Page 127 of The Don's Soulmate

My father's eyes now brim with tears. It's a sight I've never seen before, and it catches me off guard. He steps closer, his gaze fixed on Carlotta's swollen belly.

"I...I want to meet my grandchild," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "If you'll allow it."

Carlotta's hand squeezes mine gently, and I look down to see her nodding, her eyes shining with compassion.

"Of course," she says softly. "He's family, after all."

“It’s a boy?” my brother asks, breaking into a wide smile.

My father's face, on the other hand, while joyful still crumples, years of regret etched in every line. "I've made so many mistakes," he confesses, his words barely audible. "I want to make amends. To be there for all of you. Carlotta, please know I shall protect you like a daughter."

As we stand there, an unlikely group united by blood and choice, I feel a strange sense of peace settle over me.

"Together," Carlotta whispers as if reading my thoughts. "We'll face whatever comes together. My family, for now, is still against us."

“For now,” my father clears his throat. “Your family is ours. If they support you, they will have the might of the Mancini’s behind them. Perhaps I should visit them tomorrow.”

“There’s no need,” Carlotta tries protesting.

“Please, child,” my father stops her in her tracks. “Allow me to do what I would want had I been in your father’s shoes. Perhaps he needs to know there’s a better way. Something tells me he cares for you, but is simply lost.”

Carlotta gently bows her head, accepting his wisdom.

My father then turns to me, with unshed tears. "Son, I... I'm proud of you. For breaking the cycle."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I've spent lifetimes seeking his approval, and now, in choosing to walk away from everything he built, I've finally earned it. The irony isn't lost on me.

"It's not going to be easy," I warn, my voice rough with emotion. "There are people who won't understand. Who'll see this as a weakness."

My brother steps forward, his jaw set in determination. "Let them come. We'll show them what real strength looks like."

My hands clench involuntarily, old instincts rising to the surface.

"We've got your back, brother," he adds, a hint of his old swagger returning. "All of us."

I look around the room at these people who've chosen to stand by us—my soulmate, my child, my blood. For the first time in countless lives, I feel truly, completely whole.

Epilogue

Carlotta

I stand beside Ettore at the grand entrance of our new mansion, a gift from our fathers, my heart fluttering with anticipation. The warm Italian breeze carries the scent of jasmine as our families arrive, their voices a melodic cacophony of greetings and laughter.

"Benvenuti," Ettore's deep voice rumbles beside me as he shakes hands with my father.

I lean in to kiss my brother's cheek. "Angelo, I'm so glad you could make it."

As guests filter into the opulent foyer, I can't help but marvel at how different this gathering feels from the tense family meetings of the past. But now, with everything behind us and having formed new alliances, all due to the hard work Ettore’s fatherput into forging one, there's electricity in the air, a sense of triumph and new beginnings.

Ettore's hand finds the small of my back, his touch possessive yet comforting. "Shall we move to the living room, amore?" he murmurs in my ear.

I nod, allowing him to guide me through the crowd. The living room reflects everything I love—our priceless art seized back from Ugo adorns the walls, a large bar runs from ceiling to floor, the fireplace burns warm, and crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the gathered families.

"What can I get everyone to drink?" Ettore's voice cuts through the chatter as he strides to the bar. "We have an excellent 25-year-old Macallan, or perhaps some Barolo for the wine enthusiasts?"

I watch as he effortlessly commands the room, pouring drinks with the confidence of a man accustomed to power. His cold blue eyes scan the crowd, assessing and calculating if the guests are truly enjoying the evening, even in this moment of celebration.

"Carlotta, tesoro," he calls, jerking me from my thoughts. "Come help me serve our guests."

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