Page 198 of The Art of Ruin

I’m happy enough to be free.

“I love you, Adriano Mancini.”

He closes his eyes and smiles before letting out an unsteady breath. “I love you too, Tesoro. Now and every day until I leave this earth.”

“Adriano, hurry the fuck up, bro.”

Adi closes his eyes and purses his lips as I try not to laugh. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“Don’t do that. I have plans for you after dinner that involve you and me naked and lots of screaming.”

“Tesoro, I love you, but I have to tell you I’m not into pain. At least not my own.”

I swat his belly and he grabs my arm and kisses my wrist.

“I love you.”

“Always, Tesoro.”

Epilogue: Casey

The Amalfi Coast in June feels almost otherworldly beautiful. Sunlight spills gold across the cliffs outside the villa, the sea glittering so brightly it hurts to look at for too long, and somewhere downstairs, Elena is yelling in Italian because Matteo apparently flirted with one of the wedding planners and then forgot to confirm the flower delivery.

Honestly, at this point, I think chaos is just how this family expresses affection. I smile to myself as I fasten the clasp on my earring, stepping barefoot onto the balcony for a second.

Warm air immediately curls around me.

Below, the terrace is already alive with movement. Staff carrying champagne. White flowers everywhere. Rossi stands near the pool, looking deeply suspicious of a man in linen trousers while Nico laughs at him from across the courtyard.

And Adriano—

God.

Even from up here, my eyes find him instantly.

Dark suit.

Sunglasses.

One hand curled loosely around an espresso while Matteo talks animatedly beside him.

Like always, Adriano senses me looking before I can look away.

His head lifts immediately toward the balcony.

And there it is.

That look.

He looks at me like I’m his favorite thing in the world. Heat blooms low in my stomach before he even smiles.

“Careful,” Isabella says from behind me as she steps onto the balcony holding two glasses of apple juice. “If you keep looking at each other like that in public, my mother is going to start demanding more grandchildren.”

I snort softly. “I think you have that covered,” I say, glancing down at her tiny bump. “And I’m not her daughter, you are.”

“True, but she sees you like her daughter and, honestly, at this point I think she likes those Mancini boys more than me.”

“Don’t we all?”