Chapter 187 EPILOGUE – Five Years Later

Chapter 187 EPILOGUE – Five Years Later

Valentina

Five years changes the architecture of a house.

Not physically. The marble remains marble. The iron gates remain iron. The skyline beyond the terrace still cuts into the horizon with sharp, ambitious lines.

But the sound shifts.

Where strategy once echoed through these halls, now laughter competes with it.

Marco is the reason for that.

He stands in the center of the living room at five years old, hands planted on his hips, brow furrowed in deep concentration as he explains to his younger brother why the wooden blocks must be stacked “structurally sound.”

“You don’t build it crooked,” he says, voice firm with authority that mirrors his father in unsettling ways. “Or it falls.”

Vincent, two years old and far more interested in dismantling than constructing, blinks up at him and knocks the entire tower down with one decisive swipe.

Marco inhales sharply.

Vincent laughs.

I lean against the doorway and watch them, arms folded lightly across my chest, heart full in a way that is both fierce and quiet.

Marco turns toward me first.

“Mama,” he says with immediate composure. “He sabotaged it.”

Vincent waddles toward me with open arms as if destruction were a love language.

He is softer than Marco, more openly affectionate, but there is calculation in his eyes already. He studies reactions before responding. He learns by observing. Matteo says that combination will make him more dangerous one day.

I scoop Vincent up, kissing his cheek while Marco straightens the fallen blocks with exaggerated patience.

“You built it too tall,” I tell Marco gently.

He considers that.

“I could reinforce the base,” he replies seriously.

“Yes,” I say. “You could.”

The sound of footsteps approaches from the hallway, and Matteo appears, jacket draped over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Five years has not softened him. If anything, it has refined him. Leadership settled into him fully the day Alessio signed the final papers. It has only sharpened since.

Marco immediately squares his shoulders.

“Papa,” he says.

Matteo crouches to eye level. “Report.”

Vincent twists in my arms to reach for him. Matteo takes him without hesitation, lifting him easily while Marco launches into a detailed explanation about structural integrity and sabotage.

Matteo listens.

He always listens.

“Then build it stronger,” he tells Marco calmly. “And anticipate the weakness.”

Marco nods once, absorbing the instruction like doctrine.

Two years ago, Alessio passed quietly in his sleep.

He got to spend three years with the great grandchild he desperately wanted. 

“He has your eyes,” Alessio had said to Matteo.

“And your spine,” he told me.

He lingered just long enough to meet Vincent. But he left shortly after, knowing the bloodline was secured.

The business did not fracture when he died.

It consolidated.

The garden doors open and the rest of our family spills inside in a rush of sound and sunlight.

Eden runs first. Ten years old now, taller, stronger, laughter easy and unguarded. She barrels straight toward Rosco, who pretends to stagger backward under the impact.

“Dad!” she says, without hesitation.

The first time she called him that, he had frozen.

The second time, he had answered.

The legal adoption had been quick after the wedding. Rosco had signed the papers with the same steady hand he uses to assemble weapons. Eden had insisted on framing the document herself.

Behind her, Eva toddles in at four years old, dark curls bouncing, eyes bright with defiance and sweetness all at once.

She is Rosco’s in every possible way.

Liana follows more slowly, sunlight catching in her hair. Five years ago, she had walked into this house wary and coiled. Now she moves through it like she belongs.

Because she does.

They married six months after Palm Key.

Rosco claimed it wasn’t rushed. Liana claimed it wasn’t calculated. Matteo claimed they were both liars.

It was inevitable.

Rosco steps into the living room now carrying Eva upside down over his shoulder while Eden argues loudly about something that happened at school.

“Tell them,” Matteo calls out casually, eyeing Rosco with open amusement.

Rosco narrows his eyes. “Tell them what?”

“That having two daughters is karma.”

Liana laughs before Rosco can respond.

“Karma for what?” Eden demands suspiciously.

Matteo doesn’t miss a beat.

“For every woman your father never called back.”

Rosco groans. “We are not having this conversation.”

Marco looks between them with intense curiosity.

“Papa,” he says seriously, “what does that mean?”

“It means,” Matteo replies smoothly, “that your Uncle Rosco was very popular.”

“Papa,” I warn mildly.

Rosco points at me. “See? She knows. I was misunderstood.”

“You were reckless,” Matteo corrects.

“And now?” Rosco shoots back.

“Now you have two daughters.”

Eva kicks her feet happily as if in agreement.

The room fills with laughter. Even Marco smiles faintly, though he doesn’t understand the joke.

Vincent rests comfortably against Matteo’s shoulder, thumb tucked into his mouth, watching everything with quiet calculation.

I step fully into the room, taking in the scene.

This is what stability looks like.

Not silence.

Not stillness.

Movement without fear.

Liana catches my eye across the room.

There is no shadow behind her anymore. No constant scanning of exits. No tension in the way she holds her body.

Eden is arguing with Marco about whose structure is superior. Eva has stolen one of the blocks and is hiding behind Rosco’s leg. Vincent has fallen half-asleep in Matteo’s arms, trusting the noise around him completely.

This house once felt like a fortress.

Now it feels like legacy.

Matteo crosses the room toward me slowly, handing Vincent back into my arms before resting his hand low against my waist.

He studies Marco, then Vincent.

“They’ll be stronger than we were,” he says.

“They won’t have to be,” I correct gently.

That is the difference.

We built this so they do not have to claw for it.

Outside, the sun dips lower over the city. Light spills through the windows in warm gold bands. Rosco lifts both daughters at once to prove he can. Eden shouts encouragement. Eva squeals. Marco gives instructions. Vincent reaches for me in half-sleep.

Matteo presses a kiss to my temple.

Five years ago, I entered this marriage intending to destroy it.

Now I stand at the center of it.

Bloodline secured.

Power consolidated.

No threats waiting in shadow.

Just structure. Just family. Just forward.

I look at both our boys. One sharp and stubborn. One quiet and observant. Both ours.

The empire will not crumble when we are gone.

It will evolve.

Matteo rises and wraps his arm fully around my waist, drawing me into him as our sons circle at our feet and laughter fills the room behind us.

“You ready to make another one?” He wags his eyebrows at me.

“I’m always down for the practice, but I’m done with childbirth.”

“Oh come on,” he pleads, “just one more?”

“I’ll think about it.” I respond. He was happy with that answer. 

Legacy is not built on fear.

It is built on survival.

On discipline.

On blood.

And ours will endure.