Page 46 of Bound By Honor

“Children,” Dominic warns, but I catch the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. The familiar bickering seems to lighten the air itself, making it easier to breathe.

“Papá?” Luca’s small voice cuts through the moment, and my chest tightens at the hope in his tone. His dark curls—so like mine—are slightly mussed from where he’s been fidgeting with excitement all evening. “Does this mean we’re staying? For real?”

The room stills as Dominic crouches beside my son’s chair. The Don of the Chicago underworld, brought to his knees by a six-year-old’s innocent question. The irony isn’t lost on me.

“Yes,piccolo.” Dominic’s voice carries a gentleness I’ve rarely heard. “You and your father are Salvatores now. If you’ll have us as your family.”

Luca’s face lights up with pure joy. “Even Zio Marco? Even though he’s grumpy?”

“I’m not grumpy,” Marco protests, but his eyes dance with barely suppressed laughter. “I’m stoic. There’s a difference.”

“There really isn’t,” Aurora teases, the chandelier light catching the mischief in her eyes. Her hand squeezes mine under the table, a silent celebration.

The tension that’s haunted this room since that night in the safe house dissipates with each shared laugh, each casual touch, each moment of acceptance. I watch them—my son, my love, our newfound family—and something shifts in my chest. The weight I’ve carried since Maria’s death feels lighter somehow, transformed by the warmth of this moment and the promise it holds.

Dominic raises his glass once more. “To family,” he declares, voice steady now. “Both blood and chosen.”

“To family,” we echo, crystal clinking like bells of absolution.

As the evening mellows, conversation flows easier than the wine. The formal dining room feels warmer now, transformed by laughter and shared stories. Candlelight dances across the antique silver, casting soft shadows that seem to blur the lines between past and present, between old wounds and new beginnings.

“And that’s when your father,” Enzo gestures dramatically, nearly knocking over his wine glass in his enthusiasm, “decided to take on three Russians with nothing but a fountain pen.” His eyes sparkle with mischief as Luca leans forward, completely entranced.

“It was one Russian,” I correct, fighting a smile as I remember that night. “And he was already unconscious.”

“Minor details.” Enzo waves his hand dismissively. “You’re missing the artistic vision here,fratello.”

Aurora’s laugh rings clear across the table, the sound making my heart stutter in my chest. “Let me guess—in your version, the pen was actually a sword?”

“Well, now that you mention it...” Enzo strokes his chin thoughtfully. “It was a very special pen. Possibly enchanted. Definitely platinum.”

“Christ,” Marco mutters into his wine glass. “This is why we don’t let him tell bedtime stories. Last time, he convinced my nephew that pigeons are actually government spies.”

“They could be!” Enzo defends, reaching for the bread basket. “Have you ever seen a baby pigeon? Exactly. Suspicious.”

Luca bounces in his seat, his dessert fork abandoned in his excitement. “Tell another one! DidPapáreally fight a bear?”

“Absolutely not,” I say firmly, though warmth spreads through my chest at his obvious hero-worship.

“It was more of a large dog,” Enzo stage-whispers, winking at my son. “Very fierce. Possibly part wolf.”

“It was a chihuahua,” Dominic deadpans from the head of the table, surprising us all. “And your father screamed like a girl. The great Luciano Vitale, brought low by six pounds of pure fury.”

“That’s slander,” I protest, but I can’t help laughing at Luca’s delighted giggle. “The dog was clearly rabid.”

“It was wearing a pink bow,” Dominic counters, his eyes twinkling. “And a sweater with butterflies.”

Later, we migrate to the private wing, where formality dissolves into comfortable intimacy. The space feels different tonight—warmer somehow, as if the walls themselves have absorbed the evening’s joy. Soft lamplight creates pools of amber warmth, and the leather sofas still hold traces of Dominic’s imported cigars mixed with Aurora’s jasmine perfume.

Luca curls into Aurora’s lap on the plush sofa, fighting sleep despite heavy eyelids. His small fingers play with the pendant at her throat—her Mamma’s necklace, now a bridge between past and future. The sight makes my chest tight with emotions I can’t quite name.

“One more story?” he pleads, voice thick with approaching dreams. “The one about the brave knight?”

“Tomorrow,piccolo.” Aurora strokes his hair, her movements so natural it makes my heart ache. She starts humming softly—some half-remembered lullaby that sounds like peace and promises and home.

“But I’m not even tired,” he protests, even as his eyes flutter closed.

I watch them from the doorway, memorizing every detail: the way the firelight catches Aurora’s hair, turning it to liquid gold; how Luca’s small hand curls trustingly around her necklace; the absolute rightness of them together.

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