Page 30

30

Alessio

The morning light spills through the tall windows of Antonio De Angelis’s estate, soft and golden. I stand in the center of the guest room, still and quiet, watching my reflection in the mirror. There’s a tension in my chest that I don’t recognize. It’s not nerves; it’s something quieter, something that feels almost ethereal.

My hands move with precision as I button the white shirt Maria once picked out for me. She bought it for a day she hoped would come, though she never said it outright. I always thought I’d bury it with the past. Now, it feels like her hand on my shoulder, steadying me.

The door opens and Vittorio steps in, carrying the suit jacket I had made for this day. It is midnight blue, understated yet sharp, stitched with reverence. No gold. No crest. Just dignity.

He doesn’t speak as he helps me shrug into it. We’ve stood in a thousand rooms together—preparing for war, bracing for betrayal. But this is different. This is the one room where silence doesn't come from danger, but from something sacred.

He steps back, adjusts the collar, then meets my eyes in the mirror.

“You’ve changed,” he says simply.

I don’t answer right away. I take in the reflection. The weight in my shoulders is still there, but it’s not the same kind. It’s not burden. Its purpose.

“She brings out the best in me,” I say finally.

Vittorio nods once. “She made you honest. Not just with her. But with yourself, too.”

He’s right. The man I was before, Isadora, would have never let himself need something so badly. Would have never believed he deserved it.

A breeze filters through the open window, carrying with it the faint scent of the garden below. That garden.

It’s where she played as a child—where she climbed trees and picked roses when no one was looking. Where her laughter once echoed through the hedges before she ever knew what loyalty cost.

Today, she’s marrying me there.

I close my eyes briefly, letting the moment anchor itself in my chest. The world has gone quiet in the aftermath of Giancarlo’s death. The story—crafted and sealed with influence and money—was accepted easily by the press: a fatal car crash that claimed every member of his family. His nephew, an identity invented by a trusted associate, has stepped in to handle the affairs. The Calvino name will be carried forward by me. The empire will henceforth grow in dignity because peace, for once, has taken root.

And I’ll fight if I have to—to protect what we’ve built, to preserve this chance at something wholesome.

I descend the stairs alone. Vittorio walks beside me until we reach the edge of the open double doors.

The garden stretches out like something from a dream. Antonio’s pride. Isadora’s secret joy. Wisteria trails along the trellises. Roses bloom in soft pinks and cream. Lanterns sway gently from above, catching the sunlight like fireflies caught mid-flight.

There are only a few guests. People we trust. Faces that have seen us bleed and stayed.

I step into the garden and take my place at the makeshift altar, ready to wait for her to come to me.

And then she steps out onto the far end of the path, and I stop breathing.

She stands still for a moment, framed by the flowers she used to pick with dirt-streaked fingers, now radiant in white. She resembles a queen in her gown and tiara, and my hands itch to peel off every layer of delicate clothing covering her.

She’s walking toward me.

And for the first time in my life, I think I might not survive the beauty of something so whole.

Everything else fades away as I watch her walk towards me in her father’s arms.

Isadora

The mirror reflects a version of me I’ve never seen before—soft, regal, glowing. My gown cascades around me in layers of silk and tulle, custom-made and ethereal. It’s the kind of dress little girls imagine when they read fairy tales. My father chose it. Or rather, he had it made with the hope that his daughter would one day look like the princess he always envisioned.

And here I am.

The veil shimmers as Mama adjusts it from behind, her fingers trembling slightly. She’s been quiet for most of the morning, but the kind of quiet that holds a thousand unsaid things.

When our eyes meet in the mirror, hers are already misted.

“You’ve done what few women in our world have managed,” she says gently, smoothing the veil down my back. “You chose your fate. You didn’t let our world decide for you.”

I blink rapidly. “I didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” she agrees, moving to sit beside me. “But you chose a man who sees you. Who lets you be strong.”

I hesitate. The question has lived in me for years, but I’ve never dared ask. Until now. “Mama... are you happy? With Papa?”

Her eyes widen slightly. Then soften.

She nods, a quiet smile curling her lips. “Ours was an arrangement. But it became something more. He’s never been cruel to me, Isadora. Never denied me comfort or respect. I learned not to insert myself in his business. And in return, he gave me peace.”

Her hands reach for mine, squeezing gently. “But your story... your story is different. You didn’t settle into someone else’s legacy. You’re building your own. You chose your groom, and he chose you to rule beside him. That man doesn’t want a queen to display. He wants a queen to build with.”

The tears come faster than I can stop them. We embrace, holding each other like mothers and daughters should—without apology. When we finally pull apart, I fan my face furiously.

“Don’t ruin the masterpiece,” Mama warns with a chuckle, passing me a tissue.

A knock sounds at the door. Vittorio’s voice filters through with rare gentleness. “It’s time.”

My mother stands first, smoothing down her dress. I follow, gathering the weight of the gown in one hand. We exit the room and step into the hallway, and there he is—my father.

Antonio De Angelis. Tall, commanding, but tonight... soft. His mouth is set in a firm line, but his eyes glisten.

“Don’t cry, Papa,” I whisper, kissing his cheek. “Because if you do, I will too.”

He clears his throat and offers me his arm. “Let’s go before I embarrass us both.”

As we step outside, sunlight floods the garden like a benediction. The air is fragrant with roses and wisteria, the hedges trimmed perfectly, lanterns floating above like suspended stars. It’s more than beautiful—it’s sacred.

My bare feet brush the petals scattered across the path. I used to gather them in tiny handfuls, whispering to imaginary fairies. But today, I don’t look for fantasy.

I look for him.

And he’s there.

Stefano Calvino.

The man who looks at me like I’m everything he never thought he could have. Like I’m the beginning and end of every war he’s ever fought.

His eyes never leave mine as I walk toward him. Not once.

At the altar, Papa gently lifts my hand and places it in his. Their eyes meet, and a silent nod of understanding passes between them.

The officiant begins, but my eyes and ears are glazed over with love.

“Miss De Angelis, your vows, please?

I take a deep breath and look into the eyes of the only man I ever want to be with.

"You came into my life like a storm I didn’t know I’d been waiting for. I wasn’t prepared to love a man forged in shadows, a man who wore silence like armor and carried pain beneath every command. But I saw you. Not the enforcer. Not the legend. Just the boy raised in love and hardship. And I fell for him—completely, irreversibly.

You didn’t promise me safety. You gave me truth. And in a world that bent me into what it needed, you were the one who let me unfold into who I truly am.

Today, I don’t vow to complete you—because you are already whole. I vow to stand beside you, to rule with you, to soften your edges without dulling your blade. I will be your peace when the world forgets what mercy looks like.

You are not my fairytale. You are my revolution. And I will love you—fiercely, freely, for all the days we’re given, and even the ones we’re not."

He lifts my hand, kisses my knuckles, and begins to say his own vow.

"I never believed in redemption. Not for men like me. I was born into violence, raised by ghosts, and taught to take before anything could be given.

But then you walked into my life—sharp-witted, stubborn, beautiful. You didn’t just challenge me. You refused to be owned, and in doing so, you made me want to be worthy of you.

You saw the man behind the bloodstained name. Not because you were na?ve, but because you were brave enough to believe I could be more.

I vow to protect what we build, not with fear, but with honor. To never silence your voice, to never dim your fire, and to always remember that you are not beside me because I chose you—but because you chose me, when you didn’t have to.

You are my home, my war, and my peace. And for as long as I breathe, I will spend every day deserving the crown you place in my hands today."

We’re pronounced husband and wife.

He leans in, kisses me like we’re sealing a pact that’s bigger than either of us. And maybe we are.

When we turn to face the small circle of people who’ve stood by us through every storm, I grip his hand and whisper to myself:

“This garden once held my childhood dreams. But today, it holds my future.”

The breeze smells like salt and sun-warmed stone as we step into the villa, high above the sea. Everything here is quiet. Untouched.

No security detail. No ringing phones. No distant hum of engines or footsteps shadowing our lives. Just the sea below us, stretching into forever.

I breathe it in. This stillness. This luxury that isn't bought but earned through survival.

Stefano watches me with a private sort of satisfaction as I take it all in. The stone walls are kissed with ivy, the furniture aged with love, not wear. The villa curves around itself like it was built to hide lovers from the world.

When I turn to him, he simply says, "It’s just us here."

That evening, we eat on a candlelit terrace that looks out over the water. The sun melts into the horizon in streaks of gold and rose. We don’t say much. We don’t need to. His hand stays on mine the whole time, thumb brushing gently over my knuckles, like a vow he keeps repeating in silence.

Later, when he carries me inside, there’s no urgency in him. Just reverence. His touch is slow, his kisses reverent. The weight of everything we’ve endured makes the moment feel holy.

“There’s no power play here,” he whispers, his lips brushing my collarbone. “No legacy. Just us.”

“And that’s everything,” I whisper back, cupping his face like it’s the only thing I want to hold onto for the rest of my life.

In his arms, nothing hurts. Nothing haunts. Only the man and the woman who chose each other, above all else.

The morning light is soft when I wake. A breeze drifts in through the open windows, carrying the rhythm of waves and the scent of salt. I stay still, wrapped in his arms, listening to the beat of his heart beneath my cheek.

He’s still sleeping, his brow relaxed, his breath steady. No one else gets to see him like this. Not even Vittorio.

Only me.

Marriage hasn’t altered the foundation of us. It’s simply carved the word ‘forever’ into the beams.

When he finally stirs, he kisses my hair, and without a word, reaches over to the nightstand drawer.

“I wanted to give you something,” he says, pulling out a small velvet cloth. He unwraps it and places a tiny wooden box in my hands.

Its surface is smooth, made of dark walnut, clearly old and loved. On the lid, a single word is carved in imperfect but deliberate letters: ‘Sempre.’

Always.

I open it slowly. Inside, a delicate ballerina twirls to the soft, sweet tune of a lullaby I don’t recognize—but I know it’s not random.

He watches me, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maria used to hum that when I couldn’t sleep. I found the box years ago and restored it. I carved that lid myself.”

I blink, the tears already spilling. “Why give it to me?”

“Because when I think of 'always'—I think of you.”

My voice shakes. “I will keep it safe. Just like I’ll keep your heart.”

Later, we try to cook lunch. He insists on making the toast. He burns every slice. I laugh so hard I nearly fall off the counter.

“You’re hopeless,” I say.

“I’m dangerous,” he corrects.

“Dangerously bad at cooking,” I tease.

We swim in the secluded bay. I chase him into the surf. He dunks me. I retaliate. Our kisses taste like seawater and laughter.

It’s the lightest I’ve felt in years.

That night, wrapped in a thick blanket under a canopy of stars, I rest my head on his chest.

“I want to build something one day,” he murmurs. “A home. Not an estate. A real house. One where our kids won’t have to look over their shoulders.”

I don’t cry.

I grip his hand.

“Let’s build it,” I say. “Brick by brick.”

The music box plays softly from the bedroom window, the ballerina still spinning in the dark.

For the first time, we weren’t running from anything.

We were running toward something—together.