Page 111 of Mercy of the Mafia Doctor
He tracks the path of a tear down my cheek. He looks at the letter and the photo.
"Is that him?" his voice a low rumble.
"That's Marcus," I whisper. "He wants to be an engineer."
Alessio leans in, pressing his forehead against mine. He smells like sleep and deep woods. "He will be. We’ll make sure of it."
I look at him—the man who carried secrets like stones for eleven years. His dark hair is a mess, the silver at his temples bright, but his eyes are clear. The old darkness in them has eased.
"I didn't think I'd ever stop looking for the next strike," I admit. "I thought if I stopped running, the weight would crush me. But it’s not heavy, Alessio. It’s just... here."
"You're not carrying it alone anymore, Amara," he says, his grip tightening on my neck, possessive and grounding. "This is mountain soil. We don't bury things here. We plant them."
I lean into him. He’s right. The Costas moved here to escape the blood, but they brought their dead and gave them a place to rest. Turi’s candle burns in the chapel. Curtis’s name is on a plaque. My brother’s memory is tucked into the way I laugh at Matteo’s jokes.
We aren't the people we were in Chicago. We aren’t an auditor and a doctor playing a game of secrets. We’re just two people who found a way to be whole in the middle of a war.
"You're thinking too much," Alessio grumbles, his lips brushing my temple. "I can hear the gears turning. Stop auditing the universe and come back inside."
I huff a laugh, wiping my eyes. "I’m not auditing anything. I was thinking about the fact that you still haven't fixed the squeak in the floorboard by the bathroom."
He groans, a mock-annoyed sound. "I’m a surgeon, not a carpenter."
"You're a man with a toolbox and a wife who knows where you hide the good whiskey. Fix the floor, Costa."
He growls, a low, playful sound, and suddenly I’m hoisted off the bench. I let out a squeal as he throws me over his shoulder. His muscles are hard as granite, his hold on my legs iron-clad.
"Alessio! Put me down!"
"You have a husband who’s cold and wants his woman back in bed," he counters, turning toward the door. "Dignity is overrated. And I like the squeak. It lets me know where you are at three in the morning when you’re sneaking off for cookies."
"I do not sneak," I protest. "I navigate."
He carries me back into the warmth. He kicks the door shut, the latch clicking with a finality that makes my heart skip.
The cabin is filled with the artifacts of a life being built. A stack of books on the coffee table. A bowl of fruit on the counter. A vibrant rug covering the hardwood.
He sets me down but keeps his hands on my waist, pulling me flush against him. His gaze drops to the amber ring, his expression turning solemn.
"You're still here," he says.
"I'm still here," I promise, framing his face. "I'm not going anywhere, Alessio. I unpacked the last box yesterday. Even the one with the burner phones."
His pupils swallow the iris, that feral streak flashing briefly before he claims my mouth. "Good. Because if you ever tried torun again, I’d just have to track you down. And I’m much better at it than you are."
"In your dreams. I’d be in the Maldives before you even found your keys."
He laughs and kisses me again. It’s the slow, thorough kiss of a man who has all the time in the world. It tastes like the future.
When he pulls back, he looks over my shoulder at the photo of Marcus.
"We should invite him," Alessio says.
"Marcus?"
"When they graduate, we’ll bring the scholarship recipients up here. Show them that the name Osei is more than just a memory. It’s a foundation."
A warm, steady glow hits me. "I'd like that. Curtis would, too."
