Three months later.

The city had returned to its quiet, predictable rhythm, but my life had changed forever. I had resigned from my position at the archive, taking on a new role managing the historical preservation of the Visconti family's vast art and manuscript collection—a job that let me use my passion while remaining firmly within Stefano's secure world.

It was a warm, golden Saturday afternoon. St. Bridget’s parish hall looked entirely different today. The leak in the roof had been fixed, the walls had been painted a warm cream, and sunlight streamed through the clean stained-glass windows, casting brilliant jewel-toned light across the polished wooden floor.

Long tables were set up down the center of the hall, covered in fine white linen, arrangements of red roses, and a magnificent four-tiered chocolate cake. Dozens of guests—friends from the community, parish members, and Stefano’s extended family—filled the room with laughter and music.

I stood in the small dressing room off the main hall, admiring my reflection in the full-length mirror. I wasn't wearing a white gown. Instead, I wore a breathtaking, custom-designed crimson silk dress—a modernized homage to the dress my mother had left behind for me.

A quiet knock sounded at the door, and Stefano stepped inside. He wore an immaculate charcoal tuxedo, his silver-touched hair styled neatly, looking every bit the formidable man who had captivated me months ago.

He walked up behind me, wrapping his strong arms around my waist, resting his chin softly against my shoulder as we looked at our reflection in the glass.

"You are stunning," he murmured softly, his lips brushing against the side of my neck, sending a familiar spark through my body.

"I thought red was appropriate," I smiled, turning in his arms to wrap my hands around his neck. "Considering the dress code."

Stefano chuckled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, velvet box. He opened it to reveal my mother’s silver locket, beautifully restored, polished to a mirror shine, and hung on a delicate new platinum chain.

He carefully fastened the necklace around my neck, his fingers lingering on my skin. He turned me around to face him, looking down into my eyes with an intensity that took my breath away.

"When I received your text three months ago," Stefano said softly, his hands resting on my hips, "I thought I was answering a call from the past. I thought I was simply executing a final duty for my father."

He leaned in, touching his forehead to mine.

"I didn't know I was meeting the woman who would give me a future."

I smiled, reaching up to cup his face in my hands. "And what happens now, Don Visconti?"

Stefano smiled back—a real, radiant laugh that showed no trace of the cold mobster he had once been forced to be.

"Now," Stefano whispered, leaning down to capture my lips in a promise that would last a lifetime, "we eat cake."