Page 176 of Freed
“Yes.”
I exhale like I have been holding that breath since the day I first touched her.
I slide the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly. Of course it does. There are some details I refuse to leave to chance. Then I kiss her. When I pull back, she looks dazed.
“You know,” she murmurs, glancing down at the ring, “I still haven’t forgiven you for some of the things you’ve done.”
I laugh. “I know.”
“And you snore.”
“I do not.”
“And Stefano is definitely going to have your temper.”
“He’ll have your mouth,” I say darkly. “God help us.”
That makes her laugh, and the sound of it in this bright room, with our son between us and the morning light all over her hair, feels like something better than absolution.
I touch Stefano’s head. Then her hand. Then the ring.
Elizabeth watches me, amused and too perceptive as always. “What are you thinking?”
I lean down, kiss her temple, and answer honestly.
“That I behaved very badly when someone touched what I loved.”
Her smile deepens. “I noticed.”
“No,” I tell her quietly. “You still have no idea.”
And maybe that is true.
Because if she did, she would know that every bloody thing I have ever done in my life led me here— to a house full of light, to a sleeping son, to a woman wearing my ring, and to the impossible, grateful certainty that for once, I got to keep what I loved.
EPILOGUE #2
Birdie
***Two Years Later***
“Stefano Dante Conti, if you run into traffic, your father is going to have a nervous breakdown.”
Our son looks over his shoulder at me, dark curls bouncing, and grins with all the wicked delight of a little boy who knows exactly how much power he has over both his parents. Then he laughs and darts three more steps down the sidewalk. Lorenzo catches him by the back of his little jacket before he can make good on his escape, hauling him up with one smooth motion and settling him against his hip.
Stefano squeals in outrage.
“There,” Lorenzo says in a tone of deep satisfaction. “Problem solved.”
“You’re impossible,” I tell him, shifting Sienna Rose a little higher against my shoulder.
She’s half-asleep, warm and heavy in that perfect baby way, her cheek pressed against my chest, one tiny fist curled into the front of my sweater. At four months old, she alreadyhas Lorenzo’s dark hair and my stubborn refusal to be put down when she doesn’t feel like it. Her father is absurdly proud of both traits. And when she smiles she reminds me of the sister she’ll never know, who had the same smile.
Lorenzo glances at me over Stefano’s head. “He gets it from you.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Is it?”
