Chapter 7 - Epilogue — The Dawn Over the AtlanticThree months later.
The morning sun rose over the Atlantic, spilling brilliant, golden light across the stone terrace of the Russo estate. The wrought-iron security gates had been repaired, stronger and more heavily reinforced than before. The shattered stained glass in the foyer had been replaced with custom panes depicting an old Italian crest—a falcon and a rose intertwined.
Inside the master suite, I stood before the gilded dressing room mirror, buttoning a simple white linen blouse.
My hospital badge was finally gone, permanently retired and locked away in a memory box in the west wing vault. In its place, my name plate on the board of the newly restructured Russo-Hastings Foundation gleamed proudly beside Dominic’s office downtown.
We had won.
The federal audit against Dominic’s real estate holdings had been formally dropped after Special Agent Thomas Vance resigned under investigation for corruption, following his father’s indictment for grand larceny and misuse of public funds. The Tarasov syndicate had fractured into a dozen warring factions fighting for scraps after Dominic systematically dismantled their financial pipelines across the East Coast.
And Liam? Liam was currently serving an eighteen-month sentence in a minimum-security facility in Vermont, taking accounting classes, attending therapy, and writing me long, apologetic letters every Sunday.
A pair of strong, familiar arms wrapped around my waist from behind.
Dominic rested his chin on my shoulder, his warm lips brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a familiar, electric shiver through my veins.
"You're staring at your reflection again," he murmured, his voice rich with morning gravel.
"I'm just making sure I'm still real," I smiled, leaning back against his chest, letting my hands rest over his arms. "Sometimes I wake up and wonder if I'm still dreaming in the back room of Il Posto while the rain falls outside."
Dominic turned me around in his arms so I was facing him. He looked down at me, his dark eyes entirely devoid of the cold, predatory armor he wore for the rest of the world. Here, in the quiet sanctuary of our home, there was only warmth, absolute devotion, and an unshakeable peace.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box—not an antique this time, but a modern platinum band set with a single, flawless diamond, designed to sit flush against his grandmother’s gold ring on my left hand.
"You aren't dreaming, Norah," he whispered, sliding the new ring onto my finger beside the old one. "You survived the fire. You broke the vault. You became the queen of a world that tried to crush you."
"And you?" I asked, raising my eyebrows with a playful, teasing smile. "Did you ever get the pretend wife you asked for?"
Dominic’s dark eyes softened into something impossibly tender. He leaned down, capturing my lips in a slow, deep, unending kiss that tasted like morning coffee, sea salt, and forever.
"I never wanted a pretend wife," he murmured against my lips, pulling me flush against his heart. "I just needed you to figure out what I knew the second you walked through that door."
"And what was that?"
May you like
"That you were already mine."
Outside, the Atlantic ocean crashed endlessly against the stone cliffs below, a powerful, eternal rhythm singing out across the water—a song of survival, of iron, of blood, and of a love that nothing in this world could ever break.
