My Dark Romeo: Epilogue

“For the last time, I promise that Franklin Tabitha Townsend has never been possessed in her life. How many times do I have to say this?”

I stop myself just short of tossing my hands up, not wanting to distract Romeo from the road. With Jared (and Madison) in prison, awaiting trial, he hasn’t found a replacement.

Romeo insists he’s happy he got poisoned, since attempted murder charges mean Madison will rot in maximum security, not some cushy facility with tennis courts, Swedish massages, and Wagyu Sundays.

Romeo flicks the left signal. “Dropped on the head?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did she ever peel lead paint off the walls and eat it as a baby?”

“Nop—” I stop. I don’t lie to Romeo, and since that sounds like something a baby Frankie would have done… “How would I know? I was a toddler then.”

“She’s not living with us, Shortbread. She can take the penthouse in D.C., but no way will I have that gremlin marching down the halls of the place I expect to sleep safely at night.”

“Fine. Deal.”

I recline in the passenger seat, satisfied that he offered the solution Frankie rooted for in the first place. Romeo did say he wanted to destroy the place.

I can’t think of a better harbinger of destruction than Franklin Townsend.

“It’s only for a few months.” I pull a snack out of the glove compartment. “Until Daddy cools down and her college un-suspends her.” Shep is back to being Daddy. For now.

“How could she flood an entire dorm building?” Romeo turns right, exiting to the freeway from the private airport. “How is that even possible?”

Since I once spilled chlorophyll on our ceiling, I’m in no place to judge. In fact, the green specks are still there. Scattered between the lighting like a Rorschach painting.

As for Daddy, he blew a gasket when the school sent a twenty-three-million-dollar bill for the damages. Took it right out of Frankie’s inheritance to teach her a lesson, which will most definitely go unlearned.

“Does it matter?” I kick my legs up on the dash, munching on Pocky sticks. “I share some blame in this.”

“You’re not the one who flooded an entire college dorm building in the middle of finals week.”

“Sure, but I am the reason Daddy gives Frankie so much freedom.”

Daddy’s version of an apology to me.

Sometime this year, he gifted Frankie all the freedom he never gave me to prove he changed. While I’m happy for her, I’m also dreading the consequences.

Already, there was the Home Depot debacle, the Swiss ski-trip fiasco, and the near international incident in Dubai.

Romeo stops at the light, turning to face me. “Or your father can man up and apologize to you with words. Then we can all move on to the next chapter of our lives. One where Frankie is not kicked out of her home to learn responsibility the hard way.”

I wave his words away. “Speaking of moving on, when are you gonna hire a driver?”

Six months since Jared’s arrest, he still hasn’t finished running thorough background checks on new applicants. To be fair, his old driver did try to kill him.

Can’t blame a poisoned man for being thorough.

“Cara emailed me the background checks this morning.”

Ah. Cara. The only remnant of Costa Industries in Romeo’s life. When he left (okay, was fired), she left, too. He rewarded her loyalty with a massive raise.

Turns out, my husband is better at selling stocks than, well, stocks.

Romeo rolls through our iron gates, up the quarter-mile driveway, and past a forklift.

“Why is there a forklift on our property?” I swivel my head to stare at the obnoxious thing as we whizz past. “Is there construction going on at the house? I didn’t break anything before we left. Not this time.”

He frowns. “They were supposed to be gone by last night. I paid them an extra mil to get it done by the time we arrived.”

“How much work are we talking here? It’s only been three months since we left on our food tour.”

Three months of bliss. Hopping from country to country, eating everything we could, from street food to high-brow Michelin-starred restaurants.

Not only did he remember every country on my To Eat list from our Chapel Falls date, he also set up a food itinerary for each.

It helps that Romeo is currently unemployed. Okay, fine. Trading stocks. (He swears it’s a job. I’ll take his word on it.)

“I hired a team to redo the home.”

My jaw practically unhinges. “The entire thing?”

Without consulting me?

Romeo kills the engine in front of the door, handing the keys to a waiting Vernon.

Hettie swings my door open, giggling when I launch into her arms. “I can’t wait for you to see it. It’s amazing.”

I send an accusing glare to Romeo. “Did everyone know about the renovations but me?”

Hettie loops an arm through mine, leading me to the entrance. “You’re gonna melt into a puddle of chocolate. It’s everything you ever wan—” At Romeo’s expression, her words die.

“Out.” He pries her arm from mine and nods in the direction of the staff’s quarters behind the main house. “Before you ruin the surprise.”

“Fine, fine.”

It’s too late.

I’m already racing toward the double doors, thrusting them open.

I know what lies inside, because I know my husband. The man is hell-bent on making me happy.

Just as I expected, he turned our home into a library. Every inch of wall space is covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves.

The living room. The halls. The theater room.

Even his study.

My legs carry me from room to room at the speed of light. Though I hurry about it, my eyes don’t miss a thing.

How he catalogued everything by genre, by spines, exactly the way I envisioned it. Horror and mystery in the study. Travel and cooking in the kitchen. Romance and erotica in the bedroom.

I spin to Romeo, who has finally caught up to me, and fling myself onto him, showering kisses all over his face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“I’m already regretting it,” he informs me as he carries me up the stairs and into our bedroom. “The books in the shower will probably mold.”

“I’ll waterproof them.”

“The ones in the kitchen may catch on fire.”

“I’ll fireproof them.”

He presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Is it exactly how you wanted it?”

“Even better.”

ROMEO COSTA

Rain check for tonight.

For some reason, my wife has locked herself in her reading room with three pints of Morgenstern’s egg custard ice cream.

ZACH SUN

Maybe she is homesick?

ROMEO COSTA

Maybe your brain is homesick.

THIS IS HER HOME.

OLLIE VB

Take Daytona to eat KFC.

She’ll cheer right up.

ROMEO COSTA

She’s from Georgia, not Kentucky, you uncultured buffoon.

ZACH SUN

Is there really a difference?

OLLIE VB

KFC = KOREAN Fried Chicken.

You uncultured buffoon.

I pocket my phone, taking large strides to Dallas’s former bedroom. Loud wails seep into the hallway from the crack beneath the double doors.

My wife, who has only cried when I almost died, is bawling.

“Dallas?” My palms meet the wood, slamming down. “Open up.”

No answer.

“Dallas.”

Still nothing.

My fists pound harder, but they’re drowned out by her cries.

“Dallas Maryanne Costa.”

Wretched panic sails down my throat, sinking to my gut like an oversized anchor.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

And still.

No answer.

“Damn it, Dallas. I will blow down this door if you do not open it right now.”

She doesn’t.

True to my word, I lift my leg and kick it at the seam, splintering the wood into pieces.

Splayed across the floor, surrounded by a séance circle of ice cream tubs, Dallas clutches a clear glass display box. The one with the fourteenth Henry Plotkin book inside.

She usually keeps it on the opposite side of the room, hanging beside the pressed petal painting Vernon made from the remnants of her white rose.

Sheets of tears shoot past her cheeks and ricochet on the pearl marble, where they plunge into an ocean of their peers.

Okay, not really.

But my legs don’t get the memo as they lurch forward at the sight of three tiny tears chasing one another down her cheek.

I take the box from her, set it aside, and lift her onto my lap, her legs on either side of my thighs. “What happened, baby?”

“Yes.”

Huh?

I tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear. “Yes, what?”

“Exactly.”

“Dallas, you’re not making any sense.”

As if she just realized I’m here, she squeals, launching her arms around my neck, almost strangling me to death. “A baby. We’re having a baby.”

“A what?”

“I’m pregnant, Romeo. Pregnant.”

“But we just started trying three weeks ago.”

Re-started, more like.

After I was poisoned, Shortbread and I decided we weren’t quite ready to expand our family and wanted to enjoy one another a little more before we devoted ourselves to someone else.

“I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” She leans down and pats my dick, speaking directly to it. “Thank you for your wonderful contribution to this family.” Her head tips back, addressing the ceiling this time. “I can’t believe they worked.”

Dread churns in my gut. “Who are they?”

But it’s too late.

My personal agent of chaos is already sprinting down the halls toward our bedroom. I run a hand down my face, a little concerned about how hectic this house/library/whatever will be in nine months if my child takes after their mother.

I’m still dumbstruck.

It must have happened during our sixth honeymoon—the redo of our Parisian one. The shock soon molds into excitement.

Shortbread is going to be a mother. I’m going to be a father.

Within minutes, I’m on FaceTime with Oliver and Zach, who started the call.

I frown at Zach. “How did you know already?”

“Decatur called to thank Mom.” Zach is in Korea on business, brushing his teeth in his lavish hotel room.

“For?”

“Mom took Davenport to a temple to get Guan Yin talismans.” At my blank expression, he adds, “Fertility talismans.”

Of course, she did.

Helpful as always, Oliver chimes in, “If it’s a boy, you should name him Romeo Costa the Third.”

“Kindly go fuck yourself.”

“Good idea. I haven’t man handled the ham candle in sixteen hours now.”

Is he even speaking in English?

Zach sinks into a couch, the camera shaking with the movement. “At least we found out within a reasonable timeframe this time.”

“Three seconds is actually unreasonable,” I point out.

They ignore me, still bitter about what happened a few months ago.

In fact, Zach cuts right to it. “Is there a reason we found out your father died on the six o’clock news?”

“It wasn’t newsworthy enough for the nine o’clock cycle?”

Oliver scratches his temple. “Zach, don’t you ever worry that Romeo’s a sociopath?”

“I’m not a sociopath.”

Why am I speaking to these people instead of being with my pregnant wife right now?

Oh. That’s right.

Because I can hear her and Hettie gushing downstairs and know it will be at least ten minutes before I can safely approach her.

“Debatable.” Zach sets his phone down, slam-dunking his electric toothbrush into a glass cup. “Do you remember what you said when we came to offer our condolences?”

“I barely remember your hair color.”

“Welp. You win some, you lose some.” He mimics me down to the timbre of my voice. “And I just won some. Where’s my congratulations?”

“I mean, an ‘I’m happy for you’ would have been nice.”

If anything, I went easy on Senior during his life, for the sake of Dallas. I abandoned my revenge plans. That was generous enough.

Even Morgan got a free pass to return to America.

Last I heard, she’s living in a commune in the Appalachians.

Oliver tilts his head. “When I croak, will you deliver my eulogy speech? I need someone who’s emotionless enough to form words in the wake of my death. Everyone else will be too busy bawling.”

“You mean bowling.” Zach shuts the lights in his hotel room. Behind him, a sweeping view of Namsan Tower looms. “There will one hundred percent be a party.”

That’s my cue to hang up.

I press the end button, figuring Dallas has had enough time to do whatever she needed to do with Hettie.

By the time I enter our bedroom, she’s sitting in a sea of bright yellow paper, her arm shoved under our mattress, yanking more and more out. They keep coming like a clown’s handkerchief with no end in sight.

She holds one up to the light like it’s money she needs to check for authenticity. “These babies must’ve worked as soon as I got them. Maybe too well. What if we have twins? A triplet?”

I lean against the door, watching my wife exist.

Loudly. Messily. Unapologetically.

Just the way a woman loved is meant to bloom.

Like a rose in spring.