Chapter 152

Chapter 152

Third Person
The garden of the Moretti mansion woke transformed.
Aurora had gone twelve days without sleeping more than four hours, and the result was exactly what she had promised when she said organizing a wedding in twelve days was easier than managing a financial crisis in six hours.
The lights from Gabriela’s interrupted wedding still hung from the oak tree. But now there were more. Hundreds more. Woven through every tree in the garden, lining the stone path, encircling the arch of intertwined branches that Alejandra had redesigned with white flowers and peonies—because peonies were Lucía’s favorite, and this time no one was going to poison the bride’s champagne.
To the right of the arch stood a long table decorated with blue and white balloons and a two-tier cake topped with a fondant penguin, because Gabriela had insisted that Matías’s birthday cake needed a penguin. No one asked why, but everyone understood.
To the left, another table held the wedding cake. Three tiers. White. Unadorned, because Lucía had asked for something simple, and Aurora had reluctantly agreed, saying “simple” was a word the Morettis didn’t understand—but for this daughter-in-law, she would make the effort.
The guests were few.
Lucía didn’t want crowds. Neither did Gabriel. So the list was reduced to the essentials: family, and no one else.
The Morettis. The Valmonts. The Ferrers. Doña Marta, with Miguel—Lucía’s brother—who had arrived from Queens that morning in a borrowed suit that was too big and an expression that said I can’t believe my sister is marrying a millionaire, which he failed to hide. Aunt Sofía, who had traveled from Malone the night before and hadn’t stopped crying since arriving, because the last time she saw Lucía, she had been pregnant and leaving—and now she saw her about to marry the father of her child. And Ana, who had baked four hundred oatmeal chocolate chip cookies as favors for eighteen guests—meaning each person would be taking home twenty-two cookies.
The ceremony began at five in the afternoon.
At four, Lucía stood in Aurora’s dressing room, Gabriela on one side and Alejandra on the other, while Doña Marta sat in the corner quietly crying into a handkerchief that had long since stopped absorbing anything.
The dress was simple.
Gabriela had chosen it with Lucía in a Manhattan boutique three days earlier. No tulle, no lace, no train dragging the weight of the past. Ivory silk falling straight to the ankles. A neckline framing her collarbones, where the faint pink line of Victoria’s knife scar was still visible—months away from fading completely.
Lucía looked at herself in the mirror, and the woman looking back did not resemble the nurse from Queens who drove a Honda Civic with duct tape on the rearview mirror. Nor the fugitive who crossed the Canadian border with a newborn in her arms. Nor the prisoner who trembled in a basement with a blade at her throat.
She looked like someone new.
Someone beginning again.
“You’re beautiful,” Gabriela said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m terrified.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“Gaby, there are eighteen people and my hands are shaking like it’s eighteen thousand.”
“They’ll keep shaking until you see Gabriel waiting under the arch. Then they’ll stop. I guarantee it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it happened to me. When I saw Alejandro waiting for me at the registry office in his wrinkled suit and his lovestruck idiot face, all the fear disappeared at once. It’s like that. No medical explanation.”
Alejandra appeared with Emma in one arm and a bouquet of peonies in the other.
“Ladies. Five minutes. The groom is downstairs sweating like it’s July, and the judge just arrived and looks like he’s in a hurry, so I suggest we go before he leaves.”
“The judge isn’t going anywhere, Ale.”
“The judge looks like he charges by the hour and his hour ended ten minutes ago. Come on, Lucía. Your man is waiting.”
Doña Marta rose from the corner. Walked to her daughter. Took her face in both hands.
“My girl.”
“Mom.”
“Your father would be proud. So proud.”
“I know.”
“And I’m proud. Of everything. Every decision you made. Every night you spent alone. Every time you chose to protect Matías, even if it meant losing yourself. All of it brought you here. To this dress, this man, and this family that loves you even though they barely know you. There is no mother prouder than me on this planet, Lucía. None.”
Lucía hugged her with the force of a daughter who had needed those exact words for a year.
“Ready?” Gabriela asked.
“Ready.”
“Sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
“Then let’s go.”

They descended the stairs in procession.
Alejandra first, with Emma asleep in her arms—because the baby had decided weddings were not interesting enough to stay awake for. Gabriela behind her, carrying the spare bouquet, jaw tight with emotion she had been trying to contain all morning. Doña Marta, arm in arm with Miguel, who walked stiffly in a borrowed suit, like a man wearing one for the first time in his life.
And last, Lucía.
Alone.
Because Gabriel had asked who would walk her down the aisle, and she had said no one. She would walk alone. She had spent a year walking alone, and she wanted that final stretch of solitude to be the stone path between the mansion door and the oak tree where he waited. To always remember where she came from—and always know where she was going.
The garden welcomed her with lights flickering on—Alejandra’s timer set for exactly five o’clock, and it was exactly five.
The guests stood.
Aurora in the front row, already crying, with Gael beside her, eyes bright but holding onto that patriarch composure he only let slip when no one but Aurora was watching.
Andrés and Andrea in the second row. Andrés with a restrained smile that said I understand perfectly—I fell in love with someone outside my world too, and it was the best decision of my life.
Ana in the third row, a box of cookies in her lap—because Ana was incapable of attending any event without cookies, and no one would dare tell her to put them away.
And under the arch of intertwined branches, white flowers and peonies—stood Gabriel.
Dark blue suit. White shirt. No tie—because Lucía had asked him not to wear one. Ties reminded her of CEO Gabriel, and she wanted to marry the Gabriel who drank coffee in Millbrook with his shirt open and his guard down.
Mateo stood at his right as best man. Alejandro at his left as co-best man, crutch leaning against the arch—because according to him, it gave him a distinguished air, and according to Gabriela, it made him look like a retired pirate.
And in Mateo’s arms, little Gael Valmont, who had decided the perfect moment to wake up was exactly when the bride began walking—and announced it with a cry that made everyone laugh.
Lucía walked the stone path.
Alone.
With ivory silk brushing the stones. With the scar at her neck visible under the lights. With hands still trembling around the peonies. With eyes fixed on Gabriel, who looked at her from beneath the arch with an expression she recognized—because she had seen it once before, in the café in Millbrook, when he had looked at her like she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
The same expression.
Exactly the same.
But stronger. Deeper. With a year of pain and loss and searching behind it, making it more real than any look he had ever given her before.
She reached the arch.
Gabriel took her hands.
And they stopped trembling.
Exactly as Gabriela had promised.

The ceremony was brief.
The judge—who did indeed look like he charged by the hour, but was moved enough to slow his speech when he saw Gabriel’s face—read the relevant civil code articles and asked if there were personal vows.
“Yes,” Gabriel said.
He didn’t take out a paper. Had nothing written. He looked straight at Lucía and spoke.
“Lucía. I won’t promise you everything will be perfect, because we both know perfect doesn’t exist. I won’t promise I’ll never make mistakes, because I’ve made so many in the last two years that it would be a lie. What I do promise is that every morning I wake up beside you, I’ll remember I almost lost you. And that memory will make me take better care of you. Listen better. Be better. Not perfect. But better. Every day, a little better than the last. That’s all I have to offer. And I hope it’s enough.”
Lucía wiped a tear with the back of the hand holding her bouquet.
“Gabriel. I don’t have a speech either, because I’m not a speech person, and if I try to say something elaborate I’ll just end up sobbing all over the peonies. So I’ll just say this. Thank you. For finding me when I did everything possible not to be found. For fighting for me when I asked you not to. For walking into a basement with a gun when you could’ve sent anyone else. And for holding our son this morning in this garden and talking to him like you’ve known him your whole life—even though it’s only been twelve days. That, Gabriel. That is what makes me want to be your wife. Not the ring. Not the mansion. Not the name. That.”
The judge declared them husband and wife at five seventeen on a November Saturday, beneath a hundred-year-old oak tree with golden lights in its branches and eighteen people crying at once.
Gabriel kissed Lucía.
And little Gael Valmont clapped from Mateo’s arms—because someone had taught him how that week, and he had decided this was the perfect moment to practice.

The birthday celebration began immediately after.
Aurora had organized both events as a single sequence, because according to her, if life gives you two reasons to celebrate on the same day, you don’t separate them—you merge them.
They placed Matías in a high chair in front of the birthday cake with the fondant penguin. Put a blue party hat on him, which he removed three times before Lucía gave up and left him hatless. Lit a candle shaped like the number one.
“Matías,” Gabriel said, kneeling beside him, “you have to blow.”
Matías looked at the candle with his usual analytical seriousness.
“Blow, son. Like this.” Gabriel demonstrated softly. “See? Easy.”
Matías looked at him. Looked at the candle. Looked back at Gabriel.
And shoved his hand straight into the cake.
A full fist of sponge and cream, which he promptly brought to his mouth with impressive efficiency—clearly a child who needed no instructions when it came to eating.
The candle remained lit.
Gabriel laughed. Lucía laughed. Aurora covered her mouth. Doña Marta declared loudly that the child was just like his father, who never listened to instructions either. And Gael, from the head of the table, raised his glass and said Morettis don’t blow out candles—they take action.
Lucía blew out the candle for Matías while he continued eating with both hands, face covered in cream and wearing an expression of absolute satisfaction that suggested this was the finest culinary experience of his eleven months and twenty-nine days of life.
The celebration went on until nine.
The babies fell asleep one by one. First Emma, at six, in Andrea’s arms. Then little Gael, who lasted until seven against Andrés’s chest. And finally Matías, at eight-thirty, in Gabriel’s arms, face still smeared with cake and his fist wrapped around the fin of the plush penguin someone had brought down from the hospital room.
The grandmothers retired at nine—Aurora and Doña Marta walking together toward the kitchen for one last round of coffee, with the complicity of women who had decided raising grandchildren was a team sport.
Ana left with Miguel in a car Gabriel had arranged—Miguel had work the next day at the shop, and Ana had more cookies to bake, because according to her, four hundred had not been enough.
Aunt Sofía stayed in the guest room Aurora had prepared; she wanted breakfast with Lucía the next morning and time to get to know her grandnephew.
Andrés and Andrea said goodbye at nine-thirty with that Valmont discretion that perfectly balanced the Moretti chaos.
Mateo and Alejandra went upstairs with the twins to the room that had been theirs for months.
Alejandro and Gabriela were the last in the living room.
Gael was in his study on the phone with someone—probably a lawyer, because Gael was always on the phone with lawyers, even on wedding days.
Gabriel had gone upstairs to put Matías to bed and wait for Lucía, who was in the bathroom changing out of her wedding dress.
And Gabriela and Alejandro remained alone in the living room, each with a glass of wine, the garden lights still glowing beyond the windows.
“Good day,” Alejandro said, leaning back with his bandaged leg on a cushion.
“Good day,” Gabriela replied, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Your brother looks happy.”
“My brother looks like someone who just discovered life can be more than contracts and obligations. Took him thirty-five years, but he got there.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you happy?”
Gabriela lifted her head and looked at him.
“Yes. I’m happy. But I’m also something more.”
“More how?”
She took his hand. Placed it over her stomach.
Still flat. No visible sign. But something was there—six weeks growing quietly while the world collapsed and rebuilt around her.
Alejandro looked at his hand on her stomach.
Then at her.
“Gaby.”
“Six weeks. I took the test three days ago. I didn’t want to tell you before, with everything happening—with Gabriel, Lucía, the hospital. I didn’t want the news to get lost in the chaos. I wanted to tell you in a quiet moment.”
“Gabriela.”
“I wanted to tell you when you could really hear it. When you weren’t thinking about operations or bullets or basements. When it was just you and me.”
“Gaby.”
“We’re going to have a baby, Alejandro.”
He said nothing for five seconds.
Then he took her face in both hands—just like Matías had taken Gabriel’s face under the oak days before. With that urgency of someone needing to confirm the person in front of them is real, and what they just heard is true.
“Are you sure?”
“Three tests. All positive. And I’ve had two weeks of morning sickness I’ve been passing off as fatigue because I didn’t want Mom to find out before you.”
“My God, Gaby.”
“Are you happy?”
“Happy? Gabriela, I just took a bullet to the leg, carried my nephew under gunfire, stood in a wedding, ate twenty-two of Ana’s cookies—and now you’re telling me I’m going to be a father. Is ‘happy’ enough for all that?”
“Then what word would you use?”
“None. There isn’t one. What I feel right now doesn’t exist in any language I know.”
He kissed her.
Softly. The way he had learned to kiss her in recent months. The softness of a man who knows the woman he loves has cracks where the cold still seeps in—and that his job is not to seal them, but to warm them from within until they stop hurting.
“Alejandro.”
“What?”
“I want to tell everyone tomorrow. At breakfast. When we’re all together.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone. Mom. Dad. Gabriel. Lucía. All of them. I want this family to start the day knowing it’s growing again.”
“Aurora’s going to explode.”
“Aurora will cry for forty-five minutes and then start buying baby clothes before noon.”
“Your father will want to know if it’s a boy.”
“My father will want to know if it’s a boy and whether it’ll carry the Ferrer name or the Moretti name—and I’ll tell him it carries both, and he can deal with it.”
“And Gabriel?”
“Gabriel will hug me. Say something cheesy about the Morettis multiplying. Then he’ll look at Matías and realize his son will have a cousin the same age—and he’ll smile with that new smile he has since he met Lucía.”
“And you? What will you do?”
Gabriela leaned against his chest, his hand still resting over her stomach, the garden lights glowing beyond the windows like stars caught in the branches.
“I’m going to be a mother, Alejandro. After everything. After Dante. After the baby I lost. After the nights I thought I’d never have this. I’m going to be a mother.”
“You’re going to be the best mother in the world.”
“I’m going to be a terrified mother who has no idea what she’s doing.”
“Like all of them. And you’ll have yours beside you teaching you. And mine baking cookies for the baby before it’s even born. And me sleeping on the floor next to the crib because I refuse to use those nursing chairs designed to destroy backs.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, Gaby.”
They stayed like that. On the couch in the Moretti mansion. With the garden lights flickering as the wind moved through the old oak branches. With the distant sound of Aurora and Doña Marta laughing in the kitchen. With three babies asleep in different rooms upstairs. With a newly married couple closing their bedroom door for the first time as husband and wife.
With the promise of one more on the way.
Another Moretti. Or a Ferrer. Or both—because in this family, last names no longer mattered as much as the people who carried them.
And outside, the oak still stood. With its hundred years and golden lights and branches that had witnessed interrupted weddings and fulfilled ones, stolen kisses and given ones, and a family that had broken into a thousand pieces—and rebuilt itself piece by piece into something stronger than before.
Not perfect.
Never perfect.
But together.
Finally together.