Page 28

His eyes light up, and he runs up the stairs and disappears into the house.

“Hey, wait for me!” Lucia shouts behind him .

I chuckle and turn to pick up the bags.

“Need help?” Bruno asks.

I shake my head.

He slams the trunk closed, glancing at me with something that looks a lot like worry. “You sure you’re okay?”

No . “I’m fine.”

His mouth twists like he wants to argue, but he lets it go. “You going to talk to him?”

I nod. “I need to.”

“Do you want me to?—”

“No. Lord, no. Go to the guest house, and I'll message you later.”

He looks like he might say something else, then just gives a short nod and heads around the side of the house toward the guest quarters. I watch him until he disappears from view, then steel myself and walk through the front door.

The villa is quiet when I step inside. The scent of lemon polish and old wood greets me like a familiar lullaby. It’s strange how this place has become something like home. Not because of comfort or belonging but because it’s the only place where the children are.

Where my parents’ house was all suffocation and scrutiny, this one feels oddly like breathing. And it’s unsettling, knowing the circumstances that brought me here and made me stay.

I drop the shopping bags by the stairs and square my shoulders. Best to rip the band-aid off now.

Dante’s office door is closed, the same heavy oak barrier that has guarded too many battles. I knock once, my palm sweaty against the wood. I have no idea which version of him I’ll find—the cold strategist, the cruel avenger… or the man who kissed me like I was salvation.

“Come in.”

He’s at his desk, papers spread around him, but he’s not reading them.

His gaze lifts to mine with a flicker of something I can’t place, then shutters completely.

A wall slams back into place. Fulvio is sitting across from him, his expression unreadable except for the faintest trace of a glare when he sees me.

Ah. So that’s how today is going.

Dante leans back in his chair and offers nothing but a dry “Francesca,” like I’m just another footnote in a long, tiring day.

I glance at Fulvio. “I was hoping to speak to you. Alone.”

Dante’s eyes narrow just slightly before he turns to Fulvio. “We’ll continue this later.”

Fulvio doesn’t move right away, clearly annoyed at being dismissed mid-conversation. After a beat too long, he stands, straightens his suit jacket, and spares me a final tight nod.

“My time is yours,” he says to Dante. “When you’re ready.”

He brushes past me as he leaves, and I don’t miss the almost imperceptible tension in Dante’s jaw. When the door closes behind Fulvio, I’m left standing across from him in the silence that settles like dust.

Dante clasps his hands in front of him. “You’re done avoiding me, then? ”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Avoiding you?”

He lifts an eyebrow, the bitterness bleeding in. “Yes. Since I told you I loved you. Since you left me standing there like a fucking fool.”

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay calm. “I needed time.”

“To do what, Francesca? Decide if I’m a monster or not?”

“Bruno told me something today,” I say, bypassing the trap he’s laying. “He said the problem with the weapons, the raids, it’s not just Vescari. It’s bigger. Smarter. He doesn’t think Don Salvatore is behind it, not fully.”

Dante’s brows lift slightly. “And how do I know that’s true?”

“Because I trust Bruno.” I meet his gaze evenly. “The way you trust Fulvio. Or Vito.”

He scoffs, low and bitter. “Must be nice.”

I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He walks out from behind the desk, closing the distance between us in three strides. “Tell me, Francesca. Was there ever a time you trusted me like that?”

I swallow hard. “Let’s not go there.”

“No.” His voice sharpens. “I’d like to know.”

I glance down, trying to steady the thrum of my pulse. “There was a time,” I say quietly. “When I thought it was possible. Before the wedding. Before the gun. Before you spit in my face and told me I was nothing.”

His jaw ticks. He looks away for a second, then back. “I can’t erase that day. But I would if I could. ”

I nod slowly. “I believe you. But that doesn’t mean I can forget it.”

A long silence stretches between us. Then he asks, more quietly, “And what about now?”

“What about now?”

“Do you trust me?” His voice is softer now, almost gentle.

I hesitate, then answer carefully, “In some ways… I do.”

“In some ways?” he repeats like it’s an insult.

He leans back against his desk, crosses his legs at the ankle, and slips his hands into his pockets. A casual stance, but I can see the storm just beneath the surface.

“And your body?” he asks, eyes not leaving mine. “Do you trust me with that?”

My cheeks flush, but I don’t look away. “Yes.”

Because despite everything, my body remembers him. Remembers the tenderness beneath the dominance. Remembers the way he made me feel like I belonged in my own skin for the first time in years.

He nods once. “And your safety?”

That one takes longer.

I see the flicker of hope in his eyes dim by degrees as I hesitate.

“To some extent,” I finally say.

The air shifts as his mouth tightens.

“And your life?” His voice is a dangerous murmur now. “Your heart?”

I don’t want to lie despite part of me wanting to give him the absolution I know he craves. I just can’t .

He already knows the answer anyway, so I say it aloud, even if it cuts us both open.

“No.”

The word hangs there, sharp and final.

His jaw tightens again, his nostrils flaring as he exhales slowly through his nose. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just looks at me with something raw flickering behind his eyes.

Wounded pride. Wounded man. And maybe… something resembling grief.

I say it again, quieter this time. “No.”

His body stills like I’ve struck him.

For a moment, I expect him to lash out. Not with violence, but with words, with anger, with something sharp enough to cut me back for the wound I just gave him.

But instead… he steps forward.

His hand reaches for mine, not rough, not demanding. Just a gentle, open palm.

I don't know why I let him take it. But I do.

His fingers wrap around mine, warm and calloused, too familiar now. And I hate how much comfort I find in the feel of it.

He says nothing. He just holds on, like he’s afraid if he speaks, he’ll ruin whatever thread still connects us.

I should pull away.

But instead, I watch his thumb move slowly over the back of my hand. Once… twice. Like he’s trying to memorize the feel of me. Like he’s asking for forgiveness without daring to voice it.

“I’ll look into what Bruno said. ”

I study his face. “You believe him?”

There’s a pause. A glimpse of something vulnerable in his eyes before he answers.

“I believe you .”

The words land heavier than I expected. Not just because they sound like trust—but because, for once, they don’t feel like manipulation. There’s no demand in them. No weight of obligation. Just quiet certainty, and somehow, that makes it worse.

Because belief isn’t love. Trust isn’t forgiveness. And this moment between us… it’s not safety. Not yet.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

His thumb stills against my hand, and his grip loosens like he’s giving me the choice to stay or go.

I take a breath and gently slip my hand from his.

“I should check on the twins,” I say softly, stepping back.

He nods, but doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t plead. Just watches, like he’s memorizing the way I walk away.

And for once, I don’t rush. Even though I can’t give him what he wants, I owe him the dignity of not pretending I don’t want to. Not pretending it didn’t mean something.

I close the door behind me, my heart a thunderous ache in my chest.

If only belief were enough because right now, I wish I could.