Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
We're pregnant!
"I took some artistic liberties," she explains from behind me. "They don't actually say 'We're pregnant' but—"
I turn, enveloping her in my arms, eliciting delighted giggles. "When did you find out?" I inquire.
"Earlier today. I've been sketching like a mad woman. I wanted this moment to be special."
"Mission accomplished."
"Now that we've got the cheesy part out of the way, I can jump your bones, right?"
I smirk. "I love you."
She launches herself at me, wrapping her legs around my waist. I carry her to the couch and gently lay her down. "A baby," I whisper.
"I know," she says. "A family, a future, a life together. Are you prepared, Don Moretti?"
"I've been ready for months," I confess, claiming her with a passionate kiss.
Epilogue
Sienna
Eight Years Later
"I love the way Angelo's forehead furrows when he concentrates," I murmur as we stand on the sidelines, watching Angelo align his putt-putt shot. I squeeze my husband's arm affectionately. “He reminds me of you."
Nico smiles down at me, his silver hair glistening in the sunlight, his eyes considerably lighter than when we first met. He remains as captivating as ever, his muscles prominently defined beneath his loose white shirt.
On my other side, Isola squeezes my hand, her voice a hushed whisper. “Is he going to beat Daddy's record, Mommy?"
"He certainly has a chance," I reply.
"Is Daddy going to be mad?" Isola teases.
Nico grins. "I'll be immensely proud, little diva, just as I'm proud of you."
Isola beams radiantly. She treasures her father's endearment, "little diva." In truth, she adores everything about him—a quintessential daddy's girl—and I wouldn't want it any other way. Nearby, Gianna cradles Raffi in her arms, gently rocking him. No one possesses her grandmotherly magic for soothing our youngest's tantrums.
Angelo sinks the ball, then turns to us with his father's unmistakable smile. "One more hole, Dad, then it’ll be my picture hanging in the lobby."
"Good luck, son."
We follow him to the final hole.
"I hope he makes it," Nico whispers. "It would mean everything to him. Do you remember the first time we brought him? Barely out of diapers, yet instantly captivated by the club. He couldn't take his eyes off it."
"That was truly magical," I murmur.
But that’s par for the course, because we’ve had a magical life. Between Nico's expanded control of the city, his relentless efforts to eliminate its darker elements, and my artistic exhibitions and classes—not to mention the profound joy derived daily from being a wife and mother—we've achieved something remarkable.
When Angelo completes his shot, he spins toward us, bouncing excitedly. "That's it, right, Dad? Mom? That's the record?"
Nico tallies the score on paper with a pencil, exchanging a knowing glance with me that transports me back years to our first visit here. One night, I had stipulated then. But one night transformed into one lifetime.
“You did it!" Nico exclaims.
"Yay, Angie!" Isola dashes onto the course, throwing her arms around her big brother. She takes his hand, thrusting it triumphantly in the air. "Mommy, Daddy, he did it, he really did it!"
THE END