Page 31

STEFANO

Montana mornings taste different than Chicago's. Cleaner. Sharper. Like possibility itself has a flavor, and it's mountain air and pine and endless sky.

I stand on the wraparound porch of our ranch house, watching the sunrise paint the distant mountains gold. Coffee steam rises from my mug, mingling with my breath in the cool morning air. After almost two years, and I still haven't tired of this view. Of this peace.

Of this life I never thought I'd have.

" Papà ! Papà ! Look!"

Gianni's excited shout draws my attention to where my son toddles across the yard, bundled in a tiny puffy jacket against the autumn chill.

At eighteen months, he's a force of nature—all determined energy and boundless curiosity. His dark curls bounce with each step, his chubby cheeks flushed with excitement as he points to something in the grass.

Ava follows a few steps behind him, her smile tender as she watches our son's discovery. She's wrapped in one of my old flannels, her growing belly just starting to show beneath the fabric. Four months along with our second child, and somehow even more beautiful than the day I found her again.

"Be careful, piccolo ," she calls, though there's no real worry in her voice. Not here, where the greatest danger is a scraped knee or a splinter.

How far we've come from that warehouse in Chicago. From blood and violence and desperate gambles. From mistrust and forced vows and obsession that bordered on madness.

I set my coffee down and descend the porch steps, crossing the yard to join my family. Gianni looks up at me, his face—so like mine but softened by Ava's features—splitting into a delighted grin.

"Frog, Papà !" he exclaims, pointing to a small green amphibian making its unhurried way across our lawn. "Big frog!"

I crouch beside him, feeling the familiar twinge in my left knee—a souvenir from the Fiori warehouse that the Montana winters don't let me forget. "That's right, campione . A very big frog."

His blue eyes—exact replicas of mine—widen with wonder. "Take home?"

Ava laughs, the sound still my favorite melody after all this time. "I think Mr. Frog would rather stay outside with his family, don't you?"

Gianni considers this with adorable seriousness before nodding. "Okay. Bye-bye, frog." He waves solemnly as the creature disappears into the tall grass.

I scoop him up, settling him on my hip with practiced ease. His weight against my chest, solid and warm, still feels like a miracle some days. A gift I never thought I'd deserve.

"Did you call Tony?" Ava asks, coming to stand beside us. Her hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining automatically.

"This morning. He's finishing a big project, but he'll be here next weekend."

Her smile widens. "Good. He needs a break from all that studying."

Tony's transformation has been almost as dramatic as our own. Two years sober now, he’s thriving in his third year of architecture school.

The angry, scared teenager who once stole our car and got drunk at parties now calls every Sunday, sends Gianni little models he's built, and has a girlfriend who seems to be smoothing his remaining rough edges.

"He said to tell you he's bringing the plans for that greenhouse you wanted." I press a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "Still trying to grow those Italian tomatoes?"

"Some of us weren't raised importing everything we want," she teases, bumping her hip against mine. "Besides, Gianni loves tomatoes."

"'Matoes!" our son confirms enthusiastically, though I suspect he'd declare his love for anything Ava suggested.

The ranch spreads out around us, three hundred acres of Montana wilderness that's become more home than anywhere I've ever lived.

The main house—all timber and stone and massive windows—sits nestled against the mountains like it grew there naturally. The barn is to the east. The clear lake to the west is where Gianni had his first swim this summer.

All of it was purchased with legitimate money, through legitimate channels. The final step in my extraction from "the life", as Ava calls it.

Tomasso runs things back in Chicago now. We speak weekly, his updates becoming increasingly business-like as the Rega empire transitions into something more corporate, more above-board.

He never mentions the other aspects of the organization—the ones that still operate in shadows—and I never ask.

Some knowledge is better left behind.

The girls are still taken care of, still working at The Silk Rose. Kira came to visit last week and threatened to make Ava hire her as a nanny so that she could stay in the beauty of our home. I wouldn’t be surprised if my wife actually takes her up on the offer.

My only other connection to Chicago—my mother and sister—moved to the island a few months after our wedding. It was hard to accept the change at first, especially being away from Angela. They also visit us at least twice a month, but much like Tony, they’ve settled into a routine that brings them peace—at least when it comes to my mother. Angela is getting restless the older she gets.

"Breakfast?" Ava asks, reaching up to smooth a wild curl from Gianni's forehead. "I made those blueberry pancakes you love."

Our son squirms to be let down, already racing toward the house at the promise of his favorite food. I keep hold of Ava's hand, pulling her back gently when she moves to follow him.

"Hey." I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, allowing my fingers to linger against her cheek. "Have I told you today?"

Her smile turns soft, knowing exactly what I'm asking. "Told me what, Mr. Rega?"

"That I love you." The words still feel new sometimes, despite how often I say them now. Like a gift I'm constantly unwrapping. "That you're everything."

She rises on her toes to press her lips to mine, a gentle kiss that promises more later when little eyes aren't watching. "You might have mentioned it this morning. But I never get tired of hearing it."

I rest my free hand on her stomach, feeling the slight swell there. Our daughter, according to the ultrasound last week. Another miracle I never thought I'd witness.

"I had a call from the realtor yesterday," I tell her as we walk toward the house, following the path of our impatient son. "That property next to the lake is available. The one with the good southern exposure."

Ava glances at me, eyebrow raised. "The one you said was 'ridiculously overpriced' last month?"

I shrug, unable to contain my smile. "Maybe I've reconsidered its value. It would make a good location for that wellness retreat center you've been talking about."

Her eyes widen. "Stefano, are you serious? That's...that's a huge investment."

"In you. In your dream." I squeeze her hand. "You've supported mine. Let me support yours."

The wellness retreat has been Ava's passion project for months now—a place for people to come to heal, reconnect with nature, and learn yoga and meditation from her personally. It’s a far cry from her days as a con artist or a reluctant exotic dancer, but I know she wants this.

"I don't know what to say." Her eyes shine with unshed tears, pregnancy hormones making her more emotional than usual.

"Say yes." I stop us at the foot of the porch steps, turning to face her fully. "Say you'll build something amazing. Say our children will grow up watching their mother create beauty and healing in the world."

She laughs, the sound catching on a sob. "When did you become such a poet, Stefano Rega?"

"When I finally had something worth writing poetry about."

We're interrupted by the screen door banging open as Gianni reappears, face sticky with what appears to be prematurely sampled maple syrup.

"Pancakes!" he announces imperiously. "Now!"

Ava and I exchange amused glances. Some aspects of the Rega temperament are clearly genetic.

"Your son," she murmurs, eyes dancing with mischief.

"Definitely my son at this moment," I agree, scooping him up again. "Come on, campione . Let's get you cleaned up before breakfast."

Inside, our home is warm and filled with morning light. It’s so different from the cold, modern penthouse in Chicago or the sterile hotel room where I once forced Ava to become my wife. This place, we’ve built together—choosing every beam, every stone, every piece of furniture as a team.

As we move through our morning routine—wiping sticky fingers, serving pancakes, drinking coffee between attending to a toddler's endless needs—I'm struck again by how ordinary it all is. How wonderfully, beautifully normal.

No weapons hidden throughout the house. No security teams watching our every move. No enemies plotting our downfall.

Just a family. Building a life.

Later, when Gianni is down for his nap, and the house is quiet, I find Ava on the back deck. She's sketching something in the notebook she carries everywhere these days—floor plans for her retreat center this time.

I wrap my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder to peek at her work. "Looks good."

She relaxes against me, tilting her head to rest against mine. "It's still just a dream."

"All the best things start that way." I press a kiss to her neck, feeling her pulse beneath my lips. Strong. Steady. "Like us."

She turns in my arms, setting the notebook aside. "Is that what we were? A dream?"

"A dream. A nightmare. An obsession." I trace the curve of her jaw, still marveling that I can touch her like this—freely, lovingly, without fear or manipulation between us. "Now we're just reality. The best kind."

Her smile is slow, knowing. "And you don't miss it? The power? The fear in people's eyes when they hear your name?"

I consider the question seriously, knowing she deserves honesty. "Sometimes I miss certain parts. The adrenaline. The certainty of purpose." I meet her gaze directly. "But I'd trade it all again in a heartbeat for this. For you. For our family."

She searches my face, finding whatever reassurance she needs there. "Good. Because I have news."

"News?" My hands settle on her hips, holding her close.

"Mmm." Her eyes sparkle with that mischievous glint I've come to adore. "Dr. Ramirez called while you were putting Gianni down."

My heart skips a beat. "Everything okay with the baby?"

"Perfect." She takes my hand, guiding it to her belly. "So perfect that there are two of them."

The world stops. Restarts. Stops again.

"Two?" My voice sounds distant to my own ears. "Twins?"

She nods, watching my reaction carefully. "Identical girls, apparently. Are you...is that okay?"

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, joyous and disbelieving. "Okay? Ava, that's..." Words fail me, so I lift her instead, spinning her in a careful circle that pulls a surprised laugh from her throat.

When I set her down, we're both breathless, grinning like fools.

"Three children," I murmur, shaking my head in wonder. "If someone had told me three years ago that I'd be here, a rancher in Montana with three children and the most beautiful wife in the world..."

"You'd have had them killed for insulting your intelligence?" she suggests dryly.

I laugh, the sound echoing across our land. Our home. Our future.

"Probably. But they'd have been right all along."

I draw her close again, marveling at how perfectly she fits against me. How completely my life has transformed from darkness to light.

From monster to man.

From obsession to love.

" Ti amo, tesoro ," I whisper against her hair. "With everything I am."

Her arms tighten around me, her voice soft but certain. "I love you too, Stefano. Always."

The end.