Chapter 9 - The Sovereign Queen
One year later.
The sun shone brightly over the grand courtyard of La Maison de Sucre on 4th Street.
The bakery had become the most popular destination in Boston, famous for its exquisite French pastries and warm, welcoming atmosphere.
Outside, colorful balloons decorated the garden terrace, where dozens of guests—including local business owners, community leaders, and the entire Romano family—gathered to celebrate Mattea’s first birthday.
Little Mattea, dressed in a tiny yellow dress, was giggling happily as she waddled across the lawn, chasing a silver balloon.
Isabella ran behind her, snapping photos and laughing.
On the upper balcony overlooking the garden, Abigail stood leaning against the wooden railing, wearing a stunning lavender dress that showcased her radiant beauty and confidence.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind, pulling her back against a broad, warm chest.
Matteo rested his chin gently on her shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair.
“You’re thinking again, Mrs. Romano,” Matteo murmured playfully into her ear.
Abigail smiled, turning her head slightly to press a kiss against his jawline.
Three months ago, in a quiet, private ceremony on the cliffs of Newport, Abigail had officially become Matteo’s wife. The media called it the wedding of the century—the union of the city’s most powerful man and the courageous woman who had captured his heart.
“I was just remembering the Grand Atoria ballroom,” Abigail admitted softly, looking down at her daughter playing in the garden. “One year ago, I was standing on shattered glass, believing my life was over.”
Matteo gently turned her around in his arms, looking down at her with infinite devotion. He picked up her right hand, kissing the gold wedding band resting on her ring finger.
“That slap brought you back to me, my love,” Matteo said softly. “You saved my sister eight years ago, and then you came back and saved me from a cold, meaningless life.”
“You saved us too, Matteo,” Abigail whispered, sliding her hands up to cup his face. “You gave my daughter a father, and you gave me a home.”
Down on the lawn, little Mattea looked up at the balcony, waving her tiny hands frantically. “Mama! Dada! Down!”
Matteo laughed—a deep, joyful sound that echoed through the sunny afternoon. He wrapped his hand around Abigail’s, holding her tight.
May you like
“Duty calls, my queen,” Matteo smiled, his eyes twinkling with love. “Our daughter demands our presence.”
Hand in hand, the former waitress and the mob king walked down the stairs together, stepping into the bright, beautiful future they had built on courage, honor, and everlasting love.
