Page 87 of Twisted Vows

She doesn’t pull away.

“I can’t promise you peace,” I say quietly, the words as raw as the feelings behind them. “But I’ll give you everything I have, Ari. Whatever that means.”

She studies me for a long moment, then slowly nods. “It’s a start.”

Her tension eases, but mine doesn’t. Not fully. Because this—her standing in front of me, still willing to believe I can be more than a weapon—is more terrifying than any war I’ve fought.

The tension in her shoulders eases, and I feel something shift between us. It’s not resolution, not entirely. But it’s something. A step forward.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The storm has passed, but its ghosts remain.

Ari

I lean against the wrought-iron railing of the balcony, my fingers tracing absent patterns over the cold metal as the cool air brushes against my skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and the last traces of rain.

My body feels heavy, and I notice something strange…it’s quiet.

No gunfire. No whispered threats. No bodies hitting the floor. Just the steady rise and fall of my breath in the cool morning air.

It should feel like a relief.

Instead, it feels like the sharp edge of something unfinished.

The threats haven’t disappeared, but for the most part, the war is over. Giovanni is dead. Sal is dead. The alliance has held.

And yet, as I stand in this unfamiliar home, I know that my own battle is about to begin. I have to decide where I fit in this world now that I’m no longer fighting for a place in it.

I picture my husband’s beautiful face and the way his hands wrapped around mine last night, firm but careful, as if I was something both dangerous and necessary.

For so long, I have been someone’s responsibility. A Bianchi daughter. A strategic pawn. A wife given to seal an alliance. But now?

Now, for the first time in my life, I am something else.

Something of my own making.

A sharp knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I turn as Mila steps inside, her brows bunched together. “Your mother is downstairs.”

The words hit like a strike of lightning.

I straighten and walk inside. “My mother?”

Mila nods. “She arrived ten minutes ago. Told me to serve her coffee.” She pauses. “I don’t think she came here to fight.”

I laugh, sharp and dry. “Then she must be lost.”

Mila doesn’t smile. She just waits.

I inhale slowly, letting the cool air steady me. Donatella Bianchi does not visit. She commands. She demands. She summons.

If she is here, onmyturf, she wants something.

And for the first time, I am no longer a girl desperate to earn her approval.

I head toward my closet, already deciding how this is going to play out. “Have them serve her another cup,” I say. “I’ll be down shortly.”

When I enter the room, Ma is waiting with a tight smile on her face. She sits perfectly poised on the white velvet settee, a porcelain cup balanced in one manicured hand. The sunlight slants through the windows, catching on the pearl buttons of her dark blazer, turning her into something statuesque. Composed. Distant.

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