“That’s not romantic,” I tell him.
He’s grinning up at me. “Say yes anyway.”
“Yes.”
He’s up off the floor before the word’s all the way out. He pulls me into him and kisses me like the world is ending, and maybe it is—maybe the old one ended tonight and maybe what’s starting now is something new.
Below us, the courtyard is quieting. The trials are ending. The men who are going to live are getting to their feet.
Lorenzo is somewhere in the house. Probably found Victor’s liquor by now. I can almost hear him deciding which bottle he’s earned.
Victor’s head is on the gravel.
And I’m standing on a balcony in a stranger’s towel, freshly engaged to the most dangerous man in the city. And I couldn’t be happier.
What a fucking night.
EPILOGUE
BEA
Two months later…
The back patio. The ocean. A glass of wine I’ve actually had time to finish while it’s still warm.
There are still guards. A few. Discreet ones—the kind you don’t clock until you’re specifically looking, which I’ve stopped doing. They’re part of the property now, like the hedges and the outdoor furniture we argued about for two weeks before Raffaele caved on the color. Small victories.
It’s strange, being still.
For so long there was always something coming. A name I didn’t recognize. A sound outside the window. A convoy in the driveway before I’d had my coffee. Now it’s just the waves doing their patient, indifferent thing, and the sun doing its slow fall toward the water, and the man I’m going to marry somewhere inside the house on a phone call that will, for the first time in months, end at a reasonable hour.
I’ve started cooking again. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it. I discovered Abuela’s old cookbook with handwrittenrecipes among her belongings, and it means a lot to connect with her through them.
I have no idea what Abuela would have thought of Raffaele—she’d definitely have somestrongopinions about his line of work—but I think her heart would ultimately have softened at how happy he makes me. And how supportive he is of my cooking.
He eats everything I make and calls it the best meal he’s ever had. I’m still trying to figure out if he means it or if he’s just in love.
Either works for me.
“Hey there.”
I turn.
He’s in the doorway. White shirt, dark pants, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. No visible gun, which means it’s at the small of his back, which I know now the way I know which mug is mine and which side of the bed is his.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I look at him over my wine glass. “The last time you surprised me, two people died.”
“They deserved it.” He holds out his hand. “This is different.”
“You’re going to need more than that.”
“I promise.”
