Page 159 of The Cost of Silence

The Ledger ran my latest piece last week.

This time, the tip came from me.

No anonymous package. No shadowy “insider” whispers. Just months of legwork, documents Rossi smuggled out of old safe boxes, and a very careful collaboration with ISM’s legal team to blow up what was left of Orlov’s empire without giving anyone an excuse to come at us with guns.

My editor cried when he read it. Patrick sent flowers. The comments section called me everything from “sell-out” to “hero” to “mafia mouthpiece.” I didn’t read more than three.

For the first time in my career, I wrote a story that didn’t leave me feeling like I’d broken something that couldn’t be repaired.

It feels… good.

I’m not naïve. The world doesn’t bend to one article. But sometimes it shifts an inch.

Sometimes that’s enough.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Nico murmurs behind me.

I tilt my head back against his chest as he slides his arms around my waist. He smells like rosemary and aftershave and home.

“Bit expensive,” I say. “They’re mostly about carbs.”

He laughs quietly, breath warm against my ear. “I can provide those.”

His fingers brush over my left hand, where the ring sits. It isn’t flashy, no twenty-carat rock, no ostentatious family heirloom. Just a simple band with a small diamond and a tiny engraving on the inside, marking the date we met. Our wedding was the same, just the people we love the most, watching as we said our vows.

He’d gone red when he explained it, saying he’d fallen in love with me that day.

The timer on the oven dings. Matteo yells something about “get your asses in here before this goes cold,” and the living room begins to empty as people drift toward the table.

I turn in Nico’s arms and look up at him. “You happy?” I ask.

He thinks about it, which I appreciate.

“Scared,” he says, honest as always. “Always a little angry. Still cleaning up messes I didn’t make. Domenico didn’t walk in here alone, and whoever opened that door and betrayed us is still breathing, still hiding. But… yes. I’m very happy.”

“Me too,” I say, not stalling on the topic of the traitor in our ranks. That will come out. I’ve no doubt these men I call family now will find them.

Outside, snow has started to fall, soft flakes drifting past the glass. The city glows under it, diffused and gentle.

Inside, the house is full.

My mother arguing with Matteo about gravy. Letty climbing into Rossi’s lap with a storybook, and Adi is throwing him a smirk. Nico’s arm around my waist, his thumb drawing circles against my hip like he can’t not touch me.

Legacy sits in the room, too, of course. Enzo’s picture on the shelf. The ghosts of his choices. The weight of a name that means something very different now than it did thirty years ago. His bauble is joined now by my father’s and Nico’s mom’s, too. Each of them is with us in the memories we carry.

But it doesn’t feel like a chain anymore.

It feels like a story we get to rewrite.

“Nico?” I say.

“Yeah?” he answers.

“Thank you,” I say, and when he starts to protest, I cut him off. “For letting me in. For trusting me. For listening when I told you there was another way to do this. For not letting them turn me into a weapon against you and then walking away because it was cleaner.”

He presses his forehead to mine. “You did the same,” he murmurs. “You could have taken what Domenico said and walked. You didn’t.”

“I thought about it,” I admit. “For about thirty seconds. Then I remembered the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention, and I realized he was full of shit.”