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Chapter Fourteen

Dante

I ’m a coward.

Because today, I ran—tail between my legs, like some green boy who doesn’t know what to do with the mess he’s made. I didn’t want to see her. Didn’t want to face the twins. Didn’t want to watch her laugh at something Bruno said or lean toward him like he’s still the only safe place in her world.

Even knowing he’s her brother doesn’t dull the jealousy. It just twists it deeper .

The office is quiet, blissfully so. Maybe too quiet because the silence doesn’t drown out the sound of my own thoughts. It only sharpens them.

I sit behind my desk, fingers steepled under my chin, staring blankly at the wall like it might offer me answers. It doesn’t. Not today. Not after last night.

She told me she’d try to please me next time. Like it was a chore. Like her body was something she owed me. And the worst part? I didn’t stop her. I let her say it and didn’t correct it before I walked away again.

Now that line’s been looping through my mind like a curse.

I’ll try to please you next time. It shouldn’t have hit me like it did. But it did.

Because I don’t want her trying . I don’t want obligations. I want… hell, I don’t know. I want her to want me. Not for survival, not to keep peace, not because she’s trying to avoid my anger.

I want her to crave me the way I crave her. I want to make her laugh again. To touch her and feel her there, not gone behind her eyes. I want her to look at me like she used to before everything burned. But I scorched the ground between us, and now, all I can see is the ash.

A knock breaks the silence.

Vito strolls in without waiting, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand and his usual cocky grin in place.

“As I live and breathe, Dante Forzi... I thought maybe you forgot where your office was.”

I glare at him, though there’s no real heat in it. He’s not wrong. I’ve been neglecting this side of the empire. Too wrapped up in my personal vendetta, too consumed by the wreckage of one woman.

He drops into the chair across from me, relaxed as always. “So, how’s marital bliss suiting you? You look like shit, boss. Is the wife keeping you up all night?” His grin sharpens. “Or is she not keeping you up at all?”

I wish it were that simple. I wish being smothered between her thighs was the problem.

But it’s not.

It’s thinking about her constantly. Wanting her like a fucking lunatic. And not just her body, but her voice, her smile, the way she hums under her breath when she thinks no one’s listening.

“My marriage is irrelevant,” I snap. “I saw your message—Harbor thirty-two was raided?”

He sobers immediately, setting the cup down. “Yeah. And the timing was too perfect to be coincidence.”

“What about Martino?” I ask, leaning forward.

He was the only one who vanished right after we uncovered Salvatore’s involvement. Too neat. Too well-timed. I’d convinced myself he ran until I got distracted by the walking contradiction that is my traitor-nanny-wife.

But it wasn’t her. I’m certain of that now.

“We found him,” Vito says, tone flat.

My jaw tightens. “Alive?”

He lets out a breath, shaking his head slowly. “Don’t get too excited. I should’ve said we found parts of him.”

Vito crosses his arms. “We have bigger problems than Martino’s death.”

I don’t like the way he says it, tight and deliberate. The kind of tone he only uses when something is about to blow up in our faces.

“A second shipment’s gone missing,” he adds. “And this time, not just weapons. Clean cash. Laundering channels.”

I go still. Vito doesn’t have to say the rest. I already know.

“It had to be someone with internal clearance,” he finishes grimly. “Someone close.”

Not a leak; it’s so much worse. It’s a fucking betrayal.

And not just any betrayal. Intimate. Familiar. Trusted.

My mind goes first to logistics, but my gut goes to the kitchen. To Francesca. To Alessio and Lucia. To the world I’ve let grow around me while I wasn’t paying attention. If this is a war from within, they’re all exposed. And that makes it personal.

My stomach twists, but my expression doesn’t change. I nod once, slowly, like I’m digesting it, but I’m already moving three steps ahead. Running names. Faces. Patterns. Who touched what, when, and why.

Only a handful of people have that level of access. Less than ten. Maybe five.

Vito watches me carefully, waiting for the explosion.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled again, my voice calm. “I’ll organize a party at home to celebrate my nuptials.”

He blinks. “A party?”

I nod. “Call it a celebration for the union of two families.” My words drip with sarcasm. “I’ll invite everyone. Especially Francesca’s father. ”

“You want a fucking family reunion?” he mutters.

“No,” I say. “I want everyone under my roof. Smiling. Drinking. Talking too much.”

Because when people drink, they get sloppy. When they pretend to celebrate, they reveal who they really hate.

“When?” Vito asks, more alert now.

“Next Friday.”

“You’re hunting,” he says. “You want to see who gets nervous. Who avoids eye contact. Who doesn’t show up at all.”

I meet his gaze, calm and cold. “No. I want them relaxed. I want them to think I’m stupid. That they’re in the clear. People make mistakes when they think they’ve won. And when they do?” I pause. “I want a name.”

Vito nods slowly, a glint of anticipation in his eye. “You want blood, don’t you?”

“No,” I correct, standing and buttoning my jacket. “I want truth. Blood comes after.”

Vito leans forward. “What now?”

“Now, we start shifting plans. Quietly. We see how much we can reroute without involving the core. Damage control until this is resolved.”

He grins. “Alright. What do you need me to do?”

By the time we’re finished, it’s past six. My temples throb from the hours of focus, lack of food, and too much black coffee. Everything in my body aches. My shoulders are stiff, my jaw is clenched, and my head is pounding just enough to remind me I haven’t eaten all day.

When I step into the house, all I want is a drink, a shower, and maybe a few moments where no one needs anything from me.

But then I hear it.

Lucia’s squeal of joy. Alessio’s excited shout. And then her laugh, low, sultry, effortless.

Real .

Real in a way I haven’t heard in weeks. Not directed at me, of course. No, her laugh is always for the children. Or for Bruno. Never for me.

But still, it does something. My headache fades just enough. My steps grow lighter as I head toward the kitchen, drawn by the sound like a man chasing warmth through a blizzard.

And for a second, I feel it, something I’ve never had, not really.

Is this what it’s like to come home? If only any of it belonged to me.

The kitchen is a mess of flour and laughter.

Lucia is standing on a stool with tomato sauce on her nose, while Alessio is wearing the same tomato sauce all over his mouth and Francesca?—

Francesca is glowing.

She’s got her sleeves rolled up, her curls pinned back, a smudge of flour on her cheek, and a smile so bright it hits me in the chest like a sucker punch.

She’s laughing at something Lucia just said, nudging Alessio out of the way with her hip while she helps him roll out the dough again. It’s chaos. Warm, loud, perfect chaos.

And then Alessio spots me in the doorway.

“Papa!” he cries. “Come make pizza!”

Lucia whips her head around, eyes going wide. “Please, Papa? It’s the night before school. We’re all doing it. Even Cece said so!”

I glance at Francesca.

She’s still smiling, soft and open. For a moment, she even looks like she means it. “You’ll need to earn your spot,” she teases, tossing a pinch of flour in my direction. “We don’t let amateurs near the sauce.”

“Is that so?” I smirk, slipping off my jacket.

“Yes,” Alessio says proudly. “Cece showed us. She made it epic.”

I raise a brow and glance at her again. “Epic, huh?”

She shrugs with faux modesty. “They’re easily impressed.”

I step up to the counter beside her, and for the first time in days, something in my chest unwinds.

I reach for the dough, my fingers brushing hers.

She doesn’t pull away. I press my hand to the small of her back when I lean to grab the sauce ladle.

She stiffens, just slightly, and though she doesn’t move away, she doesn’t lean into it either.

Her body is warm, soft, present… but not open.

Too close.

“Spread it in circles,” she instructs, glancing sideways at me, her voice playful again. “Unless you like chaos.”

“I live for chaos.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, barely loud enough to hear, “I’ve noticed.”

We build the pizzas together, laughing when Lucia sticks pepperoni to her forehead and declares herself the Pizza Queen. I sneak a black olive into Alessio’s slice just to hear him squeal in protest. And through it all, Francesca moves between us like she belongs here.

Like this is her home.

She smiles at me. It’s bright and easy and almost real.

Too real .

And suddenly, I don’t know what’s actually real anymore.

We eat in the breakfast nook, Alessio chewing with his mouth open, Lucia peppering Francesca with questions about mermaids, dragons, and whether pirates go to school.

I sit beside her, our shoulders brushing.

She doesn’t flinch when my hand grazes her thigh under the table.

She doesn’t move when I rest my arm behind her seat.

Every touch feels like a test I’m afraid to fail.

When the last slice is gone and the plates are pushed aside, Francesca leans down and kisses the top of Lucia’s head, then Alessio’s.

“Alright, thirty minutes of playtime,” she says, brushing crumbs from her lap. “Then it’s teeth, pajamas, and lights out.”

They squeal and bolt from the room.

And just like that, everything changes.

The moment the door swings shut behind them, she straightens. The smile vanishes. Her shoulders pull in. She begins clearing the plates like she’s folding herself back into something small.

I reach for a few dishes to help, but she stops me with a glance. It’s calm and cold.

“Leave it. It’s my job.”

I freeze, my hand halfway to the counter.

Her voice isn’t cruel. Just distant. Dismissive. Like none of what just happened mattered.

“Francesca—”

She stacks a few more plates, still not looking at me. “Thank you for joining us. The kids loved it.”

And then she’s gone. Not physically. She’s still here, in the kitchen, standing less than a foot away from me. But emotionally? She’s retreated so far I don’t think even my voice could reach her if I tried.

I straighten slowly. “I’m organizing a party next Friday.”

She nods absently, her tone brisk. “I’ll make sure the twins stay out of your way.”

“No,” I correct. “They’re to attend, and so are you. Your family will be there.”

Her hands still. The bowl she’s drying goes quiet in her grip, though her fingers tighten on its edges. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

I narrow my eyes. “What isn’t?”

“To have the Vescari around the children.” Her voice is low, strained. “And I’m not going to attend.”

The rejection hits harder than it should. My jaw tightens. “Yes, you are.”

She doesn’t flinch, just lifts her chin. “I’m not. That’s a wife's duty. Speak with the judge if you need to. I’m not a wife.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to keep my temper from boiling over. Yelling won’t solve this. Not with her. “Then you’ll attend as the nanny.”

Her agreement is immediate. Too immediate.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll come as the nanny.” The words hit harder than if she'd slapped me because she meant them. And I think, for the first time, she wants them to be true.

I study her face, the calm surface of it, too smooth, too still. She’s giving in too easily. And I don’t trust it. She’s up to something. I just don’t know what yet.

My mouth moves before I can stop myself. “Will you ever get over it?” I don’t even know why I ask. It shouldn’t matter.

She tilts her head slightly, her eyes steady and unreadable. “Will you?”

Her question cuts deeper than mine, and I hate how it makes me falter.

Still, I nod. “Yes. I will. I think I am. I’m trying at least to make the situation a little more amenable.”

She gives me a smile then. But it’s not one of comfort. It’s pained and sad, almost pitying.

“No, you’re not,” she says softly. “You’re not over it. And how grand of you, really, to try and make a situation you created a little more bearable for me. I apologize for not entertaining your fantasy.”

“I am over it,” I insist too quickly, too defensive, because I am, or at least I want to be.

I’m ready to make her my wife for real. To give her a place, a title, even children, if that’s what she wants. I’m ready to reach for something more. Something beyond punishment and betrayal. Beyond rage and shame.

But I don’t say any of that because I know what she’ll do with it.

She’ll spit it back in my face.

Just like I once did to her.

The memory hits like a blade: her in my office, broken and shaking, eyes full of betrayal. My spit on her cheek like a brand.

The silence stretches between us, brittle and sharp.

She turns her back to me, gathering the last of the dishes with quiet efficiency like our conversation was nothing more than background noise.

Maybe to her, it was.

I should walk away. I should let it go.

Instead, I stand there, watching her shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and all I can think about is how much I’ve ruined. How far she’s drifted. How much of it was my fault.

I wanted obedience. Revenge. Control.

But what I got was a woman who flinches from kindness and braces for cruelty. A woman who smiles for everyone but me.

And maybe I deserve that.

I leave without another word, footsteps heavy as I walk down the corridor. The echo of her voice follows me.

“I’ll come as the nanny.” Not the wife. Not the partner.

Just the help.

God help me, I don’t know if I’m angrier at her for saying it or at myself for making it true.