Page 35 of Italian Mafia Boss's Virgin Lover

This is real.

And I will never let it go.

Chapter 19

Dani

As always, my father answers before the first ring is even through.

“How is she?” he asks, without missing a beat. It’s the same question he’s asked on every phone call, every week, in the six months since mine and Santo’s baby girl, Victoria, was born. “The photo of her in the garden is perfect, Dani. She looks just like you.”

I grin, knees drawn to my chest in the window seat overlooking the garden. Santo has had landlines installed all around the house, so I can call my father whenever I wish. It’s a much bigger concession than I think even Santo himself realizes. My father is excised from my life otherwise, damned forever as the enemy of my husband.

And yet, this much freedom is more than a gift. It’s a doorway.

With the Amata empire risen and slowly rebuilding, I don’t think it’s crazy to hope that one day, my father’s working relationship with Santo will be mended. One day, my father may even come to this country I’ve so easily come to love. He’ll meet my fearsome husband, and he’ll hold my baby daughter. Ever since the war that happened on this hill and in this castle, the future has been taking shape. And I’ve helped to shape it.

Santo is outside in the garden, rocking in a swing bench with Victoria dozing in his arms. Even at six months, she looks wondrously small in his powerful arms. Unbelievably flawless. It’s been busy since her birth, but still Santo sorts the time to spend with her. With both of us.

“She does look like me,” I say dreamily. “Doesn’t she?”

“So beautiful.” My father’s voice is taut, not with stress or regret or fear or self-loathing—but with love. For me, and his only granddaughter. “What a life fate had in store for us, Dani.”

I feel my smile widen. Wind dances through Santo’s hair. It’s a warm afternoon, but still he draws the swaddled baby even closer, shielding her with himself, guarding her with his own heat and life. My heart is full. Perfectly full.

“I wouldn’t change it for the world,” I say, feeling my eyes prick with tears. “Any of it.” I nearly died. Icouldhave died that day. But I didn’t. And now every cell in me burns with purpose, with the understanding that I’m meant to be here. “I’ll send more pictures.”

“Of you too,” my father presses warmly. “And Santo.”

I lift my brows. Much is mended between the men, but not nearly all. That healing, like the rebuilding of the Amata empire, will likely take years. “And Santo?”

“I want to see if she takes after him.”

She does. Her eyes are just the same. Sharp, a little dangerous. Smiling and secretive. But I don’t tell my father this. I’ll take a picture of them, of my husband and our daughter, and my father can see for himself. What rises out of ruin.

He’s quiet awhile, and the silence is sweet. I watch them out there, half-envious I’m not with them, half-pleased to see them, a perfect picture, from afar.

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” my father asks after sometime.

And I sigh. Since the massive battle here, Santo has been doing everything in his power to bring credit back to his name. He’s forged new alliances, renewed others, dismantled some. He’s gotten his revenge, punishing any and all who were involved with Gregorio’s coup and Vittorio’s untimely death.

Slowly, we’re rebuilding. And it will go on slowly, for some years, before the Amata name gleams as it once did, in the days when it was royal, when it was blooded. But I have every faith he will rise again, Santo. I’ve glimpsed what he’s made of. And now, he has me. Now, he has Victoria. As I’ve learned, when something is worth fighting for, there’s nothing to lose. And so much to gain.

We’ll expand, growing our allegiances, establishing our power in Italy before stepping outside of it. Someday, maybe, Santo will rekindle a working relationship with my father across the sea. Someday, maybe, I’ll see him again.

But for now, I can be grateful for what I have. This brilliant vein of diamond came from a mountain of unyielding stone. Who’s to say the same won’t happen for this war? Who’s to say what greatness can rise from the ashes?

“Happy isn’t quite the word,” I tell my father. Happy doesn’t encompass the relief, the passion, the pride that has come with falling in love with Santo Amata. “But it’s close enough.”

When I join Santo outside, he lifts his face to me, and the fire that blazes in his eyes, I feel reflected in my own. Pride and wonder and joy and love, love pure enough to belong in stories, in sculptures.

“Look at this,” Santo says, taking my hand in his and guiding me onto the bench beside him. “She’s smiling.”

His arm around my shoulders, our daughter in his arms, I feel something I’ve never quite felt before—complete. Victoria smiles up at us, mewling, and Santo smiles down at her. Love brims in my heart, in my eyes, and I hold onto them both, enveloped in their warmth.

Happydoesn’t begin to describe my life these days.

Perfect, it seems, is the only word that even comes close.

THE END