: Epilogue

Four Years After.

“I NOW BAPTIZE YOU IN the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit for the forgiveness of your sins and the gifts of the Holy Spirits.”

Our second child, Joshua Romeo Keaton, was baptized in St. Raphael’s church in Little Italy in front of our friends and family just days after I received my undergraduate degree in law. I held Josh when the priest trickled holy water on his forehead, looking to my left at my husband, who cradled our very sleepy three-year-old daughter, Emmaline.

As I scanned the long wooden pews to look for the people who made my heart sing, I realized how incredibly blessed I was. I found my mother and her new beau, Charles ‘Charlie’ Stephens, whom she’d been dating for the past six months. He held her hand in his and whispered softly in her ear. She pointed at sleepy Joshua in my arms, and they shared a chuckle. Next to them, Clara and Patricia (or Sterling, as my husband still insisted on calling her) were shedding happy tears, dabbing their faces with tissue. Andrea sat there with her new boyfriend—a Made Man named Mateo and I knew, by the way they held hands, that this was the one guy she would let kiss her—next to some of my school friends and the new governor, Austin Berger. Missing in action, and not by accident, were the people who had loaded obstacles on Wolfe’s and my happily ever after. The people who pushed us together yet tore us apart each in their own way.

My father was in prison, serving a twenty-five-year sentence for attempted murder. Shortly after Mama came to live with us, he tried to take her life. He went mad after he realized her filing for divorce wasn’t just a phase. Naturally, he blamed me and Wolfe for her decision to better her life and leave her abusive husband, who’d left countless purple welts all over her body through their past few years together before I came back from Switzerland. Since Papa had paid some serious money to White under the table, and the latter had tried dragging his feet with collecting evidence against him when my mother’s car blew up to the sky in front of Wolfe’s and my house, an internal, quiet investigation against White and Bishop took place, and the police chief and former governor were now on trial for receiving bribery and illegal campaign contributions from the infamous Arthur Rossi.

During the media coverage of the high-profile case, the person who kept coming up in the news as an example for good morals was my husband, who married into The Outfit yet made sure not to have anything to do with my father or his business.

I felt my husband’s thumb swiping across my upper cheek as he wiped away a tear of joy from my eye. He chucked me under the chin, then grinned. He’d made his way over to me without my even noticing. I was too wrapped up in how fortunate we were. Joshua fussed in my arms, and the priest took a step back and smoothed back his thin and velvety dark hair.

“He was made with God’s love,” Father Spina commented.

My husband scoffed beside me. He wasn’t big on God. Or people. He was big on me and our family. The priest stepped away, and my husband plastered his lips to my ear. “While you did call me god, he was not present during the conception.”

I chuckled, holding Josh to my chest and breathing in his pure scent of new life, shuddering with intense joy coursing through my veins.

“Are you ready to take the little ones home? I think they need their sleep.” My husband put a hand on my shoulder, our daughter fast asleep in the crook of his other arm. We decided to refrain from a big party after the baptism, seeing as our family was constantly in the news because of the trial.

“They’re not the only ones. I could use some sleep, too,” I murmured into my son’s temple.

“Sterling and Clara can take care of Emmie and Josh while I ruin what’s left of your innocence.”

“I think you did a thorough job the first week we met.” I wiggled my brows, and he burst out laughing, something he’d learned how to do slowly after we got back together. “Besides, don’t you need to fly out to DC this evening?”

“Cancelled it.”

“How come?”

“I’m in the mood for spending time with my family.”

“Your country needs you,” I teased.

“And I need you.” He drew me into a hug, kids and all.

Ms. Sterling still lived with us even though she was given strict instructions to stop eavesdropping—a rule she was surprisingly good at following. Clara lived across the city in my mother’s new house, but the two often helped with babysitting the kids together. Despite the fact my father was out of my life, I’d never felt more loved and protected by the people I cared about. And Wolfe was entering an important stage in his career. His time as senator would come to an end in less than two years.

“There’s somewhere I want to take you tonight. Your pump is already packed and in the car.” He chucked my chin. This was my life now. From cheating and fighting and tearing each other apart, we moved to a ritual that was so domestically blissful, I was sometimes terrified of how happy I was.

I am pink cotton candy at a fair, happy and bubbly and sweet. All fluff.

“Nothing says romance more than your husband packing your breast pump for you.”

“There’s always the alternative if you just keep your mind open.” He was referring to our last visit to a restaurant, when I was so engorged, I had to lock myself in the bathroom to pump myself manually into the toilet. He very kindly offered to drink the wasted milk. I wasn’t even sure he was entirely kidding.

“Our plan sounds cryptic.” I arched an eyebrow.

“Perhaps, but it’s fun.” He took Joshua from me, securing him in his baby seat before opening the car door for me. I got my driver’s license shortly after I’d moved back in with Wolfe. He was not the happiest to have me behind the wheel, or in a vehicle at all for that matter, while pregnant and at odds with my father. Too worried about the baby and me. But he also knew I needed my freedom.

After taking a lengthy nap, I slipped into an elegant red dress. Wolfe drove us to Little Italy with Clara and Sterling staying with the kids. I wore matching matte red lipstick and a smile that didn’t waver. Despite supporting my husband’s ambitions, I couldn’t deny my delight to hear he’d canceled his flight to DC to spend more time with us.

We stopped in front of our Italian restaurant, Pasta Bella, and I unbuckled, about to get out. My husband had purchased Mama’s Pizza not too long after my father had been convicted of attempted murder. He gutted and refurbished it, liquidating the dark memories the walls and cracks inside it harbored. It was just another dinner date, then. Nice and cozy. A chance to unwind and maybe drink a glass of wine. Wolfe put a hand on my thigh.

“Confession time.”

“We just left the church, Wolfe.”

“The only person I owe an explanation to is you.”

“Tell me.” I smiled.

“Angelo is about to announce his engagement to a girl he met at the accounting firm he works at.” Wolfe ran his fingers along my arm, cocking his head in the restaurant’s direction. “He’s a little tight on money, so he reached out to ask if he could have it here. I said yes. My ulterior motive? I know that you’ve been feeling a little guilty, so I wanted you to see that he is fine.”

My lips fell open in shock.

In the months and years after I found out that I was pregnant with Emmie, I often agonized over the fact that Angelo hadn’t moved on. He didn’t have a girlfriend or date anyone seriously. Shortly before he got his master’s degree, his father’s accounting firm shut down after the IRS had found that they’d been laundering money for The Outfit in the millions. Mike Bandini was firmly tucked away in prison now, serving twenty years. Angelo was still on good terms with his parents from what my mother had told me—he certainly took care of his mama and brothers—but he had officially cut all ties with The Outfit. It had been months since I’d asked Mama about him, and I guess he’d finally found someone.

Wolfe stared at me, trying to gauge my reaction. I could tell he didn’t want to upset me, but I could also tell that he really wanted me not to have an overemotional reaction one way or the other. Angelo was, and always would be, a sensitive subject in our marriage. I sliced him open by kissing Angelo in front of the entire world. He forgave, but I couldn’t expect him to forget.

I cracked a smile, yanking my husband into a hug.

“Thank you. That makes me so happy for him. And for me, too.”

“God, you’re perfect,” my husband muttered, sealing our conversation with a kiss. “I took you hoping for vengeance. I never thought I’d receive something so much more powerful. Love.”

He got out, rounded the car, and opened the door for me. Together, we walked into Pasta Bella, hand in hand. The only person I hadn’t thought about today, as nostalgia flooded me, was Kristen Rhys, the woman who orchestrated two of the worst days of my life. I knew we wouldn’t be bumping into her. After she cornered me at school, Wolfe had finally picked up the phone and answered her. He helped her find a job in Alaska, then proceeded to make her sign a contract more restricting than a restraining order. Rhys was not to return to the state of Illinois and seek us out. She gave him her word that she was done messing with our family.

“What are you thinking about?” my husband asked as he pushed the door to the restaurant open. Buttery, liquid light enveloped us immediately, candles and red tablecloths and rich wood everywhere. The place was packed, and among the bobbing heads and laughter, I found Angelo, his arm draped over the shoulder of a beautiful girl with long black hair and slanted eyes. We walked toward them.

“I’m thinking about how happy you make me,” I said, frankly.

We stopped two feet from Angelo.

He turned around and smiled at me, happiness shining from his blue, ocean eyes.

“We made it,” I whispered. “Apart.”

“You look beautiful, Francesca Rossi.” Angelo pulled me by the collar for a slow, suffocating hug, whispering in my ear. “But not as beautiful as my future wife.”

Six Years After

I watched my wife from what used to be her bedroom window many, many years ago, my hand caressing the wooden box where Emmeline—it was her room now—kept all her seashells. Francesca and I had agreed early into parenthood that we didn’t want to continue her family tradition of the notes. Too much pressure and confusion.

My eyes followed my wife as she said goodbye to her favorite vegetable garden that she had tended to for over a decade with Josh and Emmeline hugging each of her hips and little Christian in her arms. Sterling was there, too, rubbing my wife’s shoulder with a smile.

Later on tonight, we were going to board a plane that would take us to DC. I was going to start serving my country the way I’d dreamed about since I was an orphan—as the president of the United States.

We had dreams to chase, a country to serve, and a lifetime to love each other more fiercely and strongly than we did the last year. But as I looked down at her, I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that my decision to steal her under the starless Chicago sky ten years ago was the best choice I’d made.

I loved my country ferociously.

I loved my wife more.

THE END

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