Page 119 of Fierce Hearts

EPILOGUE

GRAYSON

Istood in the nursery, my son cradled against my chest, his tiny body warm and solid in a way I never knew could fill every empty space inside me. His eyes were closed, long lashes resting against cheeks still flushed from his entrance into the world. Marcello Caine Donati-Savoca. Named for slight reference to Sofia's cousin and the name I'd wanted as his middle name—a bridge between our families, our pasts, our futures.

Sofia rocked in the rocking chair beside me, exhaustion etched into every line of her beautiful face. Even with dark circles under her eyes and her hair pulled back in a messy bun, she was the most stunning woman I'd ever seen. Two days of labor had tested her limits, but she'd fought through it with the same fierce determination she brought to everything.

"Here, drink this," Gabriella urged, pressing a steaming mug into Sofia's hands. "It will help with your milk."

Sofia accepted the tea with a grateful smile. "Grazie, Mama."

The nursery walls were a soft white-gray with hand-painted constellations spanning the ceiling—Sofia's idea. The furniture was sturdy mahogany, built to last generations. Everything in this room was meant to endure, just like our family.

"He has your nose," Gabriella observed, leaning over my shoulder to study her grandson's face.

"But Sofia's mouth," I countered, tracing my finger over his tiny lips. "And her stubbornness. Did you hear how he screamed when the doctor tried to clean him up?"

Sofia laughed softly. "Already fighting the world."

"A true Donati-Savoca," I said, unable to keep the pride from my voice.

Little Marcello shifted against me, his tiny fist working free of the swaddling to press against my chest. Something profound tightened in my throat. This perfect creature—half me, half Sofia—was the culmination of a journey that began with a dance at my sister's wedding. A journey I nearly lost multiple times.

"How are you feeling?" I asked Sofia, studying her face for any signs of discomfort beyond the expected.

"Like I pushed a watermelon through a keyhole," she replied dryly. "But worth every second."

Gabriella clicked her tongue. "You should rest more. The first days are precious but exhausting."

"I'm fine, Mama." Sofia's tone was gentle but firm—the same voice she used when directing her family's operations. "I've faced worse than childbirth."

Indeed she had. In the months since taking control of the Savoca family, Sofia had revolutionized their operations. With Leo's guidance and her aunts' support, she'd dismantled decades of patriarchal tradition. Women now held positions of power throughout the organization. Those who couldn't accept the new order were given a choice—adapt or leave, with the understanding that return meant death.

Remarkably few had chosen exile. Most of the men had recognized Sofia's leadership qualities immediately, especially after witnessing how she'd handled Ernesto. Those who hesitated were convinced by the Donati backing and the increased profits from our merged operations.

All while getting married and being pregnant. She truly was a force to be reckoned with.

"Cara called while you were sleeping," I told Sofia. "She wanted to know if we needed anything."

Sofia's face softened at the mention of Marco's widow. "She's been so supportive."

Their friendship had been unexpected but healing for both women. After Ernesto's death, Sofia had made connecting with Cara and little Rosette a priority. What began as obligation transformed into genuine affection. Now Cara was considering moving closer to Ironstone to have her own life once more whilst allowing her daughter to see what the Savocas were becoming, how they'd changed. It was something Sofia had said Rosette should know, that Marco, her father, was the reason the change had begun, he was a hero, and should be remembered as such.

"She said Rosette drew a picture for the baby," I added. "She's bringing it when they visit next week."

Sofia's eyes glistened. "That sweet girl. She's so excited to be a cousin."

I shifted Marcello in my arms, marveling at how perfectly he fit there. "Do you want to hold him again?"

"Let mama have a turn," Sofia said as she nodded to her mother. "I had him for nine months. I can share for a few minutes."

Gabriella didn't need to be asked twice. She set down her mug and held out her arms. I carefully transferred my son to his grandmother, watching as she cooed to him in Italian, the same lullabies she must have sung to Sofia decades ago.

"I'll start dinner," I announced, pressing a kiss to Sofia's forehead before heading to the kitchen.

We'd chosen to stay in Sofia's house, although we were considering moving somewhere with more land as Marcello grew, and if more came along.

The thought made me smile. More little creations of ours, so perfect in every way. Carrying the light of their mother.

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