"But it's a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate having our family back together."
As if summoned by his words, the scent of something amazing drifts from the house—garlic and herbs and the kind of comfort food that means love in any language.
"Elena's been cooking all day," Rina explains, slipping her arm through mine. "Said she needed to keep busy or she'd go crazy worrying."
"I don't cook when I'm worried," Elena protests. "I cook when I'm planning to feed people who look like they haven't eaten a real meal in days." She gives Dante a pointed look. "Some people more than others."
"Hey, I was going through some stuff," Dante says, but he's grinning.
"Yeah, well, your 'stuff' doesn't excuse looking like a scarecrow."
As we head toward the house, I catch Marco watching Elena with an expression I can't quite read—something between exasperation and fondness.
But that's a mystery for another day. Right now, all I want is to sit around a table with these people who chose to love me, to be part of something bigger than myself, to build a life worth fighting for.
"Hey, princess," Dante murmurs as we reach the front door.
"Yeah?"
"Welcome home."
I look around at the faces surrounding us—my sister and mother, Elena with her fierce loyalty, Marco with his steady strength, Vito with his hard-won respect. Even in the shadow of whatever's coming with the Costellos, even knowing the danger isn't over, I've never felt safer.
Because this time, I'm not just surviving the storm. I'm part of the family that's going to weather it together.
"Yeah," I say, squeezing Dante's hand. "I'm home."
Dante
Six Months Later
I'm standingat the altar trying not to fidget with my tie when Marco leans over and whispers, "You look like you're about to throw up."
"I'm not going to throw up," I mutter back. "I'm just... processing."
"Processing what?"
"The fact that I'm getting married in the same church where I killed three men during Rina's first wedding attempt."
Marco snorts, trying to cover it with a cough when Father Alessandro shoots us a disapproving look. "Only you would find that romantic, Dante."
He's not wrong. When Sofia suggested we get married at St. Anthony's—the same church where the Rossos have held family celebrations for three generations—I pointed out the obvious irony. Her response was typically Sofia: "Then we're reclaiming it. Making new memories to replace the bad ones."
Can't argue with that logic. Though I still think it's a little twisted that our wedding guests are sitting in the same pews where I once dove for cover during a shootout.
The organ music shifts, and my stomach does this weird flutter thing that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the fact that in about thirty seconds, I'm going to see Sofia in a wedding dress. A real one this time, chosen because she loves it, not because some psychopath forced her into it.
The side door opens, and Elena appears first, looking elegant in dark blue and shooting me a wink as she takes her place. Behind her comes Rina, radiant in her role as matron of honor, dabbing at her eyes like she's been crying for the past hour. Which, knowing Rina, she probably has been.
Then the music changes again—Wagner's "Bridal Chorus," because Sofia has a sense of humor about tradition—and everyone stands.
And there she is.
Jesus Christ, there she is.
The dress is simple, elegant, nothing like the elaborate nightmare Kieran had picked out. This one is all Sofia—clean lines, delicate lace, the kind of understated beauty that takes your breath away. But it's not the dress that makes my chest tight.
It's her smile. Pure joy, no fear, no doubt, just happiness as she walks down the aisle toward me. Toward us. Toward the life we're choosing together.
