Chapter 7 - The Sweetest SundayThree months later, the freezing November rain had given way to the warm, golden light of a late spring Sunday morning.
The iron gates of Falcone Manor stood wide open, welcoming delivery trucks carrying fresh flowers, caterers, and guests. But today, the visitors weren't syndicate bosses or corrupt politicians. They were neighbors, doctors from Boston General, and Chloe—now out of the hospital, running across the manicured lawns with a basket of golden retriever puppies trailing behind her.
Inside the industrial kitchen, the cast-iron skillet was hissing once again.
I stood at the stove, wearing a simple white linen dress instead of a maid’s uniform, flipping golden-brown potato cakes while the smell of fresh biscuits filled the air.
Footsteps approached behind me.
Three sets.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around my waist from behind, pulling me gently back against a solid chest. Roman rested his chin on my shoulder, breathing in the scent of vanilla and baking dough.
“If you keep cooking like this,” Roman murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my neck, “you’re going to ruin my reputation as a ruthless mafia kingpin. People will start thinking I’m domestic.”
“Good,” I laughed, turning around in his arms and looping my arms around his neck. “Ruthless is exhausting anyway.”
Declan walked in, grabbing a hot biscuit off the cooling rack and burning his fingers in the process, earning an immediate glare from Gabriel, who was leaning against the counter pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Smells like Sunday,” Declan muttered happily around a bite of biscuit.
I looked around the sunlit kitchen—at the gleaming copper pots, the laughing voices drifting in through the open windows from the lawn, and the three brothers who had once been terrifying strangers, now standing beside me as family.
The twelve dollars in my old coat pocket were long gone, replaced by a future I never thought I’d be allowed to have.
May you like
We had survived the fire, the ledger, and the war. And as Roman pulled me close for a morning dance right there in the middle of the kitchen floor, I knew one thing for certain:
Some doors only open when you finally stop running.
