Page 288 of Lorenzo

That finally gets everyone moving.

The room empties in stages, my brothers heading out first while Edoardo and Alessio linger long enough to straighten their jackets and make one last comment about my tie before following. By the time I am left alone for a few seconds, the quiet feels strange after all the noise.

I look at myself in the mirror.

This is really happening.

A few months ago, I was standing in Mario’s office while he asked whether I had ever thought about having more children, and I had no idea what to say because the idea of children was one I had long ago stopped thinking about.

Now Donatella is carrying my child. And in a few minutes, she will become my wife.

I smile at my reflection at the thought.

Then I head out.

When I walk down the aisle, I pass most of my family in their seats. Mario, Ricardo, and Diego are near the front, with Edoardo beside them. Victoria is holding Leonardo, who is determined to grab anything within reach, while Julia has Cecilia in her arms several seats away.

Matteo, Tomasso, and Dante are together near the front, and Rinaldi is a few rows back, fully healed after his injuries a few months ago.

He notices me looking and gives me a small nod.

I return it.

There are losses from that night that cannot be undone, but there is also this.

Life continuing.

Then the room quiets.

I turn toward the entrance.

Alessio appears first, and beside him is Mocha.

A quiet ripple of amusement moves through the room as they start down the aisle together. Mocha walks at Alessio’s side with the focus he usually reserves for actual work, apparently unaware that the small pouch fastened securely to his collar contains our wedding rings.

I cannot help smiling.

Donna had been adamant that he needed a role in the ceremony, and Alessio volunteered before anyone else had the chance.

When they reach the front, Mocha follows Alessio to take his spot with the others.

Then I look toward the entrance again.

And there she is.

Donna stands at the far end of the aisle, the bouquet in her hand resting against the curve of her stomach.

For a second, I forget everyone else is here.

Her dress fits her beautifully, elegant without trying too hard, and the pregnancy is unmistakable now. She has been complaining for weeks that the baby has started making certain positions uncomfortable, that her clothes no longer fit, and that everyone in my family has decided her stomach is public property.

None of that is what I see.

I see her.

I see the woman who walked into my life because my son was accused of murder and somehow became essential to me before I knew what was happening.

I see the woman who challenged me at every turn, who worked to free my son, who stood beside me while bullets were flying and then cried over the sound of our baby’s heartbeat.