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Chapter Eighteen

Dante

S ex with Francesca brought me to my knees. Physically, metaphorically, and in every damn way that matters.

I’ve had sex before. I’m not a monk. But this? This wasn’t sex. This was something else entirely. She was with me the whole time, really with me. Responsive, alive, open in a way I’d never seen. Not even during our kiss in the kitchen. Not even when she touched my cheek the day I spit on hers .

She moaned my name like a promise. She came apart on my tongue like she trusted me. And when I took her, slow and deep, then hard and desperate, she didn’t disappear. Not once.

And fuck, I’m ruined.

There’s no turning back now. I’m never letting her go. And it has nothing to do with revenge. Nothing to do with contracts or punishment or the bloody mafia war her father brought into my home. It’s her. All of her. Her fire, her stillness, her silence, even her sorrow. I want it. I want her.

But if I have any hope of keeping her, of making this more than trauma and power and lust, I have to do something different. Something I’ve never done before.

Not control her. Not buy her. Not threaten her.

I have to tell her the truth.

Not just about what I want but about everything. Even the parts I’ve buried deep. Even the things that still taste like blood in my mouth when I say them.

I know her. I know shiny gifts and apologies won’t work. She won’t fall for flowers or flattery. What she wants, what she deserves, is honesty. Real, painful, soul-cutting truth.

So I wait for her.

Not like a man in control. Not like a capo used to being obeyed.

But like a man holding his breath… hoping the woman he loves will choose to hear him out.

When she returns from dropping the kids off at school, I’m pacing the hallway like a caged animal. I’ve stared down loaded guns and negotiated with men who’d slit their mother’s throat for less, but I’ve never been this fucking nervous. Not even the night I lost my virginity.

She walks in, cheeks pink from the cold, curls tucked into a loose braid, followed by Bruno like a goddamn shadow. And despite knowing he’s her brother, I still feel the familiar flicker of jealousy crawl under my skin.

Then she sees me and flinches. Not overtly, not dramatically. Just a split-second tightening in her shoulders, the barest hesitation in her step. But I catch it, and I hate it.

“Dante?” she asks cautiously. “Is everything okay?”

My eyes flick to Bruno, who clocks my mood instantly. He doesn’t argue when I say, “Can you give us some time?”

He nods, but not before throwing me a look that says Hurt her, and I will end you, and I don’t even blame him.

The door clicks shut behind him, and then it’s just the two of us.

“I’m going to kill your father,” I say. No warning or preamble. Just the truth.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t gasp. Her face is still and controlled, like she expected this, and maybe she did.

“Okay,” she says finally, her voice steady. “Why are you telling me?”

I take a step closer, searching her eyes for something—anything—beneath the calm.

“Because you deserve the truth.”

She nods slowly, once. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with that truth, Dante? Warn him? Beg you not to go through with it?”

“Is that what you want?” I ask. “Do you want me to spare him? ”

Her gaze sharpens. “Would it matter if I said yes?”

I hesitate, then tell the truth. “I wouldn’t understand it. But I’d listen to your reasons.” And I’d still do it.

She folds her arms across her chest, her default shield when she feels exposed. Her eyes shift away, and I give her space, letting the silence hang between us.

Then, just when I’m about to speak again, she turns back to me.

“Do me a favor,” she says.

“Anything.”

“When you do it… if you can, do it in front of my mother.”

I blink, caught off guard. “What? As punishment?”

I could see that, sending a message to the woman who never protected her. But she shakes her head, a sad smile tugging at her mouth.

“No,” she says quietly. “As a reward. She’s endured more than anyone knows. I think she deserves to see it.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I just stand there, hands buried in my pockets, useless for once.

She nods like that’s enough. “Thank you for telling me. Your secret’s safe with me.” She turns, already walking toward the kitchen, when my voice stops her.

“I’m sorry.”

She pauses, not turning back. Just that maddening little shrug I’ve come to hate.

“He has it coming,” she says flatly. “He’s not a good man.”

“No, I’m not sorry for that.”

She turns then and really looks at me. “What else are you sorry for?”

The words hit harder than they should. I take a breath, the truth spilling out before I can contain it.

“Take your pick. I did a lot of wrong. I’m sorry for not giving you a chance to explain.

I’m sorry I saw you as the enemy. I’m sorry for how I touched you before you gave me your trust. I’m sorry for breaking something that could’ve been good.

For hurting you. For turning us into a war zone before we even had a chance. ”

Her expression doesn’t change. She’s the perfect mafia bride, but I know her now. I see the way her eyes tighten, the flash of something too fragile to name. Pain, disappointment, maybe even grief.

She nods once. “Thank you.”

Thank you? That’s all?

It hits like a slap—cold, distant, and polite. I want to shake her, beg her to stop being so composed, to show me anything real.

“Is there anything I can do to make it right?” I ask. “Anything that would make you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

There it is, the shrug. That fucking shrug, and I snap.

“Of course there is!” I bark. “Stop pretending. Stop pretending I didn’t destroy what we could’ve had. Stop pretending that what happened last night wasn’t real. Don’t stand there and lie to me like it didn’t wake up something in both of us.”

She flinches, just a flicker, but I see it.

“I—” she starts, then shakes her head.

“Tell me,” I demand. “If you want to hurt me, just do it already. Don’t dangle hope and take it away.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “You really want to make it right?”

“Yes,” I say, stepping toward her. “Whatever it takes.”

She holds my gaze for a beat, unreadable, then turns and walks upstairs.

I follow without hesitation.

My mind is already racing, imagining her leading me to our room, not hers. Imagining us sitting the twins down together, explaining that this marriage is no longer a cage but something real. I see the future stretching ahead of us like something we could finally build together.

She shatters it in two seconds.

When she comes out of the closet, there’s a brown envelope in her hand. She holds it out to me, and my stomach knots.

“What’s that?” I ask, already knowing.

She says nothing as I take it.

The title at the top cuts through me like a blade: Petition for Divorce .

Everything in me stills, and for the first time in years, I don’t know what to say.

“Absolutely fucking not!” My voice ricochets off the walls, sharp and final. I don’t care how calm she looks. I don’t care how carefully she planned this. I’m not signing.

Francesca doesn’t flinch. She just folds her arms over her chest as if she expected this exact reaction.

“Don’t worry,” she says coolly. “Look at the documents. I don’t want anything. Not a penny, not a car, not even a fucking coffee machine. I swear. ”

That only pisses me off more.

“Then how the hell do you expect to live?” I growl. “You think I’ll let you walk out of here with nothing and just… vanish?”

“I won’t vanish,” she replies, calm as ever. “I have things. Jewelry, bags, watches. Designer stuff my father gave me over the years.”

I blink, confused for a beat. “What?”

She meets my gaze evenly. “Why do you think I asked for designer things all those years? For fun? It was always for this. For running. I never planned to stay in that house, Dante. I was building my escape.”

That stings more than I’ll admit.

“And what about the kids?” I snap. “You’d just turn your back on them like that?”

Her eyes flash, then, finally, “Of course not,” she bites out. “Don’t insult me.”

“Oh yeah?” I challenge, pacing toward her. “Then what? What’s your great solution?”

She lifts her chin. “I become their day nanny.”

I stare at her. “You what?”

“I come in the morning. I get them dressed, fed, and ready for school. I take them. I pick them up. I help with homework, make dinner, and put them to bed. Then I leave.”

She says it so easily, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. But every word feels like a blade to the chest.

“They’re better now,” she adds softly. “Lucia sleeps through the night. No more nightmares. Alessio isn’t biting people anymore. They’re settled. Stable.”

“Because of you,” I bark. “Because they feel safe with you. And now you want to show up like a fucking ghost and then disappear at bedtime?”

“It can work,” she insists, a touch of desperation breaking through her mask. “It’s the cleanest way. They won’t feel the tension. They’ll still have me. Just… not like this.”

“No,” I say, low and dangerous now. “And you know what?”

I stalk across the room to the fireplace. Her eyes widen, not in fear but in fury.

“Dante, don’t?—”

I toss the papers into the flames without hesitation. The fire catches immediately, curling the edges of the divorce papers into black ash.

“You don’t get to decide this alone,” I say, turning back to her. “You don’t get to rip yourself out of our lives like a clean cut and call it love.”

She stares at the flames, her jaw clenched. But she doesn’t move to stop it. Doesn’t speak.

"You think this is about control? About punishment?" I growl, my voice rising as the flames eat away at the only future she was willing to claim. "It’s not. It’s about not letting go of the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me!"

She freezes, and I see it. Her hand lifts, almost like muscle memory, and her fingers brush the corner of her cheek.

That spot, the one I spit on. And just like that, all the air leaves my lungs.

Because I know exactly what she’s seeing in her head. Not this version of me. Not the man begging her to stay. But the one who made her kneel. The one who shamed her.

“Francesca—” My voice breaks on her name.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t even look at me.

I cross the space between us in two strides, not thinking, only feeling. My hand wraps gently around her wrist, no force, just a plea, and I lift her fingers away from her face.

Then I lower my mouth to that spot, that cruel, violated corner of her cheek, and I press my lips there. Soft, reverent, and apologetic as if I could kiss the memory away.

Her breath stutters.

I don’t speak. I don’t beg. I just stay there, holding her hand to my chest, my lips trembling against the place I once defiled.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again. "For everything."

I can’t tell if she’s about to pull away or fall apart.

She takes a shaky breath as I keep brushing my lips over the spot—that spot—hoping, somehow, to erase the memory of that day. Of the spit, of the monster I became.

I press one more kiss there, then another, working my way up to her mouth like reverence could undo violence.

“I’m not that man,” I say, my lips just a breath from hers. “I showed you the ugliest part of me because—” I kiss her softly, carefully.

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t push me away, either.

When I pull back, her eyes meet mine. They're not empty, not gone like before. But they’re guarded, watchful, as though she’s waiting to see which version of me I’ll be next .

I don’t know how much to say. How much she'll even believe.

But the truth claws its way out of me anyway.

“I was hurt. Heartbroken. I thought I’d been used, played… but the truth is, I was falling for you, even then.” I take a breath that feels like splinters. “I’m in love with you, Francesca.” I’ve never said that to anyone before.

Silence.

Her gaze breaks from mine. Slowly, carefully, she lowers her eyes… and brushes a nonexistent crease from her skirt.

No smile. No tears. Just a gesture that says everything. She heard me but won’t acknowledge it, and that hurts more than any rejection ever could.

“Francesca?”

She looks up, and her eyes are shiny with unshed tears. Not the soft kind. The kind that sting. The kind that come from insult, not intimacy

And it hits me hard and wrong. I cracked my heart open for her, laid it bleeding at her feet… and somehow, it felt like a slap to her.

“This is not possible,” she says quietly.

“What isn’t?” My voice breaks before I can stop it. “Me loving you?” I take her hand and press it against the center of my chest. Over the rhythm she put there. “I can assure you it is.”

She lets her hand rest there for a second. A second that feels like hope, but then she pulls away.

“No,” she says, stepping back. “This isn’t love.”

“Then what is it? ”

“Obsession. Guilt. Possession. Penitence. Anything but love.”

I stare at her, gutted.

She shakes her head slowly, eyes flicking to the ground like she can’t bear to hold mine. “I can’t forget that day. I won’t forget it. I won’t let myself get lost in you.”

“I would never hurt you like that again.”

She flinches like the words themselves are a betrayal. “This is your nature. Men in your position lose their humanity, and you showed me who you truly are.”

“What if this is who I am, and the version you refuse to see past was just a man who was bleeding?”

She doesn’t answer. Just juts her chin forward, unshaken, unlistening, locked in her own quiet war.

“I won’t become her,” she says softly. And somehow, that makes it worse.

My breath catches. “Her? Who is her ?”

She lifts her gaze now, direct, cold, and clear.

“The woman who stayed. The woman who remained silent.”

“Francesca, who?—”

“My mother,” she replies before she turns and walks out of the room like nothing happened.

I stay there, frozen.

I bring my hand to my chest, half expecting to feel it split open. Wondering how my heart is still in there, still beating, and not shattered on the floor.

And for the first time since I realized she was mine, I wonder if there’s truly a way back.

And if not… how strong I’ll have to be to let her go.