And with all of these, I thought we were finally safe. That the worst was behind us.
But I was wrong.
What’s left of the Morettis launched one final desperate attack on our estate three weeks after Salvatore’s arrest. Family members loyal to the old man, cousins and nephews and distant relatives who wanted revenge for the destruction of everything they’d built their lives around. They blamed Dante for theirpatriarch’s imprisonment, for the loss of their money and power and status. They came at night, heavily armed, determined to make him pay for his betrayal.
I remember the sound of gunfire shattering the windows. Remember the alarms blaring and the guards shouting and the smell of smoke as parts of the estate caught fire from the assault. Remember grabbing Luca and running for the panic room while the house erupted in chaos around us, my heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe.
And I remember the moment Dante took a bullet.
We were almost close to the safe room when one of the attackers broke through our security. Dante shoved Luca behind him, put his body between our son and the gun, and the shot caught him in the chest. He went down hard, blood spreading across his shirt, and I thought he was going to die. Thought I was watching the man I loved bleed out on the floor of our burning home after surviving the worst moments.
Luca was screaming. The attacker was raising his gun for a second shot, aiming at Dante’s head, ready to finish what he started.
And I moved without thinking.
Dante’s gun had fallen when he went down. I grabbed it, raised it, and pulled the trigger. Center mass, exactly where to kill.
The man stumbled backward, shock on his face. I shot him again. And again. And again, screaming until he stopped moving and the gun clicked empty.
I killed another person that night, my second kill. Chose violence to protect my family. Stood over a body with a smoking gun inmy hands and felt nothing except the desperate need to get to Dante, to stop the bleeding, and to keep him alive.
I’m forever changed. I know that now. The girl who left Portland would never recognize the woman I’ve become. But I can’t bring myself to regret it. Not when Luca is alive. Not when Dante survived.
He spent two weeks in the hospital. The bullet missed his heart by inches, the doctors said. A few centimeters to the left and I would have been planning a funeral instead of sitting by his bedside, holding his hand, waiting for him to wake up. I barely slept those two weeks. Barely ate. Just sat there watching his chest rise and fall, terrified that each breath would be his last.
When he finally opened his eyes, the first thing he said was Luca’s name. The second thing he said changed everything.
“I’m done.”
I thought the pain medication was making him confused. “Done with what?”
“All of it. The criminal life. The violence. The constant looking over our shoulders.” He reached for my hand, his grip weak but determined. “We’re going to dismantle everything. Go completely legitimate. Build something clean.”
“Dante, you don’t have to?—”
“I want to. I should have done it years ago.” His grey eyes met mine, clearer than I’d ever seen them. “I almost died in front of our son. I’m not doing that again. I’m not putting you through that again. We’re done.”
And he meant it.
Six months later, we’re living in a secure but normal home in the countryside outside New York. It’s nothing like the estate, no armed guards at every entrance, no panic rooms, no bulletproof windows. Just a regular house with a big backyard and a tire swing Dante hung from the old oak tree because Luca begged him for three days straight. There’s a vegetable garden that I’m slowly killing despite my best efforts, and a dog named Biscuit that Luca picked out from the shelter last month.
Dante runs a legitimate security company now. Protecting people instead of destroying them, he says with a huge smile. Using all those skills he developed over decades of violence for something good. The business is doing well. Turns out there’s a market for security consultants who actually know what they’re talking about, who’ve seen real threats and know how to neutralize them.
Luca calls him Dad now. Not D, not Daddy sometimes and D other times. Just Dad, said with the easy confidence of a child who knows exactly where he belongs. He’s in therapy twice a week, working through the trauma of everything he witnessed, and his therapist says he’s making remarkable progress. Kids are resilient, she tells us. Especially kids who feel safe and loved.
He feels safe now. I can see it in the way he sleeps through the night without screaming, the way he runs to Dante when he comes home from work, the way he laughs at stupid jokes and fights with his cousins and acts like a normal six-year-old instead of a child who survived a warzone.
Tonight we’re having a family dinner. The kitchen is a mess with smears everywhere.
Rosa is at the stove, arguing with Dante about whether the sauce needs more garlic. Elena is setting the table while herkids run circles around the living room, chasing Luca in some complicated game that involves a lot of screaming and occasional furniture climbing. I’m supposed to be making a salad but mostly I’m just watching, taking it all in, and marveling at how normal everything feels.
Elena catches my eye and smiles. She’s doing better now. The trust fund Dante set up after Marco’s death has helped her rebuild, given her the security to grieve without worrying about bills or the kids’ futures. She’s become close to us over the past months, part of our strange little family, connected by loss and loyalty and the shared understanding of what it means to love someone in this world.
“Luca, stop climbing on the couch!” I call out, not really expecting him to listen.
“But Mom, we’re playing volcano!”
“Play volcano on the floor!”
