Page 39

EPILOGUE

SALVATORE

D awn breaks over Lake Bracciano in shades of rose and gold, painting the water in colors that remind me of Rosaria's voice when she reaches the highest notes.

I stand at the window of our private villa, watching the light creep across the grounds while the sound I've been waiting for echoes through the house behind me.

A baby's cry. Strong and fierce and undeniably alive.

I turn from the window and walk quickly down the hallway toward the master bedroom. The midwife emerges from the doorway, her hands freshly washed, her face calm with the satisfaction of work completed.

"A son," she announces. "Healthy and demanding attention."

I enter the room where Rosaria lies propped against white pillows, her dark hair damp with sweat, her face pale but serene.

The baby rests on her chest, his tiny fists curled against the receiving blanket.

Even from across the room, I can see he has her eyes—dark and alert, already taking in this new world.

"Come meet your son," Rosaria says, her voice hoarse but steady.

I approach the bed slowly, struck by how small he appears in her arms. When she transfers him to me, his weight feels both insignificant and enormous. Seven pounds of possibility, of future, of everything I never knew I wanted until this moment.

His fingers wrap around my thumb with surprising strength. I study his face—the slope of his nose, the curve of his ears, the way his mouth moves in his sleep. He carries pieces of both of us, but mostly, he looks entirely himself.

"Vittorio," I say, testing the name we chose weeks ago. It fits.

Rosaria reaches up to touch his cheek. "He's perfect."

I pass him back to her and settle into the chair beside the bed.

Through the windows, the morning light grows stronger, burning away the last shadows of night.

Gianni's security team maintains their posts around the property, ensuring our privacy.

No reporters, no photographers, no intrusion from the outside world. This moment belongs only to us.

Eva arrives first, bringing homemade soup and bread still warm from her oven.

She cries when she holds Vittorio, whispering prayers in a dialect I don't understand but recognize as blessings.

Donata follows an hour later with flowers from her garden and a hand-sewn quilt that belonged to her own grandmother.

"He will be a great man," Donata declares, studying his sleeping face. "I can see it already."

After they leave, the villa settles into quiet contentment. Rosaria naps while I hold our son, learning the rhythm of his breathing, the sounds he makes in his sleep. Outside, the lake reflects the afternoon sun in patterns that shift and dance.

A car engine disturbs the peace. I move to the window, still holding Vittorio, and watch an unfamiliar sedan approach the back gate.

The driver leaves a package and departs without stopping to speak with security.

Gianni brings the box to me twenty minutes later, wrapped in cream linen and tied with silk ribbon.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper, lies a silver christening bracelet engraved with our son's name. Beneath it, a photograph shows a young man holding a baby girl—both strangers to me, but the resemblance to Rosaria is unmistakable. The note is brief, written in Emilio's careful script.

For your son, and in memory of his grandfather.

I carry the box to Rosaria, who has awakened and sits nursing the baby. She takes the photograph with one hand, studying it carefully.

"That's my father," she says quietly. "And me."

The emotion in her voice catches me off guard. Despite everything between our families, this gesture from Emilio carries weight neither of us expected.

The phone rings an hour later. I answer in my study, expecting business calls that require attention. Instead, Emilio's voice comes through the line, formal but not hostile.

"Congratulations on your son," he says.

I carry the phone to Rosaria, who takes it without hesitation.

"Thank you for the bracelet," she tells him. "And the photograph."

Their conversation lasts only minutes—polite, restrained, but lacking the venom that has characterized their recent interactions. When she hangs up, she looks thoughtful rather than upset.

"He said my father would be proud," she explains. "Of the baby, of the choices I've made."

"Do you believe him?"

"I want to."

When she finally turns toward me, I sit on the edge of her bed and she settles against me. Her head rests on my shoulder, and I can feel the exhaustion in her body beginning to surface now that the immediate demands of birth have passed.

"Your opera debuts in three months," I remind her. "After that, the world will want you to tour. Milan, Vienna, New York."

"I know."

"I want to marry you before that happens. Before your voice takes you to stages I can't follow."

She lifts her head to look at me. "Are you asking or telling?"

From my jacket pocket, I produce the ring I've carried for weeks—an emerald-cut diamond larger than anything she's ever worn, set in platinum and surrounded by smaller stones that catch the lamplight. Her breath catches as I slide it onto her finger.

"I'm asking," I say. "Will you marry me before you conquer the world?"

She studies the ring, then looks at our sleeping son, then back at me. "Yes."

Outside our window, the lake reflects the first stars of evening. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new decisions, new complications. But tonight, in this room filled with possibilities, we are exactly where we belong.