The wedding was not in a shadowy chapel, but in the sun-drenched conservatory of the New York Botanical Garden. It was a public declaration, a statement to both the legitimate world and the remains of the underworld.
Valentina wore a gown of ivory silk, simple and breathtaking. Dante stood at the altar in a morning suit, his silver eyes only for her. In the front row sat her brother, Marco, now a grinning teenager, safe and happy. On the other side, to the shock of many, sat Salvatore Mancini, a quiet, respected guest. A bridge between the old world and the new.
They exchanged vows they wrote themselves, promising not just love, but partnership, honesty, and a shared future built on a foundation of hard-won truth. When Dante kissed his bride, it was met with genuine applause, not wary silence.
The reception was a glittering affair, attended by senators, artists, business titans, and a few carefully curated, "retired" associates from Dante's past. He introduced Valentina not as his wife, but as his CEO. Rossi-Conti Holdings was now a reality—a diversified, powerful conglomerate with interests in green energy, tech, and, yes, art. The past was laundered clean through sheer will, legitimate success, and the judicious use of the ledger's secrets to ensure cooperation from the powerful.
Their home was no longer the glass fortress. They bought a sprawling, sunlit loft in Tribeca, filled with art they chose together and the constant, happy noise of a life being lived. The small, stolen landscape by Dante's mother hung in a place of honor in their living room.
Valentina threw herself into the art foundation they founded in her father's name, a venture aimed at giving underprivileged children access to art supplies and education. It was her way of redeeming the Rossi name, of creating beauty from ashes.
One evening, about a year after the wedding, Dante came home late. He found her on the terrace, looking out over the city lights, a sketchbook in her lap. She was drawing, a new habit—sketches of their life, of his profile, of the skyline.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her neck. "You're thinking loud enough to hear from the street."
She leaned back into him. "Just… happy. It feels strange sometimes. Not to be looking over my shoulder."
He turned her to face him. His eyes were soft, the knife's edge finally sheathed in contentment. "Get used to it, Mrs. Conti. This is our life now." He kissed her, then his hand drifted to her still-flat stomach, a question in his eyes they'd both been too nervous to voice.
A smile broke across her face, radiant and sure. "Yes," she whispered. "Get used to that, too."
The joy that erupted on his face was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. He picked her up and spun her around, laughing—a deep, free, joyful sound she wished she could bottle. He was a father, a husband, a businessman. The Don was finally, truly, at rest.
They were no longer a captor and his prisoner, nor a Don and his weakness. They were partners. They had walked through fire and emerged, not unscarred, but stronger, welded together in the heat.
They had found their peace. And it was more powerful than any war.