The plane, minus a loose-lipped flight attendant, seemed so much smaller to me on the way back to New York than it had when we’d left the city. But then, that could have been from tiredness. Dale had not let things lie with Gin. The gruff, quiet man, it turned out, had a mouth on him when he was angry or desperate or ridiculously sorry. A mouth that kept us awake wincing and tsking all night. From what we heard in the shouting echoes, Gin didn’t care about anything Dale had to say. By the time we’d packed and notified the pilots Kiel and I were heading to the airport, Gin had left, and Dale was passed out on the sofa, drunk on pain meds or beer or plain heartache and regret.

The return trip was welcome, and Kiel and I enjoyed it. Even when things got a little bumpy somewhere over Michigan and the turbulence made me feel sick. We’d landed, picked up by a fully recovered Arturo, who’d greeted Kiel with a handshake of thanks and many heavily accented refrains of “grazie mille” and “molte grazie,” for saving him during the shootout and me with a kiss on each cheek and a warm, grateful smile, I guessed, for having such good taste in men.

Arturo filled me in on the museum and all the guests he’d had while he was in the hospital, while Kiel frowned, staring out the window like he was on his way to his own funeral.

“Relax,” I told him, holding his hand. The gesture served its purpose. Kiel turned away from the window, slipping his arm over my shoulder.

“I’m fine. I just…” He closed his eyes, grunting when we pulled up my father’s long, landscaped drive. “I don’t like drama.”

I laughed, unable to keep myself under control. “Oh, bello, then you married the wrong damn woman.”

He didn’t relax, not when Arturo opened the doors, or when Dante and Giovanni greeted us with professional half smiles and nods as we walked inside. Kiel, in fact, didn’t relax remotely as we moved down that long, tiled hallway and came into the parlor where my father sat in a wheelchair, right in front of the large wall of windows that looked out onto the lush garden.

If possible, my father looked ten years older than when I’d last seen him. He seemed so small to me now, when all my life he’d been this giant of a man, always leading, guiding, never backing down from anyone. It wasn’t often that my papa was cowed by anything. As Kiel and I walked into the parlor of his mansion, the worry that moved across his face and the wrinkles that dented deep into his skin seemed to vanish. He met my gaze, his eyebrows lifting as though he’d just spotted something he’d misplaced and prayed would be returned. That seemed as close to the truth as possible. In his eyes, I had been lost. I’d almost been lost forever.

“Vita mia,” he said, his voice lifted in a tone of utter disbelief. “My bambina.” Papa raised his arms, and I ran to him, slipping to my knees, cheek against his chest as he held me. “Ah, my bella amore.”

“Papa…” There was a little disbelief in my tone too, but I didn’t care.

My father had blood on his hands. I guess I did too now. So did Kiel. But he had been threatened, and by association, so had I. One word from me might have saved those lost by my father’s command. Vinnie might still be here if I’d just toed the line and done what Papa wanted.

Kiel moved to the side of the chair, his expression soft but wary, and when he met my gaze, offering me a wink that did something funny to my stomach, I realized I wouldn’t have changed anything about how we ended up here. He was mine, and I was his. Forever. There was no more threat. There was no more worry for us but how to navigate my father’s life and the family we wanted together. Kiel wouldn’t be part of the family business. Neither would I.

“Hush now,” my father said, pushing me back. “Let me see you. It’s been too long.” He returned the smile I gave him. I relished the feel of his palm against my cheek. It hadn’t been all that long, actually, but to my father, even a day was too long. He went on looking at me, smile wide and brilliant, and though he looked weak and older, he was still handsome, still elegant. One quick glance at Kiel standing next to us and some of the withering traces of illness left his face.

“Kaino,” he said. Papa didn’t smile at Kiel exactly, but he did stretch his arm, offering him a shake. Kiel took it, bending down a bit to let my father grip him in both his frail hands. “I owe you my apologies,” Papa began, shaking his head as he rolled his eyes at me, a small admonishment he didn’t mean. “And my gratitude.” Kiel nodded, beginning to pull away, but he paused when Papa pulled him forward, refusing to release him. “My daughter, she’s my world, sì?”

“And mine,” Kiel replied, his features firm, sincere. He didn’t try to get away from my father again, and he let the old man have his say.

“Bene,” Papa said, reaching up to pat Kiel’s face. “That is good to hear.” He released Kiel and rested back against his chair, hands folding over his lap. “Now, first you must see Father Michaels,” he said, nodding at me.

“Why?”

Papa shook his head, tongue clicking as though I’d asked a pointless question. “So we can plan the wedding. But first, I want to ask you, Kiel,” he said, his attention turning to my husband. “My son says you are a writer.”

“Journalist. Yes.”

“Why do we need a wedding?” I interrupted, earning a glare from Papa. I hadn’t gotten one of those since I’d snuck out at seventeen to go parking with Alfonse DeAngelo the night of his graduation.

“You will be married in a church, bella. In front of a priest and God and the Blessed Mother,” my father explained, motioning for me to hush when I opened my mouth again. Papa disregarded me in favor of looking Kiel over as though he needed to get the make of him. “Are you a good writer?”

Kiel shrugged but didn’t deny it. “I am.”

“Molto bene. Come,” he said, motioning to the chair next to his. And then, as though he hadn’t missed me, as though he had never been disappointed in me for my defiance or worried over my being attacked, my father moved forward, ready to tackle the next item on the unseen list he kept in his head. “We’ll discuss a project I have. A book, sì? About my life.”

“Papa,” I fussed, wondering why he’d be so willing to expose himself and his friends for something as trivial as a book, or why he seemed so eager to forget I was standing next to him, uninformed about what he planned.

But my father waved me off, as if my worry was pointless. “An anonymous book, sì?”

For the next hour, my father ignored me, drawing Kiel into a lengthy discussion about exclusive, firsthand accounts of criminal masterminds, and how he was old and wanted to retire. He wanted grandchildren and to keep them safe. He wanted Kiel to provide for his bambina.

A half hour later and Kiel was all in, excited about what could be. And I realized, with very little effort, my husband had become the one thing he swore he’d never want: a member of the Carelli family.