Life continued.
The restaurant thrived. Sofia grew. Rosa's businesses expanded. Tony visited more often, slowly rebuilding our relationship.
Months passed. Then a year.
No attacks from Volkov. No retaliation from the Castellanos. No wars.
Just life.
Ordinary, quiet, peaceful life.
Sofia turned eight. Then nine. Started playing soccer. Made friends. Got good grades. Had sleepovers and birthday parties and all the normal childhood things I'd never had.
"She's happy," Elena observed during one of our weekly coffee dates. "You did it, Isabella. You gave her everything you never got."
"We did it. All of us. Rosa, Dante, you, Maria. Everyone who helped raise her."
"But especially you. You chose this life for her. You chose peace over power. That takes courage."
"Sometimes it feels like cowardice."
"It's not. Trust me. I've seen cowardice. This isn't it. This is strength the kind that doesn't need to prove itself with violence."
I wanted to believe her.
Most days, I did.
