Page 128 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
"Come for me," he grunts, his hips snapping against mine.
The second climax tears through me, sharper than the first, a radiant burst of pleasure that wrings a scream from my throat. My body arches off the ground, held down only by Gabriel’s weight as he rides me through it, his own release following with a ragged shout, his warmth flooding my core.
He collapses beside me, breathing hard. But they are not done with me.
Luca is there instantly, his body covering mine, his cock slipping easily into my well-used, dripping channel. He fucks me with a tenderness that is its own kind of intensity, his eyes locked on mine. "I love you," he whispers with every thrust. "I love you. I love you."
It’s the emotion that pushes me over the edge a third time, a softer, deeper wave that feels like coming home. He buries his face in my neck as he finds his own release.
I’m boneless, utterly spent, covered in them and the scent of sex and night-blooming jasmine. Dante strokes my cheek, his expression softer now. "Our Flower," he says, like a prayer.
Gabriel’s hand finds mine on the grass, our new rings glinting in the moonlight. Luca nuzzles my shoulder. I am surrounded. Filled. Loved.
The night is quiet except for our breathing.This is our forever, I think. This raw, perfect joining under the open sky.
EPILOGUE
GABRIEL
Six Months Later - April 1972
The first timeI hold my daughter, I understand what it means to have something worth dying for.
She is impossibly small—barely seven pounds, with a dusting of dark hair that could be Dante's or mine, and eyes that are still that indeterminate newborn blue-gray that might turn brown or green or stay blue. Her tiny hand wraps around my finger with surprising strength, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
"She is perfect," I whisper, unable to take my eyes off her face. "Rosalina, she is absolutely perfect."
"Of course she is," Rosalina says from the hospital bed, her voice exhausted but triumphant. She just spent eighteen hours in labor, refusing all the pain medication the doctors offered, insisting she wanted to feel everything. "She is ours."
Ours.
Not mine. Not Dante's. Not Luca's.
Ours.
We never cared to get a paternity test. None of us want to know. Because it doesn’t matter whose biology contributed to creating this tiny miracle—she belongs to all of us equally.
"What are we naming her?" Luca asks from his position on Rosalina's other side, his hand stroking her sweat-damp hair back from her face. He has been crying on and off since the baby was born two hours ago, not even trying to hide the tears streaming down his face.
Rosalina looks at Dante, who has been standing silently at the foot of the bed since the nurses cleaned the baby and pronounced her healthy. His expression is carefully controlled, but I can see the emotion churning beneath the surface—joy and fear and overwhelming love all fighting for dominance.
"Margherita," Dante says quietly. "After your mother, Rosalina. And Seamus's wife. Both strong women who loved fiercely and protected their families."
Rosalina's eyes fill with tears. "Margherita Salvatore."
"Margherita O'Connor Salvatore," I correct, because the Irish heritage matters too. Because Seamus was her father in every way that counted, and this baby carries that legacy.
"Margherita O'Connor Salvatore," Rosalina repeats, testing the name. Then she smiles—that brilliant, unguarded smile that still makes my heart skip even after months of marriage. "Maggie for short."
"Maggie," Luca says, grinning through his tears. "I like it. Our little Maggie."
The nurse appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand, clearly ready to take the baby for whatever tests and measurements newborns need. I hand her over reluctantly, watching as she is carried away, and feel the loss immediately.
"She will be back in thirty minutes," the nurse promises, reading my expression. "You can get some rest, Mrs. Salvatore. You earned it."
As soon as the nurse leaves, Rosalina looks at me with those hazel eyes that have seen too much pain and still manage to find joy. "Come here."
I move to sit on the edge of her bed, and she takes my hand, pressing it against her now-flat stomach where Maggie lived for nine months.
