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Chapter Twenty-Five

Francesca

I wake up alone.

For a moment, I think he’s just in the bathroom. But the sheets beside me are cold. The scent of his cologne is faint now, clinging to the pillow like a fading ghost.

I hate it.

The silence echoes louder than it should, and my chest tightens in protest. I get up slowly, wincing at the dull ache that still pulses through my body. The shower is quick and mechanical. The water stings my scar, but not nearly as much as the emptiness gnawing at me.

The children must be at school. I remind myself it’s normal. It’s a weekday. Life goes on.

But something feels wrong.

When I step back into the bedroom, I see it—an envelope sitting on the dresser. Brown. Heavy. It wasn’t there last night.

My stomach drops.

I walk to it like it might explode. The second I pick it up, I know. I know.

His handwriting on the front. My name.

My hands tremble as I tear it open, and then I see them.

Divorce papers, already signed.

A thick fog of disbelief floods me, followed by a crack of something sharp and burning in my chest. My heart, my damned heart.

He’s giving me everything. Part custody of the children. One of the cars. Alimony. An apartment in the city under my name.

But not him. He’s giving me everything—except him.

He’s handing me a future, tied in a bow of legal generosity, and ripping himself out of it.

It hurts worse than the bullet. At least that pain had a point of entry, a clean edge. This? This is betrayal wrapped in tenderness. A wound I never saw coming.

I clutch the papers to my chest like they might disappear if I hold them tight enough, as if the ink will smudge and the words will blur into something less final.

How dare he ?

After everything he’s put me through, after all we’ve survived, he wants out now? After yesterday, after the softness, the care, the look in his eyes like I was his whole damn world?

It makes no sense. Unless… maybe it’s guilt. The thought slithers into my chest, cold and sharp.

My feet are moving before I fully register it, my grip white-knuckled around the papers as I descend the stairs. I catch a glimpse of his car through the window. He’s still here.

Good.

I storm to his office and throw the door open without knocking.

“Divorce? ”

He looks up, startled but composed, his expression unreadable, a perfect mask of calm that only makes me burn hotter.

“You should be resting,” he says quietly, too quietly. But I hear the strain in his voice, the crack in the steel. He’s not calm. He’s crumbling.

“Divorce?” I shout again, shaking the pages at him. “Is that what you want? Was taking a bullet the final payment on my debt?”

His jaw clenches, but he stays still.

“Don’t do this,” I snap. “Don’t shut down on me now. I’m not breakable, Dante. Just tell me the truth. You’re done with me, is that it?”

Something in him snaps.

“I could never be done with you!” he roars, slamming his fist down on the desk as he shoots to his feet.

The sound echoes off the walls and makes me flinch, but I don’t move. Not really. Not away from him.

Because this is what I needed: the truth, the fire.

“Then why?” I demand, my voice trembling. “Why give me this?”

“Because it’s what you wanted!” he snaps, dragging both hands through his hair, his whole body taut with anguish.

“What you asked from the moment I realized my horrible mistake. I tried to fix it. I tried to prove myself. But you—” He swallows hard, and his voice cracks.

“You couldn’t hear me. And maybe I can’t blame you. Because I broke something, didn’t I?”

He exhales like he’s trying to get oxygen back into a body still stuck in that office, in that moment.

“I can tell you again and again how much I love you,” he continues, lower now, wrecked. “But all you see is me on my worst day. You see the man who threw his pain at you like a weapon. Not the one who’s spent every day since trying to be better.”

I open my mouth, but no words come.

“I was heartbroken, Francesca,” he says quietly, his gaze locking with mine.

“I was falling, really falling , for the first time in my life. For a younger woman full of life and fire, who made me laugh. Who made me believe in something softer than blood and duty. I saw a future with you, a life built on love instead of contracts and cold calculation. For the first time, I didn’t just exist, I wanted. ”

He shakes his head with a bitter, broken laugh.

“And then it was ripped away. I thought you betrayed me. I saw red. I lashed out. And it destroyed us. ”

I don’t respond. I just stare at him, wondering why he never said these things before, but deep down, I know the answer. He tried, and I didn’t want to hear it because I was terrified of standing where he’s standing now.

I was terrified to let myself love him because I know how costly love can be.

I draw in a shaky breath. “You showed me the monster,” I whisper.

“But you also showed me the good man. The man who didn’t know how to show his children love but did it anyway.

The man who placed the loyalty of a friend above his thirst for revenge.

A man who can both worship and wound.” My voice cracks, and I don’t bother hiding it.

“And I love that man, Dante, in a way that terrifies me. I think I loved you all along… but it was easier to cling to the monster. Because the rest of you”—I press a hand to my chest, where the ache is deepest—“the rest could hurt too much.” I look up at him, tears shining in my eyes.

“I’m scared. I know that if I love you, I won’t just love you.

I’ll be addicted to you. And what if that’s not enough?

What if one day you stop wanting me? What then? ”

For a moment, he just stares at me, unmoving. As if he’s afraid any sudden shift might shatter the moment entirely. His eyes are burning—too many things behind them. Guilt. Hope. Hunger. Love .

Then he crosses the room in two long strides and cups my face, his hands trembling.

“I never stopped wanting you. Not for a single fucking second.” I can barely breathe as he leans in, his forehead pressing to mine.

“But I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll hurt you again.

I didn’t protect you, and you got shot because of me.

I’m terrified that I’ll break one of the best things I’ve ever had.

” He brushes his nose against mine. “Tell me what you want.”

“I don’t want a divorce.” It’s hard to admit it out loud for the first time. “And I can have children.” I don’t know why I add that, but I feel the need to.

“You’re telling me,” he says slowly like he needs to hear it again, “that you can…?”

I nod, my throat tight. “But I don’t care about that anymore. I just want you. I want this life. Our life. You, me, Alessio, Lucia. I want the mess, the healing, the future… all of it. Even if it’s not perfect.”

Emotion crashes through his eyes, his jaw clenching hard as he steps back like he needs space, like the weight of everything I just said is too much.

“Francesca…” He looks at me like I’m a miracle he doesn’t deserve. “Are you sure? Because there won’t be any turning back. I will not heal from this.”

“I’m sure. I was scared to let myself fall without realizing that it was too late, but I love you,” I whisper. “And I know you love me too. I won’t run from that. Not anymore.”

He stares at me for a long, tortured beat, then something in him buckles. He reaches for me again slowly, as if waiting for me to vanish.

“Say it again,” he pleads softly, his voice raw. “Say you want me.”

“I want you.”

A groan rips from his throat, and his lips find mine in a kiss that’s nothing like the fire we’ve known before. This one is trembling and reverent and aching. His hands cradle my face, brush down my sides, and then hesitate at the hem of my shirt.

“I’m scared,” he murmurs against my mouth. “You’re still healing. What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t,” I breathe out. “But even if you did… I’d still want you.”

That’s all it takes. The last thread of restraint in him snaps… not in violence, but in surrender.

He lowers me gently onto the desk, fingers trembling as they push up the fabric of my shirt and slide beneath it, baring my stomach, then brushing over the band of my underwear. He doesn’t strip me completely; he's too careful, too focused on letting me feel safe, wanted.

Each touch is a benediction. A vow. His gaze drinks in every scar, every tremble of breath, every flinch I try to hide.

“Look at me,” he whispers, his brow pressed to mine. “Please, let me see you. Let me feel you.”

I nod, and he kisses his way down my body, reverent and slow, brushing his lips over the healing wound on my side like I’m something holy. And to him, I think I am.

He pulls my underwear down, exposing me, and slides his fingers between my thighs with aching tenderness. I gasp, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leans in again.

“I’ve never wanted anything like this,” he says. “Not just your body. You. All of you.”

I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer and guiding him into me with a trembling sigh. He sinks into me with a reverent groan, his forehead pressing to mine .

“Slow,” I whisper.

He moves with aching care, every thrust a silent promise, every brush of his lips a confession. His hands roam over my curves like they’re memorizing me, like he’s scared I’ll disappear.

“You’re still here,” he whispers. “You’re still mine.”

Tears sting my eyes, and I nod, barely able to speak.

He kisses me again, deep and tender, as his pace deepens, and the connection between us intensifies into something overwhelming and raw. Our breaths mingle, our bodies are entwined, and I feel everything—every word he can't say, every fear he won't voice, poured into every touch.

When I come, it isn’t explosive. It’s slow, like a tide pulling me under, grounding me in him. He follows with a shudder, burying his face against my neck, arms wrapped tightly around me like he never wants to let go.

We lie there for a long time, tangled and quiet, the world narrowed to the rhythm of our hearts.

“I love you,” he murmurs, and this time, he doesn’t sound afraid.

“I love you too,” I whisper.

And in that silence, we begin to heal together.