Chapter 236 Epilogue - What We Choose

Chapter 236 Epilogue - What We Choose
Matteo POV:

We don’t talk much on the way in.

Talking is for when you’re nervous or trying to convince yourself. This isn’t that. This is routine. Not casual. Not careless. Just… settled.

Ivy checks the tablet once more, even though she already knows what it’s going to say.

RECON has been locked on this man for weeks. Patterns, escalation markers, the kind of silence that only happens when people are afraid to speak.

He hid behind a collar and a title and a building full of locked doors.

A pastor. A convent school. Hundreds of underage victims, layered over decades. He used the Service once.

That was the mistake. His reckoning.

He thought anonymity meant absolution. Thought confession was the end of it. He didn’t know RECON doesn’t care about guilt. It cares about probability. About trajectories. About who will hurt again if given another chance.

I glance at Ivy as she slides the tablet away.

“You good?” I ask.

She nods. Not eager. Not shaken. Just ready.

That matters.

We don’t hunt because we enjoy it. We hunt because we understand it. Because there are people the law and the system doesn’t stop. Because waiting for justice means waiting for another victim.

We park two streets down. Walk the rest of the way. No masks. No dramatics. Just quiet movement and shared awareness.

The building is old. Stone. Heavy doors. Ironwork meant to look sacred. I’ve learned not to confuse that with safety.

Ivy handles the entry. Always does. She’s faster. Cleaner. Knows how to move through spaces without announcing herself.

I cover.

Inside, it smells like incense and old paper and rot underneath.

He doesn’t scream when we confront him.

That surprises some people, when I tell them later. They expect panic. Tears. Rage.

He just stares at Ivy.

That tells me everything.

We don’t drag it out.

We confirm. We make him understand exactly why he’s not walking out alive. Not as revenge. As consequence of his sins.

When it’s over, we don’t stay.

Outside, the night air feels colder. Cleaner. Ivy exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath without realizing it.

I touch her arm. Not to claim. To check.

“You okay?” I ask again.

She looks up at me, eyes sharp, alive. “Yeah.”

Good.

We sit on the ground for a moment. Our backs against the stone wall. No urgency now. No chase. Just the comedown.

My heart is still running faster than it should.

Ivy leans into me, forehead pressing briefly against my shoulder. I tilt my head, rest my temple against hers. It’s quiet. The city far away. No sirens. No applause.

She kisses me first.

I respond without thinking, hand at her waist, grounding myself in the fact that she’s breathing, warm, real. We don’t make it a thing. We don’t turn it into something it’s not.

This isn’t celebration.

It’s release.

Eventually, she pulls back. Smiles faintly.

“We should go,” she says.

“Yeah,” I agree.

On the drive to the manor, the adrenaline fades and the ache sets in. Old injuries. New ones. Nothing that won’t heal.

RECON pings quietly on the dash. A status update. Another flagged trajectory. Another potential stop before it becomes something worse.

I don’t look at it yet.

Tonight isn’t about that.

The house is loud when we arrive.

Sofia’s laugh hits first. Then voices. Plates. Someone arguing about dessert even though dinner isn’t done yet.

Normal.

It still catches me off guard sometimes, how normal this all is now.

Adriano looks up when we enter. His gaze flicks over Ivy and me. He sees enough to know we’re fine. Doesn’t ask questions.

Isabella smiles at Ivy immediately and pulls her into a hug like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there was never a time she didn’t belong here.

Luca glances up from the counter. Gives me a look. Not a warning. Not approval. Just acknowledgment.

Aria’s already handing Ivy a glass of water, doctor instincts automatic. “Drink,” she says. “You look like you forgot again.”

Ivy rolls her eyes but does it.

Leo bangs a spoon against the table like he’s conducting an orchestra. Sofia is explaining, very seriously, why weekends are better when everyone stays over and no one leaves early.

I take a seat. Let the noise wash over me.

For a long time, I thought peace would feel different. Quieter. Cleaner. Like the absence of threat.

This is better.

This is people choosing to sit at the same table even when they don’t have to.

Adriano clears his throat once, catching my attention. He doesn’t speak loudly. He doesn’t need to.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah.”

He studies me for a second longer. Then, softer, “You holding on to her?”

The question isn’t about possession. It’s about honesty. But he already knows the answer to it.

I look across the table. Ivy is listening to Isabella, smiling at something Leo did, her hand resting easily on the back of my chair without thinking.

“Yes,” I say. “And I told her.”

Adriano exhales. Just once. “Good.”

Later, when the table is cleared and Sofia is being herded toward bed and Leo is half-asleep on Isabella’s shoulder, I find myself standing in the doorway watching it all.

I know I’m not cured.

I know parts of me are still sharp. Still violent when pushed. Still capable of things I don’t pretend are noble.

But I also know this:

I don’t wake up empty anymore.

Ivy joins me, slipping her hand into mine like it’s always been there.

“You okay?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

She hums, like she understands. “Dangerous habit.”

I glance at her. “You picked me.”

She just looks at me.

“I'll keep picking you,” she says.

That’s better.

We leave later. Quiet goodbyes. Promises for breakfast tomorrow. Sofia insisting Ivy braid her hair next time. Leo already asleep, thumb in his mouth.

The drive home is silent again. Comfortable.

At the apartment, Ivy kicks off her shoes and leans back against the counter, studying me.

“You’re still thinking,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Say it.”

I take a breath. Let it out.

“I don’t think the things inside me disappear,” I say. “I don’t think the past just… resolves.”

She nods. “I don’t either.”

“But I know what matters now,” I continue. “You. Them. Making sure fewer people get hurt because someone like us was paying attention.”

She steps closer. Rests her forehead against mine.

“That’s enough for me,” she says.

I close my eyes.

For years, fire defined my life. What it took. What it left behind. What it made people believe about me.

Now I know better.

Fire didn’t make me.

Love didn’t fix me.

Choice did.

And I make it every day.

Because love isn’t safe if the world isn’t....

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