The Numbers Written In Blue Ink

Eight months later.

Snow was falling over the lake, blanketing the backyard of our new home in pristine white.

The massive Christmas tree in the corner of our living room was decorated with silver and blue ornaments. A fire roared in the hearth, casting a warm, golden glow over the hardwood floors.

The house was chaotic in the best possible way.

Sofia’s three children were running around the kitchen, chasing a golden retriever puppy Luca had brought home two weeks ago.

My mother was sitting on the sofa, arguing good-naturedly with Vittorio about the proper way to make marinara sauce.

“Elena, I am telling you, a pinch of sugar ruins the acidity of the tomatoes!” Vittorio insisted, waving his cane for emphasis.

“And I am telling you, Vittorio, if you don’t balance the acid, you give everyone heartburn!” my mother shot back, laughing.

I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching them.

I was wearing a soft, cream-colored cashmere sweater. My left hand rested gently over my slightly rounded stomach, where the newest Moretti was safely growing.

I felt a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist from behind.

Luca pulled me back against his chest, resting his chin on my shoulder.

“They’ve been arguing about tomatoes for twenty minutes,” Luca murmured, kissing my cheek.

“They love it,” I smiled, leaning into him.

Luca placed his large hand over mine, resting it gently against my stomach.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

“Perfect,” I whispered.

And I meant it.

The foundation was thriving. The syndicate was a ghost story of the past. Our family was safe, whole, and completely surrounded by love.

Vittorio noticed us standing in the doorway.

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He tapped his cane on the floor to get everyone’s attention.

“Alright, alright, enough about tomatoes,” Vittorio announced. “It’s time for dinner.”

We moved into the dining room.

The table was set beautifully.

Luca pulled out my chair, pressing a kiss to my temple before I sat down.

My mother sat to my right. Sofia and the kids filled the other side.

And at the head of the table sat Vittorio Moretti.

He raised his glass of sparkling cider.

“Last year,” Vittorio said, his voice thick with emotion, looking directly at me. “We sat at a table filled with shadows. We were surrounded by enemies wearing the faces of friends.”

He looked down the table at Luca.

“But my son found the light,” Vittorio smiled. “And he brought her home to us.”

He raised his glass higher.

“To family,” Vittorio declared. “To the ones we’ve found, and the ones who are on their way.”

“To family!” we all echoed.

The clinking of glasses filled the warm, bright room.

I looked at Luca. He was watching me with a look of absolute, unshakeable peace.

He reached under the table, his hand finding mine. His thumb traced the silver cuff on my wrist, right next to the diamond on my finger.

I squeezed his hand back.