tendency to find patterns where none exist.

But there's another part of me, a deeper part, that feels the rightness of it settling into my bones.

"Angelo," I say slowly, "this sounds like the plot of the world's cheesiest romance novel."

He winces. "I know how it sounds—"

"No, no, hear me out." I hold up the fortune, grinning despite myself. "The universe planned our love story through a Chinese takeaway fortune? 'Her red flames will make you kneel'? What fortune cookie writer comes up with that?"

Angelo starts to smile, caught between embarrassment and amusement. "When you put it like that..."

"It's completely ridiculous," I continue, warming to the theme. "Like something they'd make into a Lifetime movie. 'Fortune Cookie of Love: A Mafia Romance.'"

"With terrible acting and even worse dialogue," he adds, his tension finally breaking.

"And dramatic zoom-ins every time someone mentions the fortune." I affect a breathy voice: "'But what does it mean, Angelo? What does it MEAN?'"

We're both laughing now, the absurdity of it hitting us in waves. But as our laughter dies down, something changes. The silence that follows isn't mocking, it's reverent.

Because despite how ridiculous it sounds, despite how impossible it should be, we both feel the truth of it.

"It's probably just a coincidence," Angelo says, but his voice lacks any conviction.

"Complete coincidence," I agree, though my heart knows better. "I mean, fortune cookies aren't even traditionally Chinese. They were invented in California."

"Probably by some guy in a factory who never expected his random words to mess with people's lives decades later."

"With no mystical powers whatsoever."

"None at all."

I look down at the fortune again, at those faded words that somehow describe exactly what happened between us. He did kneel, not in defeat, but in something far more powerful. In choice. In love. And I did heal him, just like he healed me.

"Angelo," I say softly, still staring at the paper. "This is completely crazy."

"Absolutely insane," he agrees.

I look up at him, and the intensity in his dark eyes steals my breath. We can joke about it all we want, but the truth is written in every line of his face: he believes it. Completely, utterly believes that his dying mother somehow saw across time and left him a message about me.

And God help me, so do I.

"So what now?" I ask quietly.

Angelo's hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone with infinite tenderness. "Now I tell you something that's been building in my chest since the moment I saw you walk out of those flames."

My heart starts beating faster. "What?"

He takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving mine. "I've spent my whole life believing I didn't deserve happiness. That I was too broken, too stained with blood, too much of a monster to deserve anything good."

I start to protest, but he shakes his head gently.

"Let me finish," he says. "I believed it for so long that it became my truth. I built my whole identity around being the one who does the dirty work, the one who sacrifices everything for family duty. I thought that was all I was good for—being the person who kept everyone else safe."

His thumb traces my jawline, the touch sending shivers down my spine.

"But you," he continues, his voice rough with emotion, "you taught me that redemption isn't about erasing the past. It's about choosing something different for the future. You showed me that I could be more than just what my father made me. That I could be worthy of something beautiful."

"Angelo—"

"I don't want to wait another day," he says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Not because I'm afraid of dying, not because tomorrow isn't promised, but because I finally believe I deserve to live. Really live. With you."

My breath catches as understanding begins to dawn. "What are you saying?"

He slides off his stool and drops to one knee in front of me, taking my hands in his. My heart stops completely.

"I'm saying marry me," he says, his voice steady despite the emotion burning in his eyes.

"I want to build something with you. I want to wake up every morning knowing that we chose each other.

Not because some fortune cookie told us to, not because fate decreed it, but because we looked at all our options and decided this was what we wanted. "

Tears blur my vision as the magnitude of what he's offering hits me. Not just marriage. Partnership. Equality. Choice.

"I spent my whole life having things done to me," I whisper, my voice shaking with the weight of the truth. "Jerzy's training, his missions, his control. Even my memories were taken from me. Every choice was made for me, every path decided by someone else."

I look down at his face, at the vulnerability and hope written there, and feel something click into place in my chest.

"But this," I continue, my voice growing stronger, "this is the first real choice I've ever been given. The first time someone asked me what I wanted, instead of telling me what I was supposed to do."

"What do you want, Butterfly?" he asks, and the question holds the weight of the world.

What do I want?

I want morning coffee and terrible jokes. I want someone who sees the Red Widow and loves Kasia anyway. I want to build something beautiful on the foundation of our shared darkness. I want to choose love every single day for the rest of my life.

"I choose this," I say, my voice growing stronger with each word. "I choose you. I choose us."

The smile that spreads across Angelo's face is like watching the sun rise after the longest night.

"I choose now," I add, laughing through my tears.

He surges up to kiss me, his hands framing my face as our mouths meet in something that tastes like promises and forever. When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"So that's a yes?" he asks, grinning like a man who's just won the lottery.

"That's a yes," I confirm. "Though I have some conditions."

His eyebrows raise, and that wicked smile I love so much spreads across his face. "Already making demands? I like this side of you."

"Get used to it. First condition: we do this fast. Private ceremony, just family. I don't want to wait for an elaborate production that takes a year to plan."

"Done. What else?"

"Second, I want to take your name." His eyes widen slightly, and I continue quickly. "Not to hide who I was, but to choose who I'm becoming. Kasia Santoro sounds right to me."

"Jesus, Butterfly," he breathes, his voice rough. "Say it again."

"Kasia Santoro," I repeat, loving the way his eyes darken at the sound.

"What's the third condition?"

"Equal partners in everything. I'm not looking for a protector or a white knight. I'm looking for someone to stand beside, not behind. We make decisions together, we face threats together, we build this life together."

Angelo's grin turns absolutely predatory. "Butterfly, you could probably protect me better than I could protect you. I wouldn't dare try to put you behind anything."

"Good answer."

He stands, pulling me with him, and spins me around the kitchen. I laugh, holding tight to his shoulders as the world whirls past, feeling lighter than I have in years.

"When?" I ask as he sets me down, my feet touching the ground but my head still spinning.

"When what?"

"When do you want to get married?"

Angelo's expression grows serious. "Tomorrow, if you'd let me. But realistically? Before the funeral. I want to face that circus as your husband."

I do quick math in my head. "That gives us two, maybe three days to plan a wedding."

"We don't need much," he says, already thinking it through. "Dante, Luca, Alessa, Arrow. Maybe Mel, Marco and Antonio, if they promise not to cry through the whole ceremony."

"Marco will cry for sure," I say, laughing at the thought. "Alessa told me the man tears up at car commercials and those videos of soldiers coming home to their dogs."

"True. But at least we'll know it's coming from a good place." Angelo's eyes light up with sudden inspiration. "We could do it here. On the rooftop overlooking the town. Small, intimate, perfect."

"Here?" I look around the kitchen, imagining it. "Actually, that sounds amazing. The forest behind us, the view of Blackwood spread out below..."

"Exactly. Somewhere that means something to us." His expression grows thoughtful. "She would have loved you, you know?" he says softly. "She would have loved that you're choosing us, choosing this family."

The thought makes my chest warm. "I wish I could have met her."

"In a way, you did." He touches his pocket where the fortune was. "She left you a message."

We stand there in the kitchen, wrapped in each other's arms, and start planning our future like it's the most natural thing in the world. Which, I suppose, it is.

Because this isn't the Red Widow accepting her fate, or Angelo Santoro fulfilling an obligation. This is Kasia and Angelo choosing each other, choosing love, choosing to build something beautiful together.

And if that's not worth believing in fortune cookies for, I don't know what is.