Page 37

Dante

Six months later.

T oday is the funeral of Francesca’s father.

A terrible car accident, what a tragedy . That’s what the papers say, anyway.

We didn’t want to come, but appearances matter. Power thrives on perception, and in our world, silence is its sharpest weapon.

The setting is perfect—gilded grief and marble angels weeping over a man who never deserved tears. We made sure of that.

I offer my arm to my wife as we exit the church, her gloved hand sliding into mine.

She’s dressed in black silk, veiled and poised, her expression unreadable to all but me.

I feel her tension in the way she grips my fingers, not from sorrow but from restraint.

She’s mourning nothing but playing the role perfectly, as always.

My eyes scan the crowd until they land on him… Don Salvatore.

The bastard doesn’t flinch under my gaze, but he doesn’t smile either. Not today. Not since last week.

The day the judge called me.

The day Salvatore requested a meeting with the judge as a neutral witness.

A truce, no more bloodshed.

He promised to never come for my business again.

And my family? Untouchable. My wife? Sacrosanct.

In exchange? We forget the past.

Before Francesca, I would have laughed in his face and torn his world apart piece by piece.

But that was before.

Before her love became the compass by which I measure every choice.

Before I nearly lost her.

Before I learned that power means nothing if you have no one to protect.

I tighten my hold on her waist and lean in close enough for only her to hear.

“It’s done,” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “No one will ever touch you again.”

She doesn’t look at me, but I feel her breath catch and her fingers squeezing tighter.

She knows… she’s always known. She is my weakness and my strength, my world.

We pass Salvatore without a word, and I can feel his eyes on our backs as I guide my wife toward the car.

We won, and I didn’t need to start war this time.

But God help anyone who ever makes me choose again.

Francesca scans the small crowd, her gaze pausing when it lands on her mother. This time, the worry etched into her features isn’t an act.

The woman looks fragile. Desperately thin and adrift.

I watch her for a moment and try to summon empathy, but I can’t. Not really. I’m a man who’s always mattered. She’s spent decades fading in the background of her own life, and now, at nearly fifty, she’ll have to rediscover who she is without him. That kind of rebirth? It’s not easy.

“She’ll be okay,” I whisper to Francesca. “We’ll take care of her.”

And I mean it. I’ll place her under Forzi protection myself, make damn sure she never ends up with another man who raises a hand to her. Never again.

Francesca smiles softly as I open the car door and guide her inside. I slip in beside her and close it behind us, letting the dark glass cut off the outside world.

“Bruno’s going to stay with her for a bit,” she says. “But maybe we could have her over for dinner sometime soon.”

I pull off her glove, lift her hand to my mouth, and kiss the back of it.

Then I lace our fingers together. I always need the contact.

My body aches for it in ways I’ll never say out loud.

I can barely sleep without her curled into me, and now that she’s started letting the children call her Mama… my chest hasn’t stopped aching.

Full. That’s what I feel now. Full in a way I didn’t know was possible.

She turns her head and says it so simply, so casually, like she hasn’t just changed my whole life again.

“I think it’ll cheer her up to know she’s going to have another grandchild soon.”

I blink. “Ye?—”

And stop cold.

My mind scrambles to catch up. “What… did you just say?”

She turns her head slowly, a smile blooming like spring after the longest winter. “You heard me.”

But I didn’t. Not really. My brain registers the words, but my heart is too busy slamming against my ribs to believe them.

“You’re…” I can’t even finish the sentence.

She nods, the barest movement, and places her hand gently over her stomach. “Two months.”

I stare at her. My Francesca. My firestorm of a wife. Shot. Broken. Healing. And now carrying life.

I exhale a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob, and lean forward, burying my face in her lap like a man praying to a god he never believed in.

“Dio, grazie.” My hands tremble as I wrap them around her waist. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

She brushes her fingers through my hair. “You deserve this, Dante. You always did. You just had to learn how to want it.”

I look up at her, my eyes burning. “I’ll build you palaces. Carve your name in gold. I’ll never raise my voice again, never?—”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she says, laughing softly. “You’re still you. I’m not asking for perfection.”

“What are you asking for, then?”

She cups my cheek. “Stay. Fight for joy like you fought for vengeance. And don’t you dare try to divorce me again.”

I laugh. I cry. I crush her to me and press a kiss to her belly like a vow etched in skin.

“I won’t,” I swear, my voice wrecked. “Not even if you ask me to.”

She smiles again, radiant and wicked. “Good. Because the next time you serve me papers, I’ll burn them in front of you and maybe your favorite suit.”

“I like this version of you.”

“I am your version of me.”

We make it home before the sun dips too low, and the second the front door opens, chaos erupts in the most beautiful way.

“Mama, Papa! Come play. We need another pirate!” Lucia shouts, skidding into the room in her socks, arms already flinging around my waist.

I stagger back dramatically. “You’ve caught me, Captain!” I grin, scooping her up with ease as she squeals.

Francesca laughs beside me, her eyes shining with something deeper than amusement—it’s peace .

I glance at her over Lucia’s curls. “Go change, amore. I’ll take this fight.”

She lifts her brows. “You sure?”

I lean in and murmur low against her ear, “You’ll owe me.”

Her breath catches, and she disappears upstairs with a sly little smile on her lips.

Lucia insists I wear a blanket cape and a paper crown. Alessio pokes at me with a plastic sword like I’ve offended the Royal Navy. I play along because this? This is everything I ever wanted and didn’t know I was allowed to have.

By the time I finally slip away, I can’t wait to kiss my wife. The door to our bedroom is cracked open, and I push it with the back of my hand, stepping into the quiet.

Francesca’s just stepping out of the bathroom, her skin dewy from the shower, her hair damp around her shoulders. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts stretched over her thighs, the fabric clinging softly to the swell of her belly.

She turns at the sound of the door, and when our eyes meet, the world slows.

“You survived pirate duty,” she says, her voice teasing but warm.

“Barely,” I walk toward her. “You should’ve seen what they made me wear.”

She chuckles, and I reach for her, sliding my hands under the hem of the T-shirt until I’m cupping her bare hips. My thumbs move in slow circles over her skin. She steps closer until there’s no space left between us.

I lower my mouth to her shoulder and kiss the curve of it. “You smell like honey and soap. ”

“I needed to feel clean. The city… the funeral… it clings.”

“I know,” I say softly. “But you’re home now.”

I kneel a little to cradle her belly with both hands, reverent and awed every damn time. “Our home. Our baby.”

She brushes her fingers through my hair, tender and slow. “Let’s tell them tonight. Lucia’s been praying for a sister for weeks.”

I lift my gaze to hers, unable to stop the way my mouth curls. “Pizza night?”

She nods. “Pizza night.”

The scent of melted mozzarella and garlic fills the kitchen as I slide the last tray into the oven. Francesca moves beside me, barefoot, her damp hair twisted into a loose braid, cheeks still flushed from her shower.

She steals a piece of pepperoni from the counter, and I raise a brow.

“You’re growing a whole human. I guess I’ll allow it.”

She smirks. “You’ll allow it?”

I catch her around the waist and pull her into me. “Barely.”

The kids come thundering down the stairs like a stampede, Lucia wearing one of Francesca’s scarves as a cape, and Alessio holding two mismatched socks like weapons.

“Is it ready? I’m starving!” Alessio declares dramatically, flopping into his chair .

Lucia spins into her seat, her eyes wide. “Is there pineapple?”

“No,” Francesca says. “Because your father loves you.”

“Hey,” I say, mock offended. “Pineapple has no place on pizza. That’s not parenting, that’s just survival.”

We sit down, a strange little family that somehow fits. I watch them pass slices, steal each other’s olives, and bicker like only kids who trust deeply can. Francesca’s hand rests on her belly under the table, and I catch her eye.

She nods.

I clear my throat. “So. We have some news.”

Lucia freezes mid-bite. “What kind of news? Bad news?”

“Do I look like I’m about to give bad news?” Francesca asks gently.

Lucia squints. “You look glowy.”

“Glowy?” Alessio snorts.

Francesca laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I reach across and tug one of Lucia’s curls. “You know how you’ve been asking for a sister in your prayers?”

She nods slowly, suddenly suspicious. “Yesss…”

“Well,” I say, “we don’t know if it’s a sister yet. But there is a baby on the way.”

Silence for exactly three seconds, then Lucia screams.

“You’re having a baby?! Mama! For real? Like, in your belly right now?”

Francesca laughs, nodding. “Right now.”

Lucia jumps from her chair and runs to her, flinging her arms around her waist. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’ve been asking and asking! ”

Alessio stares at me across the table, wide-eyed. “I’m going to be a big brother?”

“You are,” I say. “You’re gonna have to help us. Teach them all your tricks. The good ones.”

He grins slowly, proud but also… protective. “I will.”

Lucia pulls back, her face radiant. “I hope it’s a girl. And I hope she has red hair like you, Mama.”

I slide my arm around Francesca’s shoulders and press a kiss to her temple. She leans into me, glowing indeed, with love, with life.

This house, this kitchen, this moment is messy, loud, utterly imperfect… and it’s mine.

They’re all mine, and I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve them.

What started as revenge ended up being my salvation.