Vivienne

The call comes one unsuspecting afternoon, when my bruises have mostly faded to ugly yellows and purples. It's a slow, quiet day. Massimo, like usual, is embroiled in making sure his entire empire doesn't come crumbling down, and I'm happily drowning in business plans and meetings. I knew it would happen eventually, could feel it coming—when I answer the call from my father, he responds to my casual greeting with four simple words.

"My daughter. Killed someone."

Slowly, I shut my laptop. Here we go. He's been processing this one for a while.

"Are you okay, dad?"

Forget the fact that he's a lawyer, it must be any father's worst nightmare for their daughter to engage so thoroughly with the darkest side of humanity. I killed someone, and he knows. He allowed it, kept it silent. 

For a working man of rigid moral standard for the world and a father with strict expectations for his children, this is more than enough to tear him apart.

"That's what I've been wondering about you, Vivi girl, through many a sleepless night," he says raggedly.

"Dad." I guess I got my dramatics from both parents. "I'm okay. I'm more than okay."

Slightly mollified, he takes a deep breath. "But how? You ended a life. I know she was an awful person; it's not a question of whether she deserved it. I happen to believe she deserved worse. But I hate that my daughter had to take on that darkness. I hate that you fit in with his world."

I've thought a lot about it myself. It's no light thing for me—having grown up so differently from the Romanos, Nina included. To them, the act of killing can hold a casual ease to it whenever necessary. It's oftentimes the currency of their world. But to me, even scarier than realizing I could be capable of such a thing was the realization that I could yearn for it. I dreamed of killing Cora the way one anticipates their favorite meal at the end of a long day. I longed for it. And when I killed her, although I didn't glory in it, I felt fulfilled. Satisfied.

It's all quite simple, I eventually realized. The second an act becomes no longer unthinkable, it's no longer undoable. That line can be almost invisible, even for such a dark act. But think of a thing, just think of it for long enough, and any impossibility it held slowly erodes. No matter how horrific the thing is, dwell on it enough and maybe one day you'll find you've convinced yourself of its inevitability.

It was like that for me. That and the saying: everyone is a murderer, you just have to meet the right person. I met my person. And when I found out the full scope of what she did to Massimo, how he couldn't kill her, doing it myself became the thing I thought about the most. It was natural, like rain falling. Beautiful in its simple inevitability.

If I explain this to my dad, he may get it in his head that I'm a psychopath. So I tell him what I know he wants to hear, and maybe one day, even years from now, the ease with which I fit into Massimo's world won't be so reprehensible to him.

As the days stretch into weeks, calm and boring in the most perfect way, I find myself settling. Governed by a total sense of peace.

When everything is said and done, Massimo shows me how to love. He does it with a brutal simplicity, delightful in its innocence. I always thought that the very worst thing in the world is baring your entire soul to someone. It never produced any payoff that I could tell, and besides—I knew my own issues better than anyone else, which meant I knew best what to do with them. And that did not entail dumping them on someone else, giving them the power to mold the deepest parts of me.

But Massimo holds every aching piece of my soul in such tender hands. He treats me so wonderfully that sometimes I'm shocked nobody else snatched him up before I came along—then something will happen, like the other day at Nina's birthday dinner, and I'm reminded that nobody else sees Massimo the way I do.

Santo rented out his wife's favorite restaurant for the night and at the end of the dinner, gave a surprisingly eloquent speech about how much he loves Nina, how honored he is that she chose him to be her family. It had me a little misty-eyed, even with Tommaso gagging into his wine glass next to me. Nina had been so overwhelmed she'd burst into happy tears and after the flurry of activity had died down, Massimo had calmly leaned over and asked her what the matter was.

"Oh, nothing," she'd laughed, a little embarrassed, "it's just emotional to think about how far we've come. You know, where I was before I met your brother. I had nobody. And now I feel like I have everything."

"Ah. I understand," Massimo, nodding seriously, "you felt sad, but also happy about the sadness?"

"Well... no. It's more like the happy emotions are so intense they just... burst out of me."

Massimo had leaned forward in sudden interest, speaking with total sincerity. "So you wanted to feel sad, but then you felt happy instead. How strange that must be, to feel two things at once. Do you believe that's a sign of weakness?"

Nina, bless her, kept trying to explain, while the rest of us observed in amusement. At some point Tommaso, poorly concealing laughter, had excused himself for several minutes. An associate I don't know had asked a poorly worded but well-intended question ("It's part of being human; do you not ever feel things like that?") which Massimo endeavored to answer as everyone listened in fascination: "I am unsure what purpose that would serve for me. It sounds largely inefficient. But it seems to work for you, to feel things that much," he'd added graciously to Nina.

Later, happily leaning into his side, a little wine-dizzy, I'd realized (for the hundredth time) just how lucky I am to be the one who gets to understand the way Massimo loves.

I've lost count of the men I've fucked, as well as the ones I saw my friends date, who used their shitty childhood to explain their mistreatment of others. But if Massimo, of all people, has not once used the horrors of his past to excuse hurting me, if he has never once disrespected an ounce of the vulnerability I give him... well, I'm done making excuses for others.

Which is why I end up having a very brisk, slightly awkward conversation with my mom over the phone one morning. And by conversation, it's really just me explaining that while I appreciate her opening up about her relationship with her parents, it's not a burden I need to carry. "If I don't ever have kids, by choice or not, you need to accept that. And if you don't, mom, I can't speak to you anymore. Even if that makes me a disappointment to you, our heritage, and everything your parents did to create a life for you and your children."

It might be the most mature, difficult thing I have ever told my mom. I don't expect her to respond favorably, especially since she's also just found out that I've decided to stay in Chicago while Massimo deals with important business. It's much further than Rhinebeck was.

What she says isn't much, but speaks volumes: "I understand. Your father actually already talked to me about this."

After we hang up, there's a lump in my throat.

I've been in contact with the rest of my family as I've been healing. They don't approve of Massimo's lifestyle, to say the least, but they actually don't oppose him for me—not after how they saw the way he handled my hospital stay. Of course, there's a fair share of withholding information on my part; they don't need to know most of what Massimo does in his day to day. My dad knows more, but he dutifully keeps it to himself. It actually feels, for the first time, like he loves me—really loves me. He's my closest confidant, with his random phone check-ins and the way he advocates for me with my mom.

Nothing is perfect, it's not like everyone's suddenly jumping to accept all my life choices, and things with my siblings are still healing—but it's looking better than it ever has.

Especially when, not ten minutes after I've accepted that I think my mother is just going to hate me forever, she sends me a text that reads: Maybe you can send me some dates that would work so I can come see what you like so much about Chicago. If you would be okay with that.

I'm blinking back shocked, ecstatic tears (those confusing little bastards), when Massimo strides in and demands in a not so gentle tone that I tell him immediately what's wrong. It's all I can do to show him the text, which he analyzes in silence for several minutes while I duck into the comfort of his chest.

I can practically hear the cogs in his head whirring.

To not further confound him, I decide not to mention that I'm also crying because he loves me the way I needed to be loved when I was eight years old, and it's a uniquely beautiful (and terrifyingly rare) thing, for a man to give that to a woman. For me to feel, in other words, like I can still be that joyful little girl who has not been hurt by the world.

I think, if we all put our minds to it, we can remember who we were before we experienced that first great disappointment. Or at least perhaps recall some vague picture of it. Maybe it's a sun-drenched image of your childhood home and the yard you'd play in; maybe it's the pawprints of your family dog in the mud by the porch. Whatever it is, it's emblematic of who you were before you realized that your parents are human, that life has a way of knocking you flat, that sometimes the shit in your soul just isn't what the rest of the world wants to see.

Massimo makes it feel safe to return to that little girl, even for just a moment at a time.

I let him love me in his own terms and he lets me feel things in mine—so ultimately, later that night, he ends up fucking me so hard against the slippery shower tiles, hot water pelting his back, that I damn near pass out. Anchored to reality by the feeling of him reaching into the innermost parts of me, like he's taking away all the bad and replacing it with him.

As the days slip away, and with them, finally, the visible reminders on my skin of the pain we both went through—I experience the simple joy of caring about normal, simple shit.

Like Massimo's birthday.

Santo tells me that a while ago, his older brother made his own birthday such a non-event that he's pretty sure everyone has forgotten Massimo even has one.

Massimo's not the kind of person who says they don't want anything for their birthday but secretly harbors lofty expectations. He's the person who would lock himself in his room for the night if he came home to any sort of surprise for the occasion.

So—fine. We won't celebrate his birthday.

We will, however, celebrate the fact that it's the second Tuesday of the month. That it happens to also be Massimo's birthday is entirely unrelated. 

As a big part of our preparation, Nina and Leah have spent most of the day teaching me how to bake. I know he'll run for the hills at the first sign of a present, so I decide to make Massimo the best thing he's ever tasted. So good that he falls to his knees and swears of this stupid 'no sugar' shit forever.

The girls take this task seriously; we spend hours in the damn kitchen and it's strangely humbling to be the singular focus of their time and effort. I never did this kind of things with my friends before. Nothing we did really allowed time for more personal things—like me finally achieving my lifelong goal of proving to myself (and maybe my mother) that I'm not entirely useless in the kitchen, even though my eggs are very much useless at producing children.

Nina and Leah manage to drag this out of me as we wait for my cookies to finish baking. These women really cut to the heart of things, impervious to my usual defensive humor, and they both stare at me after my explanation.

"Is that possibly internalized misogyny?" Leah suggests helpfully. "You don't need to bake and have kids to be a woman."

"I know," and really, I do. "I know it's okay to not want kids. And I also know I want to be that person who always has something sweet to give people when they come over. Like, I want my kitchen to always smell good." My Teta was this way, warm and welcoming, and my dad's parents were the same in their own way; it's always been something I've admired about both sides of my family. I frown, having a sudden afterthought. "Massimo eats whatever I make, but even though he finishes every last bite, I've honestly been wondering if he only does that to make me happy."

"I would normally say that he wouldn't ever do something like that for anyone," Leah says, "but after seeing how he is with you, I don't know anymore. Does everyone else say your baking sucks?"

"As long as I can remember," I sigh.

Leah purses her lips. "Viv, I fear your baking sucks."

"Have you talked to a professional about it? Your infertility," Nina wonders plainly. 

I stare at both of them for a second. Wow, I really like these women. Perhaps being married to mobsters has played a part in that. No time for bullshit, straight to the point.

"Yes," I answer Nina. "But my therapist betrayed me, so after that I stopped going altogether."

At their insistence, I explain. My therapist, Cheryl, was absolutely lovely; she enabled me to open up and confront my feelings about my inability to have children. And Cheryl did not in fact betray me. She got pregnant. She had to go on maternity leave, which ended our time together. It was all fine and well, and I was very happy for her, bringing new life into the world and all that, but it was darkly ironic and unfortunately erased what little work I had done to separate my mother's grief over my shitty uterus from my own. 

When I finish, the three of us are biting back laughter. It is a little funny.

Right then, Massimo emerges from his all-day meetings, clearly suspicious about the celebratory dinner we've prepared.

It's ridiculously cute how he silently but persistently searches for me every time his duties for the day are finished. He never says much, just peacefully adheres himself to whatever I'm doing. If I'm playing with the cats, he'll retrieve Nik and the two of them will observe through equally stoic but interested stares. If I'm hanging with the girls or his brothers, he'll just come to be near me; if I'm alone he'll greet me more intimately, with the kind of kiss that makes my toes curl.

Now, he crosses the kitchen, carefully wiping flour off my chin with hardly a glance at Nina and Leah. "What's all this for?" he asks tightly, touching the ring the shoved on my finger, as he always does. Except it's not there now.

I give my vague, bullshit explanation of the celebration but can tell he's not listening. He looks up from my bare hand to serve me the most affronted, indignant look I have ever seen. "What have you done with your ring?"

He says it the way a normal person not affiliated with the mafia would say, 'why did you commit murder?'

"I didn't want it to get dirty from all the baking," I explain, wanting to get back to the issue at hand. "Now, I know what you're thinking. That all this is for your birthday, which happens to be today. But that would be a highly unattractive, selfish thought for you to have."

"Where is the ring, Vivienne?" 

"I put it somewhere around here," I brush him off. "But back to your birthday—"

"Go get it," he orders. I notice Nina and Leah muffling laughter, busying themselves with removing my shit from the oven.

The look on his face is so serious I can't keep up the joke any longer. It would feel particularly cruel. His eyes, bright and alert, zip to my chest as I reach into my bra and retrieve the ring. It felt like the safest place since I could physically feel it secured there.

Once it's back on my finger, he examines it for a moment before something in his shoulders loosens and he presses a tender kiss to the top of my head, trailing a possessive hand down to the small of my back. When he pulls away, the light giggles and chatter behind me have ceased. Such a small gesture of affection from Massimo and everyone is shocked. It makes me undeniably smug.

"Don't take it off again," he orders, which is unreasonably extra, but I'd be lying if I said my stomach didn't swoop a little at his words. "Now," he finally refocuses, "all this about celebrating the second Tuesday of the month—there's nothing else?"

I meet the knowing arch of his brows with a lofty look. "I'm also having a very good hair day. Not sure if you noticed, but I thought it warranted celebration."

"Your hair," he tests.

"Yes, my hair. You clearly didn't notice."

"Your hair looks lovely, dolcezza," he says lowly, sweetly, running his fingers through the hair in question (and it's true, I am having a phenomenal hair day). He smears his thumb over my lips, a little rough, "and so does this mouth, even when it's lying to me."

After he's gone, I turn to find Nina and Leah staring at me. 

Leah gives a disbelieving bark of laughter, fanning herself. "Sister, I get it. I didn't before, but I get it now."

"Leah," Nina admonishes, blushing a little. 

"You're married to his brother but you're not blind," Leah snaps, and after a moment the three of us burst into laughter.

♛

The rest of the evening is filled with a general sense of ease, and not a word of business.

I know the men are dealing with something big and it's about the Russians. There's been a certain stress hanging in the air for a while, but nobody talks about it. I follow the girls' lead, ignoring any mention of business if the topic happens to crop up. Problems and tensions are forgotten for the night, laughter comes easily—it's a good thing. Living a life of high stakes and violence, good moments must be grasped tightly when they do come.

Tommaso is the only one in dark spirits, sending baleful glances at his older brothers all night. He's oddly quiet. I know the brothers are aware of his suspicion because of how dutifully they ignore it. And anyway, Massimo is too busy making sure nobody else eats my dessert. I'm not sure what his deal is, but he's so serious about it. Nina manages to snatch a bite when his back is turned and confesses in a hushed, awed voice that it's the best thing she's ever tasted.

And maybe it's because she's the best teacher... or maybe all this time I really have been a phenomenal baker.

Looks like we'll never know.

Nobody mentions Massimo's birthday. Instead, there is exaggerated conversation about my hair. Massimo takes the jesting in stride. As we finish up, I happily observe the easy, relaxed set to his face. He's content.

Until an indecipherable moment passes, and he's... not. It's like a bolt of lightning has passed through him. Sitting calmly next to me, hands on his thighs, he's suddenly rigid. It's subtle, not noticed by anyone else, but I feel it like it's happening in my own body. Something is deeply wrong.

Slowly, I link my pinky with his under the table. He turns to me, but his eyes are unseeing. Rattled and empty. My heart fucking sinks.

"Massimo," my voice is hoarse, I'm sweating, terrified. "What's wrong?"

Please don't be a blackout. Please. We were supposed to be done with those.

Saying nothing, he stands, pushing in his chair and wordlessly leaving the room. He does it without any urgency, it's easy to believe he's just going to the restroom. Nobody else notices that anything could be amiss. And so in the name of not freaking out over nothing, I try to relax.

Approximately three minutes pass before I get up and follow him.

I listen to my gut and check his office first. It's particularly removed from the rest of the house, quiet and comfortable.

He's there, on the floor with his back pressed to a bookcase. There's a familiar slackness to his features, devastated and empty. My knees hit the carpet before I can consider that maybe he needs space instead of me in his face.

But his features don't shift, it's like he hasn't even registered I'm here. His hands hang listlessly at his side, legs spread in front of him. It's a helpless, heartbreakingly boyish position.

I don't speak. Slow as I can manage, I brush my fingers over his palm. His eyes zip to mine with a sudden ferocity. Thick lashes doing that slow blink as he gazes into my face.

"I... I don't... know what's wrong with me."

I frown at how breathless he sounds, running wildly through my mental list to decipher what could be happening. One of his migraines, perhaps... I refuse to entertain the other option.

"Is it your head?" I ask tightly, muscles locked and ready, although it's unlikely I could do anything.

Suddenly, his hand spasms and constricts around mine. Not gently, he pulls me into his lap.

"It's not there," he says in a near whisper, guiding my hand to his heaving chest, "it's here."

A sound, like a sob if it had all the emotion sucked away, escapes him and just like that, Massimo looks terrified. Like he's trapped inside himself, watching as the entire world happens to him. I feel my own eyes fill with tears, clutching onto him, entirely helpless. 

"I think," he gasps, a sort of dim horror dawning in his eyes, "I think I miss my brother."

Bone shattering relief has me wilting entirely into him, and then the next moment my heart is tearing apart for him. I know he thought he could control it, that there's probably nothing more he wants right now than to shut everything off, all the good along with the bad, just to feel nothing.

"I think I miss my brother," he keeps repeating over and over again, breathless and appalled, until it settles into something less jagged. Still, he repeats it, and I intersperse his grief with gentle reassurances of my presence, his brothers' love, all our love for him.

Eventually he starts saying something else. It's hard to understand in context, but he seems to be talking about the way Nico died. How he died away from Massimo, how it was just so quick, and he was flying the helicopter but he knew something was happening because of the noise everyone else was making, he just had no idea what until they'd touched down, and then there was just the body of his baby brother back there and he had to figure out what to do with it.

It passes through him like a storm. Violent sheets of rain and sharp claps of thunder dimming to a gentle drizzle, a faraway rumble in a leaden sky. It leaves him weak and shaken. I relax fully over him, gently brushing my fingers over his cheekbone and bringing our faces close. He releases a deep breath, peace finally settling over him again. 

It was quick and desperate. Belated, probably, to him. But these things have a habit of coming out, the longer they stay packed inside the more it hurts.

He hates everything about the display of weakness, I see it written all over him. So I don't say anything. I don't say it will come and go and every time it comes it won't stay for as long. I don't say it's okay, or that it will most certainly get better, because that's just how this works, even if you've been beaten down enough to think you know better.

"Tell me you love me," he breathes.

"I love you."

He kisses me; it's quick but deep, hot press of our mouths that I feel down to my toes.

I sit with him until he's ready to get up and get back out there; I'd sit here with him for hours, weeks if he needed it. However long it takes for him to find that small thread of peace in the middle of the chaos. There are no rules for this—there have been no rules for any of it. That is the one thing, in fact, that has been consistent in mine and Massimo's story. 

I met him in a dark alley with his knife pressed to my throat, insanity clouding his eyes; he tried to kill me at least a few times, I essentially wreaked havoc on his life and mind for months, and now I'm living in his family home, sitting in his lap, engaged to him, in love and loved more than I thought possible.

No rules. Just chaos. Equilibrium. The havoc of a wildly complicated life and the harmony of two wildly complicated people finding rest in each other.

♛

Massimo

After losing my mind—something I assumed I'd already done more than my fair share of—it is strangely easy to return to my brothers.

This is because of Vivienne, of course, and the effect she has on things. It's also because, even more confoundingly, after that moment in my study I actually feel... lighter. Not great, but definitely not terrible, which is what I expected.

Now, it's time to deal with one final matter of business before I take Vivienne to bed and force her to admit this silly sham of a celebration, which was altogether not an unpleasant evening, was her weaseling in a birthday celebration.

"Where is he?" I ask Santo, sitting across from me in my office. He's looking similarly impatient and distracted, likely thinking the same about his wife. 

I shake my head, wondering at who the two of us have become.

Just then, the door bangs open. My little brother flies in, wild eyes flaring in accusation.

"You two are fucking hiding something from me," he declares.

"Sit down."

Ignoring Santo's tired order, Tommaso rounds on me. "Tell me the truth. What the fuck is going on?"

I decide to just be out with it. 

"You're getting married."

He laughs, long and loud. "Fuck no I'm not."

I rifle through the papers on my desk, patiently waiting until he's finished. "You are. And soon, in case you end up in prison."

I have full faith in his lawyer, Frank has more than proved herself, but it's best to get this business done as soon as possible.

Tommaso collapses into the chair, looking shellshocked.

"Who would allow their daughter to marry him?" Santo snickers. "Total trainwreck, potential convict..."

I send him a dry look. He knows just who, but clearly feels like twisting the knife for our little brother.

"Kirill Sokolov has a daughter," I begin, and Tommaso releases a broken sound, "he has agreed that you two will marry. The ceremony will be in his territory per the terms we agreed upon. You will be meeting the girl in a few weeks to sign the contract, familiarize yourselves before the wedding day."

The whole thing has taken weeks of perilous conversation, oftentimes becoming so tense that it seemed we were all more likely to kill each other than reach any sort of conclusion. A clash of different cultures and wildly uninhibited egos, not helped by my bullying or Sokolov's general stupidity.

Considering all I did to tear down not only the Pakhan's empire, but his pride, everything is turning out quite wonderfully for me. If he were dealing with another Italian, perhaps he would have won. We can be overly attached to our sense of tradition and honor. But Sokolov has been forced up against my brutal pragmatism and powerful connections, which allowed me to squeeze him from all angles—pressuring local police to make life difficult for Sokolov's crew as they recovered from the series of hits I dealt, quietly eliminating their ability to smuggle their heroin through my territory. He expected me to stick to traditional rackets, as Italians tend to do, but I have my hands dipped in many legitimate businesses which allowed me to undercut the Russians in unexpected ways.

"Sokolov thinks Simo is insane like our dead daddy," Santo summarizes. "He's also mad we started a fucking war for nothing, and then proceeded to shit all over him."

He shrugs against my icy look.

Who cares if I made a mess. It's about time Tommaso cleans one up for me, instead of the other way around. This will only end in a forcibly peaceful union, where both sides give something up.

"I am not getting fucking married!" Tommaso bursts out, suddenly regaining his voice. "I'd rather go to prison for the rest of my miserable life. Marriage is a death sentence. It's poison. Name one marriage that has ended in anything but death and misery. You don't count," he snaps, silencing Santo's interjection without looking at him. "You've been married for two fucking seconds. Come talk to me in another ten years." He pins me with a bright glare. "I'm not fucking doing it. There has to be another way to end this war with the Russians. Find it. Then we'll talk."

"You're getting married," I say calmly.

"I'm killing myself," he says back, just as fast.

I find the paper I was looking for, but Tommaso is back to bitching. "And a Russian? They have no fucking... no dignity! They're idiotic and messy, they have no idea how to do things, you hate them." His eyes widen on me in horror, as he concludes this is a plan I've devised to destroy his life. "Fuck. This is the worst thing that could possibly happen to me. It's going to be terrible. Women don't like me like that. I'm supposed to be a great fuck, not a fucking husband. I'm not built for marriage! I fucking promise you," he lowers his voice to a furious growl, "I'm killing that bitch day one."

I slide him the paper. He stills, staring at it with absolutely no expression. 

"This is her?"

I nod.

"Shit," he mumbles, leaning back and scratching his jaw. "When's the wedding?"

Santo barks out a disbelieving laugh. We both stare at Tommaso, whose eyes are glued to the picture in awe. His jaw is unhinged. If he doesn't close it soon, he'll start drooling.

"One more thing," I stand, ready to finish this little meeting, "there won't be any other women. Sokolov has insisted on it."

Slowly, Tommaso tears his gaze from the photo. When he speaks, it's in a low tremble. "What do you mean?"

"You will stay faithful to your wife. I mean this with the utmost seriousness, Tommaso." It was our biggest point of contention—the Russians aren't that different from us with their mistresses, but Sokolov believes all Italians are sleazy, violent, sex-obsessed maniacs. He's not wrong with Tommaso, so I gave him that. "Your union must be palatable to Sokolov for this to work. So get it out of your system now. Because after your wedding day, she will be the only woman you take to bed."

Tommaso instantly pales. He looks like he's going to be sick. Like he can't move. He's still holding onto the photo, but now it's been crumpled in a trembling fist.

Frankly, I have no idea why Sokolov was okay marrying his daughter to my brother. Perhaps nobody else would have her. But if there's anything wrong with the girl, it will be Tommaso's issue.

I offer one more afterthought, already halfway out the door to find Vivienne.

"Her name is Irina Sokolov."

♛

THERE YA HAVE IT. Everyone's happy except Tommo! A couple of you guessed his storyline but let's be real, we ALL knew that mf would only become a husband by force.

A quick note about kids: I wanted to do something different with Viv and Simo. Both to discuss something atypical of romance books (a woman not wanting kids), and because it made sense with their characters. Simo was willing to have children because he grew past his unhealthy reasons for being against it—but that doesn't mean it's the best option for him.

If you're still disappointed, I get it! But I do feel like they give MAJOR unhinged aunt/uncle vibes (hint hint)...

If there's anything you'd like to see in the epilogue, drop it here. No guarantees, but I want to know what you all feel still needs resolution!

- G