Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty-Six

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty-Six
Leonardo.

The entire world held its breath—at least the entire room did. I might be remembering it a bit more dramatically than it really was….

Then, the announcement came.

ELEONORA VITTORIO RE-ELECTED PRESIDENT OF ITALY.

A pause. A gasp…

And then, the whole room exploded.

I didn’t hear the cheers. I didn’t even feel my own scream. I just threw my arms around her, sobbing.

“We did it,” I whispered against her. “You did it.”

She held me like I was her heartbeat.

Alex stepped in and wrapped us both in his arms.

Karl… well. He cleared his throat. Loudly. And looked away.

But I saw him swipe at his eye.

The moment blurred. Laughing, crying, hugging. Giovanni jumping on the couch like he was ten again. My father squeezing Eleonora’s hand and calling her “the iron rose of Rome.” Dante lifting me off the ground and spinning me once before catching Alex in a hug too, like none of us knew what to do with all the joy crashing through the room.

The campaign manager stumbled back in, still holding his tablet, wide-eyed. “Madam President… They’re waiting for you.”

Eleonora blinked. “Now?”

He nodded. “There’s a full crowd outside headquarters. Live press. It’s your moment.”

She looked down at her clothes. No jacket. Slightly rumpled blouse. Hair pulled back in a low bun that had half fallen out.

“I’m not ready.”

“You look like a woman who just made history,” I said.

Alex nodded. “You look like a mother who made her son—and her country—proud.”

She touched both our faces. “Then let’s show them who we are.”



Campaign headquarters 

The plaza was packed when we arrived. People filled the steps, the street, the balconies above. Italian flags waved alongside rainbow ones. There were signs that read “Four more years for love” and “Let them lead”.

We stood behind her on the stage, just off-center behind the podium. Giovanni to her right. My father beside him. And Alex—Alex stood at my side, our fingers laced together where everyone could see.

By the side of the stage, I could see Dante—arms folded and grinning like a devil—and Karl, standing like a shadow in a suit that looked custom-cut for war. 

She stepped up to the microphone, the crowd roaring as the cameras zoomed in. She raised her hand and silence fell like a miracle.

“No notes,” she said, voice steady. “Because tonight, I speak from my heart.”

The cheers that followed seemed to lift the stars a little higher.

She began:

“This was never just about politics. This was about truth. About showing our children that strength comes from compassion, and that leadership demands not perfection, but humanity. I stand here tonight not just as your President, but as a mother, a woman, and an Italian who believes in the power of love.”

I felt Alex’s thumb brush across my knuckles. I turned slightly toward him. His eyes were glassy, wide, stunned.

“She’s talking about us,” he whispered.

“She’s talking about all of us,” I said.

“Some told me I’d lose,” she continued. “That accepting my son for who he is would cost me the election. That supporting love between two men, between an Italian and a Swedish royal, would bring scandal to my name. But I say—what greater honor is there than standing beside your child when he stands for love?”

The crowd roared.

My heart cracked.

“This is our Italy. This is our future. One where we don’t hide, we don’t shame, we don’t silence. We hold hands. We tell the truth. We love out loud.”

My breath hitched. I looked to the side. Alex was still holding my hand. Still here.

We were out loud.

We were alive.

We were family.

The speech ended with a wave and a promise. One hand on her heart, the other lifted to the people. The crowd kept chanting her name long after she stepped away from the podium.

By the time we returned to the residence, the place was glowing with life. Staff popped champagne. Family members streamed in and out of the halls, hugging, laughing, calling loved ones. Someone set up music in the garden. My father toasted with some foreign diplomats who had just flown in from Brussels. Giovanni ate three cannoli in under five minutes and pretended to be dying on the couch. Karl made exactly one joke. It was about Dante’s tie. No one laughed louder than Dante.

I was exhausted. Buzzing. Full of champagne and adrenaline and Alex.

We had done it.

But we hadn’t stopped yet. And I needed to.

I looked at Alex and tugged gently at his sleeve. He glanced down, immediately alert.

“Wanna sneak out for a bit?” I asked, voice low. “Just some air. And quiet.”

His fingers brushed my lower back. “Yes. Please.”

I turned to the group and announced, “We’re heading outside for a minute. Don’t start another revolution without us.”

Dante immediately perked up. “Oh, great, I need some air too! Let’s go.”

I blinked. “No, I mean—”

“Seriously. I was just thinking how good it would be to get away for a while, clear our heads…” He reached for my arm.

Alex raised an eyebrow.

I smiled sweetly. “Alone, Dante.”

Dante nodded, unfazed. “Yeah. Alone. Just us.”

Giovanni looked up from the couch and rolled his eyes. “For the guy you supposedly learned everything from, he’s not that smart.”

“Hey!” Dante yelped.

Giovanni gestured lazily with his cannoli. “They mean alone alone. As in without you, genius.”

Dante turned slowly to face me. “Oh. Like… romantic ‘alone.’ Not like… let’s-go-brood-alone.”

Alex coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.

I patted Dante’s shoulder. “You’ll always be my favorite third wheel.”

“Rude,” he muttered.

Giovanni called after us as we left, “Be safe! Don’t traumatize the rose bushes!”

The night air hit like a sigh.

Rome’s summer breeze was warm and soft, threaded with garden jasmine and distant music. We walked in silence through the stone paths, past lemon trees and marble fountains, until we found the secluded garden arch near the west wing—barely lit, shielded by ivy and shadow.

Alex leaned against the stone railing and looked up at the sky.

I stood beside him.

“Is it always this loud when you win a revolution?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know. This is my first.”

He turned to me. “Not mine.”

His tone was light, but I saw it in his eyes—the weight, the scars, the memories of battles no one clapped for. My chest ached.

“You’re not alone anymore,” I said. “You never have to fight alone again.”

He nodded slowly. “I believe you.”

And then his hand slid into mine.

We stood there, watching the stars.

The celebration was distant now—muffled laughter, occasional bursts of clinking glasses and music—but here, it was just us.

I turned toward him, cupped his face, and kissed him slowly.

His lips tasted like champagne and hope.

The kiss deepened, his arms wrapping around me, one hand in my hair, the other pressed against the small of my back. He kissed me like he’d waited years to feel safe doing it. Like he still couldn’t believe we had made it through.

When we finally pulled apart, breathless, he pressed his forehead to mine.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I know.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Okay, fine,” I said, grinning. “I love you too. So much it hurts.”

We stood like that until the stars blinked, the wind stirred the hedges, and the world felt like it was finally ours again.