Page 49 of From Italy With Love

“By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

I kissed her softly and tenderly. A touch that carried all the words I did not dare to voice. It was a moment full of hopes I could barely admit to myself and promises I was terrified to break. Madigan’s hand lingered on my cheek, grounding me.

When we finally separated, Sinclair studied us with an inscrutable expression. One I couldn’t read, no matter how I tried.

“Congratulations,” he said simply, handing me a thick envelope. “The deed to the ranch. It’s in both your names now. Legally, it’s yours.”

I took the envelope, feeling the heft of it, my thumb skimming its seam. It wasn’t just paper; it was everything: a life raft, a lifeline. The weight of what it meant pressed into my palm.

The weight of sanctuary. Of the slim hope for safety. Of a future that might finally belong to us.

Sanctuary. Safety. A future.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice thick with relief and something like gratitude. I meant it more than I’d ever meant anything in my life.

Sinclair nodded. “The both of you leave for Montana tomorrow morning.”

“I understand.”

“Good,” Sinclair replied, then added, “Don’t forget our deal, Valentinetti.” The reminder was a chill in the room, a tether pulling me back toward all we risked by being here.

My chest tightened, breath catching, but I forced myself to nod. To accept. Because this was the only way forward. We had no other choice. The arrangement was the thin line keeping Madigan safe from the threats that circled us in New York, never far enough away.

I had struck a bargain with the Devil to protect her. Every heartbeat reminded me of what I had promised, and what might come if I failed.

And now, I would have to find a way to live with the consequences.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

2017, Montana...

Montana was paradise.

Not the kind of paradise I’d imagined as a child, all golden gates and clouds. No, this was something earthier—more real. The kind of paradise you found in the hush just after sunrise, when the world held its breath and the scent of pine drifted on the crisp mountain air. A place where the cool breeze brushed your skin, and every sound felt amplified by the silence: the distant call of an eagle, the soft crunch of gravel under your boots, the gentle warmth of the sun rising over the peaks.

It was as if I had stepped into another world entirely. One defined by its tangible beauty and the quiet rhythms of nature. This was a world where families built on blood and violence faded away, replaced by days shaped by gentle conversations and moments of stillness. Where business deals weren’t negotiated at gunpoint but discussed over coffee on the porch. Here, wars were fought with words instead of bullets, and death was something that happened far away, in another life, beyond the safety of this sanctuary carved into the mountains.

Here, all that mattered was Madigan. Her laughter echoed across the fields as she ran barefoot through the grass, her steady presence grounding me in this new world. She became the heart of the place. Her smile lit up even the shadows cast by the mountains, and her gentle touch reminded me every day why I chose peace.

The ranch sat nestled in a valley surrounded by the Rocky Mountains, their peaks snow-capped even in summer, standing sentinel with a quiet strength. Wide-open ranges stretched in every direction—endless and untouched. The land was alive with the scent of wild sage and pine, and the kind of landscape that made me feel simultaneously insignificant and infinite.

I had never seen anything like it.

Had never experienced the kind of silence that existed here. Not the oppressive silence of waiting for violence, but the peaceful silence of a world at rest. The wind whispered through the grass. The distant call of birds. The soft rustle of trees that had stood here long before I was born and would stand long after I was gone.

It was transformative.

I didn’t realize how much weight I had been carrying until I felt it lift. Didn’t understand how tightly I had been wound until I felt myself begin to unravel in the best possible way.

For the first time in years—maybe for the first time in my entire life—I could breathe.

Really breathe.

Not the shallow, controlled breaths of a man constantly on guard, but deep, full breaths that filled my lungs and reminded me I was alive. That I was more than just a soldier in someone else’s war. That I was a man who could choose peace instead of violence.

It was a feast for the senses. The rolling sweep of fescue and bluebunch wheatgrass, their slender blades shimmering with dew in the early light, stretching all the way to where the land sloped up into towering ponderosa pines and quaking aspens, their leaves trembling at the touch of a gentle wind.

I had never truly experienced anything as vast and peaceful as this. It wasn’t the tense, suffocating hush of anticipation I knew from city nights or the uneasy calm that settled moments before chaos erupted, but a living, breathing quiet, where the sweet trill of a meadowlark rose above the grass, and the distant, haunting cry of a red-tailed hawk echoed across the valley. The air was full of subtle sounds. The whisper of the wind threading through the rabbitbrush, the secretive rustle of mule deer in the undergrowth, the soft sigh of the cottonwoods that had watched generations come and go. These trees, older than memory itself, stood as silent witnesses to peace, their branches creaking gently as if exhaling along with me. It was transformative in a way that felt both sudden and slow, like thawing after the longest winter.