POV: Sofia
---
Life, I was learning, had a rhythm.
Not the frantic pulse of crisis and survival I'd grown used to, but something slower. Steadier. The quiet beat of ordinary days, ordinary choices, ordinary love.
Antonio was learning it too.
He still woke before dawn, still checked the windows, still reached for weapons that weren't there. But the tension in his shoulders eased a little more each day. The shadows under his eyes faded. The nightmares came less often.
And when they came, I was there.
"You're getting good at this," he said one morning, after I'd talked him down from a dream I couldn't see but could feel.
"At what?"
"Being my anchor."
I kissed his shoulder. "Someone has to keep you grounded."
"Lucky me."
"Lucky us."
We lay there as the sun rose, and I thought about how far we'd come. From enemies to strangers to lovers to this. Two people, tangled together, building something that felt suspiciously like forever.
---
ANTONIO
The bookstore was busy when I arrived that afternoon.
Sofia had refused to let me buy her a bigger space—"I like this one, Antonio. It's mine."—but she'd finally agreed to let me help with renovations. New shelves. Better lighting. A expanded children's section that was already packed with kids and parents.
She was in the middle of it all, glowing with happiness, her hair escaping its ponytail, her laugh carrying across the room.
I stood in the doorway and watched her.
"You're staring," Marco said beside me.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing." He grinned. "She's good for you."
"I know."
"Made you almost human."
"Careful, Marco."
He laughed, unbothered. We'd known each other too long for threats to mean anything.
Sofia spotted us and waved. I waved back. Marco snorted.
"You're waving now. The great Antonio Matteo, waving at his wife like a normal person."
"Shut up."
"Never." He clapped me on the shoulder. "I'm happy for you, boss. Really."
I looked at Sofia, crossing toward us with that smile that still made my chest ache.
"Me too."
---
SOFIA
"You came," I said, reaching Antonio.
"You said you needed help with the shelves."
"I said I needed help. I didn't specify from whom."
He raised an eyebrow. "You want me to leave?"
"Absolutely not." I pulled him inside. "You're exactly who I wanted."
Marco followed, already teasing Antonio about something. I left them to it, returning to a customer with questions about a new release.
But I watched them—Antonio and Marco, relaxed and laughing, the weight of war finally lifted. And I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Contentment.
---
ANTONIO
We worked until closing, then walked to Giuseppe's for dinner.
It had become our ritual—bookstore, then dinner, then home. Simple. Ordinary. Perfect.
"She's good," Marco said, nodding toward Sofia, who was laughing at something on her phone. "Really good. For you, I mean."
"I know."
"You going to keep her?"
I looked at him. "What kind of question is that?"
"The kind a friend asks." He met my eyes. "You've never had this. Someone who sees all of you and stays. I just want to make sure you know what you've got."
"I know."
"Then don't screw it up."
I laughed—actually laughed. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Someone's got to keep you humble." He stood, tossed cash on the table. "I'm going home to my own wife. You two enjoy your... whatever this is."
He walked out. Sofia looked up.
"What was that about?"
"Marco being Marco." I took her hand. "Telling me not to screw this up."
She smiled. "Good advice."
"The best."
---
SOFIA
That night, we talked about the future.
Not in vague terms—"someday" and "maybe"—but in specifics. Real plans. A house, eventually, with a yard for kids to run in. A second location for the bookstore, if I wanted it. Travel. Italy, maybe. Antonio had never been, and his mother's family was still there.
"Sounds like a lot," I said.
"Sounds like a life." He pulled me closer. "Our life. If you want it."
"I want it." I kissed him. "I want all of it."
"Good. Because I'm not letting you go."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
We made love slowly that night, savoring instead of urgent. And afterward, tangled together in the darkness, I let myself imagine it. The house. The kids. The ordinary, beautiful future stretching out before us.
For the first time, it didn't feel like a dream.
It felt like a plan.
---
ANTONIO
Three weeks later, Carlo moved out of the safe house.
He'd found an apartment in Brooklyn, a real job—something in construction, legitimate—and was seeing a therapist twice a week. He called Sofia every few days. Texted me updates on his progress.
He was trying. Really trying.
"He's doing well," I told Sofia one night.
"He is." She smiled. "I'm proud of him."
"You should be. You're part of why he's still alive."
"I'm part of why you didn't kill him, maybe. He's alive because he chose to be."
"That's generous."
"That's honest." She leaned against me. "He's not the only one who's changed, you know."
"Who else?"
"You." She looked up at me. "You're different than the man who walked into my bookstore that first night. Softer. Happier. More... present."
"Your fault."
"Probably." She grinned. "You're welcome."
I kissed her, laughing.
"Love you."
"Love you too. Now take me to bed."
"Yes, ma'am."