Epilogue: Snowfall on Ashes
Two weeks later, Vincent stood on Navy Pier, watching the gray lake chop against the pilings, cigarette burning low between his fingers.
Isabella was gone—off to New York, maybe, chasing headlines and justice. Frankie survived, patched up in some hospital with mob doctors and old grudges.
The Moretti name was finished.
Vincent didn't smile. He didn't cry. He just stood there in the cold, smoke curling upward into the endless sky.
Blood makes you family. But betrayal makes you free.
And Vincent Moretti had never been freer in his life.