Sunlight pours through the massive windows, right into the heart of our home. The Bianchi estate looks beautiful at this hour, and I smile at how happy my heart is and how full my home feels.
There’s chaos unfolding now in what used to be Marco’s pristine living room, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Two identical tornadoes with dark hair—our sons—are currently wreaking havoc on everything within their tiny reach.
Lorenzo has somehow managed to pull every cushion off the sofa and is now attempting to scale the resulting mountain, while Alessandro is methodically emptying a basket of toys with the focused determination of a tiny demolition expert.
I used to think war zones were loud. Clearly, I’d never experienced twin toddlers on their first birthday.
“Alessandro, no,” I call out as he reaches for one of Marco’s expensive crystal decanters that someone—probably Nicolo—left on the coffee table. “That’s not a toy, baby.”
My son looks at me with those devastating green eyes he inherited from his father, considers my words for exactly two seconds, then continues reaching for the crystal.
Of course.
The Bianchi stubbornness starts early.
I scoop him up before he can destroy something worth more than most people’s cars, and he immediately starts babbling in that adorable gibberish that somehow sounds distinctly Italian.
Even though they are only one right now, I know that someday, these boys will be heartbreakers.
“You’re getting heavy, little man,” I murmur against his dark hair, breathing in that sweet baby scent that still makes my chest tight with love.
A little more than a year ago, I didn’t know if I’d ever get to hold them. If Marco would survive to meet them. If any of us would make it through the war I’d started.
And now—look at us.
“Trouble already?” Chiara’s voice carries across the room, warm with amusement.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, having given up any pretense of keeping her designer dress clean while she helps Lorenzo with his cushion fort.
My sister looks radiant—truly happy in a way I haven’t seen since we were children.
“They take after their father,” I reply, shifting Alessandro to my hip. “Stubborn, destructive, and far too charming for their own good.”
“I heard that.” Marco’s voice rumbles from the doorway, and my pulse still does that ridiculous flutter whenever I hear it. Even now, he still makes my heart race like the day we first met.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching our domestic chaos with a softness in his eyes and something like wonder on his face. The man who once ruled an empire through fear and intimidation is completely undone by the sight of his sons destroying his living room.
It’s possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’re outnumbered now, amore,” I tell him, grinning. “Two against one. You don’t stand a chance.”
Marco pushes off from the doorframe and crosses to where Lorenzo is now attempting to use a throw pillow as a launching pad. He sweeps our son into his arms in one smooth movement, earning a delighted squeal.
“They take after me,” he says, his voice full of pride and mock arrogance. “Which means they’re smart enough to know who to team up with.”
“God help us all,” Chiara mutters, but she’s smiling as she says it.
My sister has found her own happiness in the past year—a good man who treats her like the queen she is, makes her laugh, and never once asks her to be anything other than exactly who she is.
I’ve never seen her so settled, so at peace with herself.
Maybe we were never meant to be only daughters of war, after all.
“The guests should start arriving soon,” I say, glancing at the antique clock on the mantel. “You sure you’re ready?”
Marco shifts Lorenzo to his other arm and reaches for me with his free hand, pulling me close until we’re a tangle of parents and babies in the middle of our sunlit living room.
“Ready for what? Having my former enemies in my house to celebrate my sons’ birthday?” His mouth quirks up at the corner. “Dolcezza, you once broke into my compound with an army. I think I can handle a birthday party.”
The front door chimes, and I hear Nicolo’s voice echoing through the foyer. “Where are my godsons? Uncle Nicolo has presents!”
“Uncle Nicolo needs to learn how to knock,” Marco mutters, but there’s affection in his voice.
Nicolo appears in the doorway moments later, looking ridiculously pleased with himself and carrying what appears to be half a toy store in his arms. His usual lazy confidence fills the room as he surveys the destruction.
“I still can’t believe you managed to civilize him, Aria,” he says, nodding toward Marco with a grin. “I mean, look at this place. Toys everywhere, baby-proofed corners, actual laughter. It’s like a completely different house.”
Marco scoffs. “I’m still debating whether I should kill you for that comment.”
“You wouldn’t,” Nicolo replies without missing a beat, setting down his mountain of gifts and immediately reaching for Alessandro, who goes to him willingly. “I’m your only competent second-in-command. Plus, Aria would probably shoot me herself if I made her find a replacement.”
Marco doesn’t argue with that assessment, which is probably wise. I’ve become something of a legend in our organization—not as someone to be commanded, but as an equal partner. The backbone of operations, as Nicolo once put it. It’s a role I never expected to love, but somehow fits me perfectly.
“Besides,” Nicolo continues, bouncing Alessandro expertly, “someone has to teach these boys how to properly terrorize their father. It’s a sacred duty.”
“Absolutely not,” I say firmly. “They’re already little demons without your influence.”
The door chimes again, and I hear Ettore’s distinctive laugh mixing with a woman’s voice and the sound of children. My heart does a complicated little flip of happiness and nerves.
Ettore Greco was once my strongest ally in the war against Marco. The man who stood at my side, ready to burn down the Bianchi empire.
Now he’s coming to my house as a guest, with his wife and twins, to celebrate my sons’ birthday.
Strange how life works out sometimes.
I smooth my dress and go to greet them. Marco falls into step beside me, Lorenzo still balanced on his hip, and I feel that sense of rightness that’s become as familiar as breathing.
Ettore stands in the foyer with Mirabella—Bella, as I’ve learned to call her—and their own set of twins, who are, of course, older than ours. Seeing Ettore in my house, looking completely at ease, still feels surreal.
“Never thought I’d enter a Bianchi estate without a gun in my hand,” he says by way of greeting, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Marco steps closer to me, his free arm sliding around my waist in that possessive way that used to annoy me and now just makes me feel cherished.
“I still remember when you wanted to put a bullet in me,” Marco replies, his tone conversational but with an edge of steel that suggests he hasn’t completely forgotten, either.
Ettore raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “Still do. Some habits die hard.”
“You two are impossible,” Bella groans, shifting her daughter to her other hip. “We talked about this. No death threats at the birthday party.”
I can’t help but laugh as I reach for Bella, embracing her warmly. She’s become one of my closest friends over the past year—a sharp, funny woman who somehow always manages to keep Ettore in line.
“You look incredible,” I tell her, and mean it. Despite being busy raising two energetic kids, she’s glowing.
“I’m running on two hours of sleep and pure caffeine, but I’ll take the compliment,” she replies with a tired smile. “How are you holding up? One year with twins is no joke.”
“Some days I think the war was easier,” I admit, watching Alessandro immediately reach for Ettore’s son with grabby hands. “At least enemies were predictable.”
“Speaking of predictable,” Ettore says, watching Marco carefully, “how are you adjusting to domestic life? Last time I saw you, you were convinced the world would end if you couldn’t control every variable.”
Marco’s arm tightens around me slightly. “I’m learning that some variables are worth the chaos.”
There’s something in his voice—a contentment I never thought I’d hear from him. This man, who once needed to control everything, has found peace in the beautiful unpredictability of family life.
The afternoon unfolds in a blur of laughter. Watching Ettore and Marco slowly warm to each other—not quite friends, but no longer adversaries—feels like watching a small miracle.
Lorenzo grabs a fistful of cake and tries to shove it in his mouth. Alessandro, not to be outdone, immediately tries to follow and ends up face-first on the carpet, howling his displeasure until Marco scoops him up and whispers something in Italian that makes him giggle.
“They’re going to be trouble,” Bella observes.
“They already are,” I reply, but my voice is full of love. “The best kind of trouble.”
As the sun sets, I find myself standing at the window, watching Marco and Ettore discussing something that looks suspiciously like business. Chiara and Bella are deep in conversation about something that has them both laughing, and Nicolo is attempting to teach four children how to stack blocks with limited success.
This is my life now. This chaos, this love, this beautiful mess of people who were once enemies and are now family.
Marco appears beside me, sliding his arms around my waist from behind and pulling me back against his chest. I lean into his warmth, feeling the solid strength of him, the steady beat of his heart against my back.
“Still think you should have killed me, dolcezza?” he murmurs against my ear, his voice low and teasing.
I turn in his arms, looking up into those that now shine with nothing but love and contentment.
“Not today,” I reply, my arms sliding around his neck. “Ask me again when they’re teenagers.”
He laughs—rich and genuine and completely unguarded—and the sound fills my heart with joy.
“Then I guess you’re stuck with me,” he says, leaning down to brush his lips against mine in a kiss so delicious that it beats the birthday cake.
I look around the room again—at the people we’ve fought for, the family we’ve built from the ashes of war, and the life we’ve created together against all odds. This beautiful, chaotic, perfect life.
“Yeah,” I whisper against his lips, thinking of the scared, angry woman I used to be, the one caught between war and vengeance who believed love was weakness. “I’m finally home.”
It’s funny, in a way—how everything started with a name that wasn’t mine. When Marco and I first signed the marriage papers, the world still thought I was Chiara. Legally, it was all wrong. But in every way that mattered, it was right. Just a month ago, when the dust finally settled, we fixed it. Just the two of us. A quiet morning at city hall, no need for witnesses—he wanted it on record that I’m his, officially and without confusion. And maybe that’s what love is, after everything: not perfect beginnings, but choosing each other, over and over, until even the messiest story becomes something that feels like home.
And for the rest of my life, that’s exactly where I want to be.
THE END
