Page 106 of Mafia Kingdom

I take James’s outstretched hand and notice how he doesn’t look like his brothers, and then I remember from when I was younger that he was adopted.

“Lovely to meet you,” I say and smile even as we stand in the middle of carnage.

“You, too.” James lets my hand go and pats Marco on the arm.

“Let’s get out of here.”

I follow them as they navigate through the warehouse, stepping carefully around the fallen bodies. Each face we pass tells a story that ended too soon. I try not to look, but my eyes betray me. These were people once. Now they're just...obstacles on the concrete floor.

The brothers stop suddenly, and I nearly bump into them. Their father lies before us, his body still and unfamiliar in death. The silence between them feels crushing.

"We could have helped him," James says, his voice breaking with hurt. The words hang in the air, heavy with regret and possibilities that will never be realized.

Footsteps echo from the far end of the warehouse. I tense up, but it's only Damien, the third brother, his face grim as he approaches. No words are exchanged as the three brothers bend down in unison. They lift their father with gentle hands, cradling him as they might have done in life. His limbs hang loose, head lolling back unnaturally.

I stand frozen, an outsider witnessing their private grief, unable to look away as they carry him to the waiting van. They place him in the back, movements deliberate and careful, as if he might still feel pain.

My heart hammers against my ribs. This night will never leave me. The images are burned into my memory—the bodies, the brothers, their silent coordination in handling their father's corpse.

A warm hand slips into mine, startling me. Marco's fingers intertwine with my own, anchoring me to the present. His face is etched with exhaustion, but his eyes hold steady as they meet mine.

"It's over," he says softly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. "Let's go home."

I nod, unable to find words. Home sounds impossible, distant—a concept belonging to a different world than this oneof blood and warehouse lights and dead fathers. But I hold onto Marco's hand like a lifeline as we turn away from the scene, taking the first step toward whatever "home" might mean after tonight.

EPILOGUE

Six Months Later

I STEP INTO the kitchen and pause to admire the symphony of motion around me. Steam rises from pots, knives flash against cutting boards, and calls of "Yes, Chef!" punctuate the controlled chaos. My chef's coat feels crisp against my skin, the embroidered "Executive Chef" still gives me a little thrill every time I catch sight of it.

"Table seven is waiting on the risotto," I call out, weaving between stations with practiced ease.

Six months ago, I couldn't have imagined this. My own restaurant. My own kitchen. My own rules.

The aroma of saffron and seafood fills my nostrils as I lean over to inspect a dish before it goes out. "More microgreens, lighter hand on the sauce," I instruct, watching as the line cook nods earnestly and makes the adjustments.

Through the pass, I can see into the private dining area where Lily sits with Karen and my dad. School books are spread across the table alongside an elaborate chocolate dessert that Emilio, our pastry chef, created specifically for Lily. Dad points at something in Lily's notebook, his face relaxed and clear-eyed as he helps explain a math problem. The change in him is remarkable—three months of rehab and six months sober havebrought back the man I once knew, before gambling and alcohol took him away. I know his recovery wouldn’t have been possible without the first-class rehabilitation center that Marco paid for. It’s the same one where Baz is; he’s recovering slowly, too, and they believe he will be back to himself in a few more months.

"Sasha, look! Dad helped me figure out fractions!" Lily waves a paper enthusiastically when she spots me watching.

"That's amazing, Lil! We'll celebrate properly when I'm done here," I call back, feeling that familiar surge of pride.

Dad looks up and gives me a genuine smile—something I wouldn't have believed possible a year ago. Karen sits beside him, a careful distance between them. Their relationship is still strained, wounds still healing after years of her picking up his pieces. But they're trying, for Lily's sake. I catch Karen's subtle nod to me—our own private language of co-parenting that we've developed.

We're an unusual family, but we're making it work.

I'm so focused on plating a special order that I don't notice the shift in the kitchen's energy until I hear someone call, "Boss is here."

My head snaps up instinctively, and there he is—Marco, standing by the back entrance.

He's different here. Softer around the edges, though no less commanding. His eyes find mine across the kitchen, and the world narrows to just us for a heartbeat.

After everything, he still makes my heart stutter.

I finish what I'm doing and make my way over to him, wiping my hands on a towel.

"Checking up on your investment?" I tease, but there's no bite to it.

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