Part 9
Ten years later.
The Falcone estate had evolved from a fortress into a vibrant, chaotic, and deeply joyful home. The west wing was no longer a nursery; it was now dominated by skateboards, sketchbooks, trophies, and the lively, echoing footsteps of a fourteen-year-old boy who had inherited not only his father's piercing dark eyes and sharp intellect, but also his mother's fierce, artistic spirit.
It was a Saturday morning in late autumn, and the air across the northern coastline was crisp and biting. Inside the massive country-style kitchen — a room Nico had personally insisted on designing so it would feel warm and lived-in — flour dust was once again filling the air.
Except this time, there was no hum of anxiety or fear.
"No, Milo, you have to fold the butter into the dough, not whip it like a meringue," I laughed, leaning against the marble kitchen island while wiping a smear of flour off my cheek with the back of my hand.
Milo, now standing nearly as tall as I was with messy dark curls falling into his eyes, groaned dramatically as he leaned over the pastry bowl. "Dad said kneading it hard makes it better!"
"Your father's idea of culinary arts involves grilling steak over an open flame with military precision," a deep, rich voice chimed in from the doorway.
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Nico walked into the kitchen, wearing a simple gray pullover and dark jeans, looking every bit the refined patriarch of the Falcone family, though the harsh edges of his past had long since softened into a quiet, steadfast strength. He walked straight over to me, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind and placing a warm, lingering kiss on the top of my head before grabbing a fresh strawberry off the prep board.
"I heard that," Nico said
