“What?” I ask sleepily, my voice rough.
“Nothing,” he says softly. “Just…I love you, Emma Santoro.”
My heart does this weird leap at that. Emma Santoro. His wife. Mrs. Leonardo Santoro.
The thought makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with morning sickness. But I can’t let him know how much that affects me and how much I want that.
So I smirk instead, even though my heart is racing. “You must have hit your head harder than I thought during the fight. I’m Emma Brennan, remember?”
He smiles, and it’s full of love and promise.
“Not for long you won’t be.”
EPILOGUE: EMMA
Six Months Later
I’m getting married.
Actually married this time. Not kidnapped-at-the-altar married. Not forced into a wedding I don’t want married. Real, honest to god, walking down the aisle by choice married.
To Leo Santoro.
The man who kidnapped me. Who I fell in love with. Who’s waiting for me in the chapel.
I’m also seven months pregnant, which makes the whole thing slightly more complicated.
And significantly more uncomfortable because this baby—ourdaughter—has decided that today is the perfect day to practice her kickboxing routine on my internal organs.
The chapel is small and intimate.
It’s nothing like the massive cathedral my father had planned for my wedding to Tony Lombardo. The reception alone would’ve made the social pages for months.
But this wedding? This is just us. Just the people who matter.
Well. Most of the people who matter.
I stand in the little room off the chapel that’s serving as my preparation area, staring at myself in the mirror.
My dress is cream-colored as I didn’t want white.
I’m not going to pretend this is some virginal first wedding when I’m very obviously pregnant with the groom’s baby.
It’s an empire waist to accommodate my belly, which is officially impossible to hide at this point.
It’s simple and beautiful and nothing like the cupcake monstrosity of a dress I was supposed to wear to marry Tony.
That dress had been a ridiculous amount of lace and ruffles and about seventeen layers of tulle.
I looked like a wedding cake exploded on me.
This dress is elegant, classic, andme.
Valentina is fussing with my hair, which she insisted on doing herself.
Leo’s sister has become one of my closest friends over the last six months, which is both wonderful and irritating because she has no filter and she doesn’t take anyone’s shit, which is a problem, because neither do I.
“Stop fidgeting,” she orders, pinning another curl into place. “You’re going to mess up my masterpiece.”
