A year had passed since Camille and Dante's wedding.
A year.
Sometimes Camille still found herself staring at her wedding ring, wondering how she had gone from fighting for her survival to waking up every morning beside the man she loved.
The chaos felt like another lifetime.
There were no more police calls.
No mysterious envelopes.
No threats.
No hidden enemies.
No one waiting in the shadows.
Just life.
Real life.
And Camille had learned to love it.
She stood in the kitchen one Saturday morning, staring suspiciously at a bowl of flour.
Dante walked in.
He stopped.
"What are you doing?"
"Cooking."
He looked at the flour.
Then at her.
Then back at the flour.
"Should I call someone?"
She threw a towel at him.
"Very funny."
He caught it.
"What are you making?"
"Pancakes."
"Are you sure?"
She narrowed her eyes.
"Do you want breakfast or not?"
He smiled.
"Yes, ma'am."
He walked behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
She laughed.
