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We are a wreck. A surviving, breathing, stubborn wreck.
"Let's go home, Neve." His voice rumbles through his chest and into mine.
Home. I press closer, breathing him in, letting the word settle into the hollow spaces Vivienne carved out of me tonight.
"Together," I whisper. "Maybe tomorrow I can teach you how to make apple tarts. My regulars are going to lose their minds when I walk through that door again."
His arms tighten and his lips find my hair. For one long breath, the rain and the blood and the bodies fade to nothing and all that exists is his heartbeat against my ear and the impossible fact that we survived.
Then reality taps me on the shoulder with cold, wet fingers.
The girl who chose an oven over an empire just killed the only person standing between her and every dollar, every property, every blood-soaked corner of her father's world. Vivienne is gone. The lawyers have no one left to fight. There’s only me and now Thane.
Which means the Castellano crown belongs to me.
"Thane?" I lace my fingers through Thane's and pull him toward the street.
"Yeah, sweet girl."
"I think I just inherited a billion-dollar empire I don't want."
His chest shakes beneath my cheek. A low, rough laugh that vibrates through my bones.
"One crisis at a time, Neve."
Fair enough. But the crown is heavy, even when you're pretending you dropped it in the gutter three years ago.
EPILOGUE
NEVE
Six months after I pulled the trigger in that alley, my biggest battle is getting apple tarts out of the oven before my belly bumps the rack.
"Come on, come on, come on." I grip the edge of the commercial tray with both oven mitts and slide it free with a careful twist of my hips. Golden brown crusts glisten under the kitchen lights. Caramelized apple filling bubbles at the seams, and the wave of cinnamon, warm butter, and brown sugar hits me so hard my mouth waters and my belly grumbles.
I set the tray on the cooling rack and press a hand to the swell beneath my apron. Six and a half months along and this baby already has opinions about breakfast. I can tell apple tarts are going to be a family favorite for a very long time. I settle my palm over the spot where I get a flutter of kicks. They are light, like a soap bubble popping, and my entire chest floods with warmth.
"Yeah, I know. They smell incredible and are hard to resist. You get that from me."
The new commercial oven hums behind me. It’s twice the size of the one I started with and more reliable than anything I could have afforded six months ago. A new stand mixer sits on the counter across from my station, heavy-duty and gleaming. New display cases arrived last week. I’ve polished and cleaned the glass so many times Thane has threatened to take my cleaning supplies away. I can’t help it. Every piece of equipment in this kitchen is top-of-the-line, purchased with money I stopped questioning after Thane explained it in the simplest terms possible.
"It's mine. Now it's yours. Stop arguing and tell me what size mixer you need. And how many."
That conversation lasted forty-five seconds. He won.
I load a second batch of tarts into the oven and set the timer. The streetlights outside my front window glow amber against the pre-dawn dark. Chicago is still asleep, but my regulars will start filing in at six thirty, and the line has doubled since I reopened.
Word travels fast in this neighborhood. The baker who vanished for a week came back with a tall, scarred, terrifying man who carries flour bags like they weigh nothing and glares at anyone who holds eye contact with me for more than three seconds. Rumors practically write themselves.
My regulars love him. They're also scared of him. Both reactions seem to please Thane equally.
The bell above the front door chimes at five fifteen. I don't look up from the buttercream I'm piping onto a custom order because I already know who just walked in. Spicy sandalwood wraps around me before he reaches the counter.
A heavy bag of flour lands on the prep table beside me. Then another. Then the sound of the walk-in cooler opening and closing as he stocks the dairy delivery I didn't ask him to handle.
"Morning, sweet girl."
“Morning, Daddy.”
