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Her eyes met mine. “Drake?”

“Chiara Bianchi,” I said, using her birth name because it felt right for this moment, “I’ve spent most of my adult life alone. Convinced that was safer—for me and for anyone who might care about me. Then you arrived and turned everything upside down.”

Her fingers tightened around mine, and she opened her mouth to speak.

“Let me finish,” I said gently, touching her lips with my fingertip. “I love you.”

I reached into my pocket with my good hand, withdrawing the small box that had been my constant companion for days. When I flipped it open, the diamond caught the moonlight filtering through the trees.

“I had planned something more elaborate,” I admitted. “Down by the river, tomorrow evening. Sunset, the whole nine yards. But standing here with you now, I can’t wait another day.”

Tears gathered in her eyes as she stared at the ring, then back at me.

“I don’t just want to share a house or a bed or a mission,” I continued, my voice steady despite the thundering of my heart. “I want to share a life. I want to be there for all of it—the good days, the bad days, and everything in between.” I took a deep breath. “Will you marry me, Lumi?”

The tears spilled over then, running down her cheeks as she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, then stronger: “Yes.”

I slipped the ring onto her finger, where it caught the light again. It was a perfect fit. When her lips met mine, I tasted salt and sweetness, and a promise that stretched into all our tomorrows.

Later, as we lay together in the quiet darkness of our room, Lumi’s head on my chest and her hand resting over my heart, I understood what true peace felt like. Not the absence of danger or conflict, but the presence of something worth fighting for. Worth living for.

“What are you thinking?” she murmured, her voice heavy with approaching sleep.

I pressed a kiss to her hair, breathing in the scent of her. “That I’m happier than I ever dreamed possible.”

She made a soft sound of contentment. “Me too.”

24

LUMI

Eight months after Drake’s proposal, the day of our wedding finally arrived.

“You look so beautiful,” said Summer, standing behind me as we looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror in Admiral and Alice’s bedroom, where she was helping me get ready. My dress—simple yet elegant with its sweetheart neckline and delicate lace overlay—sparkled in the light streaming in through the window.

“Hold still,” she instructed, adjusting the thin veil pinned in my upswept hair. “Perfect.”

My mother joined us, her hands clasped at her chest. “Oh, Chiara,” she whispered. “You’re breathtaking.”

I turned toward them, these two women who had protected me my entire life. “I can’t believe this is happening,” I admitted, smoothing my hands over the dress. “Any of it.”

So much had changed in the past year. From a woman in hiding to a bride surrounded by family—it felt like someone else’s life, not mine. Yet the joy filling my chest was undeniably real.

“Cold feet?” Summer asked, arranging the short train.

“The opposite,” I replied. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

A soft knock at the door interrupted us. Dante peeked in, his expression softening at the sight of me.

“Is it time?” I asked.

“Almost.” He entered, cradling his two-month-old son against his shoulder. “Bean wanted to see his aunt before the ceremony.”

Bianchi Gregory Castellano—nicknamed Bean since the first ultrasound—had his father’s dark eyes and his mother’s gentle disposition.

“He’s wearing a suit,” I said, laughing at the tiny tuxedo onesie.

“Lark’s idea,” Dante replied, his pride obvious. “She says he needed to dress for the occasion.”

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