Chapter 40
40
EMILIA
T he car door clicked open from the outside.
I didn’t move.
I sat there, still and silent, my hands curled into fists in my lap, my body stiff from hours of waiting. The leather seat beneath me was warm from the sun, the tinted windows casting long shadows across the interior. I could hear voices outside—Italian, low and clipped—and the distant hum of traffic from the nearby road.
But none of it mattered.
Because I wasn’t inside the Romanov estate anymore. I wasn’t in that gilded cage with its velvet curtains and marble floors and polite guards who never looked me in the eye. I wasn’t under the watchful gaze of Nikolai or the looming threat of Aleksander. I wasn’t a bargaining chip.
Not anymore.
I was back.
Back in Conti territory.
Back where I belonged.
The man who opened the door didn’t speak. He just nodded once, gesturing for me to step out.
I slid out of the car, my legs shaky, my breath catching in my throat. The air smelled different here—warmer, sharper, like wood smoke and wine and something else I couldn’t name. Something that felt like home.
I stood on the gravel driveway of a sprawling estate I didn’t recognize.
I looked around, scanning the horizon, my heart thudding in my chest like it was trying to escape.
And then I saw him.
Dante.
He stepped out of the building like a storm breaking across the sky—black suit, black shirt, no tie. His hair was tousled, his jaw tight, his eyes dark and wild and locked on me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I didn’t think.
I ran.
The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I sprinted across the courtyard, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. My dress tangled around my legs, my hair whipped across my face, but I didn’t stop.
He didn’t move.
He just stood there, watching me, his hands clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling like he was holding back a scream.
And then I was in his arms.
He caught me like he’d been waiting for it—like he’d been standing there with his arms open for hours, just waiting for me to come home. He wrapped around me like armor, like fire, like everything I’d been missing.
I buried my face in his chest and sobbed.
Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet, broken sounds that slipped out before I could stop them. His hand slid into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and he held me like he was afraid I’d disappear again.
“I’m here,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “I’m here.”
“I know,” he said, and his voice cracked.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears I hadn’t realized were falling.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
I shook my head. “No. Not really. Just… scared.”
His jaw tightened.
He kissed me then—hard and desperate and full of all the things we hadn’t said. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a war cry. A promise. A vow.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered.
“You didn’t,” I said. “You never will.”
He closed his eyes, breathing me in like I was oxygen.
The ride back to the estate was silent.
Not the tense kind. Not the angry kind.
The kind of silence that came after a storm. When the world was still standing, but just barely.
Dante didn’t let go of my hand the entire drive.
He sat beside me in the backseat, his fingers laced with mine, his thumb brushing slow circles against my skin like he needed to keep touching me to believe I was real. His other hand rested on his thigh, twitching occasionally, like he was still wound too tight to relax.
I didn’t speak.
I didn’t need to.
I just leaned into him, my head on his shoulder, and let the quiet hold us.
It wasn’t until we were back inside the penthouse—our penthouse—that I finally exhaled.
The door closed behind us with a soft click, and I stood in the center of the penthouse like I didn’t recognize it.
Everything was the same—same marble floors, same towering windows, same faint scent of Dante’s cologne clinging to the air like a memory. But I wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the girl who’d paced these halls in silk robes, sipping wine and plotting escape routes. I was someone else now. Someone who had been taken. Held. Used.
Dante dropped the keys on the entry table without looking. His jacket was already off, tossed carelessly over the back of the nearest chair. He was pacing, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to speak.
I didn’t blame him.
I wasn’t ready to speak either.
I moved toward the living room in slow, deliberate steps, my bare feet silent against the cold floor. The city lights glittered beyond the glass, distant and indifferent. I sank onto the couch, my body too heavy, my skin too tight. I felt like I was still in that room—still tied to that chair, still gagged, still watched.
Dante stopped pacing.
He turned to me, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch.
It wasn’t rage.
It was something worse.
Guilt.
“I should’ve known they’d use the tunnel. I should’ve had men posted. I should’ve?—”
“Dante,” I interrupted, my voice hoarse. “Stop.”
He stared at me, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.
“This wasn’t your fault,” I said, softer now. “You didn’t take me. They did.” I stood, crossing the room to him. My hands found his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at me. I leaned in, resting my forehead against his. “You didn’t know.”
“I should’ve,” he whispered.
We stood there for a long time, breathing each other in, letting the silence settle around us like a blanket. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer, grounding me.
“I killed Aleksander,” he said finally, his voice barely audible.
I didn’t flinch.
“I figured,” I murmured.
“Shot him in the head. In front of everyone. No hesitation.”
I nodded. “Good.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine. “You’re not scared?”
“Of you?” I asked. “Never.”
His lips brushed mine, soft and reverent. “You’re mine,” he said. “No one touches what’s mine.”
“I know,” I whispered. “And I’m yours. But I’m also me.”
His jaw tightened again. “I know.”
We stood there for a beat longer before he finally exhaled and pulled me into his arms. I melted against him, letting the warmth of his body chase away the last of the cold that had seeped into my bones.
“I want to forget,” I said, burying my face in his chest.
“You won’t,” he said. “But I’ll make sure it never happens again.”
Later, after I’d showered—twice—and changed into one of his shirts, I curled up on the couch with a blanket and a cup of tea I didn’t really want. Dante sat across from me, his hands steepled beneath his chin, watching me like I might disappear again.
I didn’t know what to say.
So I said the only thing I could.
“I thought I was going to die.”
His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.
“They didn’t touch me,” I added quickly. “Not like that. But they wanted to scare me. And it worked.”
He nodded once, slow and deliberate. “They won’t get another chance.”
I believed him.
I’d seen what he was capable of. I’d seen the blood on his hands. I’d seen the way he’d looked at Aleksander’s body like it was nothing more than a message written in flesh.
But I also saw the way he looked at me now—like I was the only thing tethering him to the ground.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
His brows pulled together. “For what?”
“For leaving. For putting myself in danger.”
He stood and crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of me. His hands found mine, warm and steady.
“You don’t apologize to me,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I repeated, my voice soft, uncertain.
Dante’s hands tightened around mine, just slightly. “Not like that,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean you don’t owe me an apology for surviving.”
I stared at him, my chest tight. “But I left. I went through the tunnel. I didn’t tell you. I wanted—” I stopped, the words catching in my throat. “I wanted to breathe.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “I know.”
I blinked. “You do?”
He nodded. “I saw it in your eyes. Every time you looked at the gates, every time you touched the window. You were suffocating.”
I swallowed hard. “Then why didn’t you stop me?”
He exhaled, his gaze dropping to our joined hands. “Because I thought I could keep you safe anyway. I thought if I gave you space, you’d come back on your own. I didn’t think they’d be waiting.”
“They were,” I whispered. “Like they knew.”
His jaw clenched. “They did. Someone told them about the tunnel. Someone close.”
“Do you know who?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dante’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing with a cold, lethal focus. “Not yet,” he said. “But I will.”
I hesitated, then added, “There was a man. An old groundskeeper. He’s worked at the estate for thirty years. He was the one who showed me the tunnel.”
His gaze snapped to mine.
“He knew about it,” I continued. “Said it was built by your great-grandfather. He told me where it led. Even helped me move the altar.”
Dante’s entire body went still.
“He was kind,” I said quickly, suddenly unsure. “He didn’t seem like—he didn’t act like he was setting me up. But… he knew. And they were waiting.”
He didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then, quietly, dangerously, “What was his name?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He never said. Just called me ‘signora’ and smiled a lot.”
Dante stood, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator preparing to strike. “I’ll find him.”
I believed him.
Because when Dante made a promise, it wasn’t just words.
It was a death sentence.
He stood slowly, pulling me up with him, and wrapped his arms around me. I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It was the only thing that felt real right now. The only thing that made sense.
“I thought I was going to die,” I said again, quieter this time.
He didn’t answer.
He just held me tighter.
I didn’t sleep that night.
Neither did Dante.
We lay in bed, tangled together, the sheets twisted around us like vines. His hand never left my skin—not even when I shifted, not even when I flinched in my sleep. Every time I stirred, he murmured something low and soothing, his breath warm against my neck, his presence grounding.
I kept seeing the red light of the camera.
Kept hearing the Russian’s voice in my ear.
Kept feeling the zip ties digging into my wrists.
But then Dante would touch me—just a brush of his fingers, a kiss to my temple—and the memories would fade, just enough for me to breathe.
“You’re safe,” he whispered once, when he thought I was asleep.
I didn’t respond.
Because I wasn’t sure I believed it.
But I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
Morning came slowly, bleeding through the curtains in pale streaks of gold. I sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of Dante’s shirts, staring out the window at the city below. It looked the same as always—busy, beautiful, brutal.
But I wasn’t the same.
I felt like a cracked mirror. Still whole, still reflecting, but fractured in ways no one could see.
Dante walked in, shirtless and barefoot, a cup of coffee in each hand. He handed one to me without a word and sat beside me, his thigh brushing mine.
We drank in silence.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
He set his coffee down and cupped my face in his hands. “You will always see me again. I will always come for you. Always.”
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall.
Instead, I leaned in and kissed him.
Slow. Deep. Certain.
Because I needed him to know.
That I was still here.
That I was still his.
That I wasn’t going anywhere.
Later that day, Dante called a meeting.
Not with the family. Not with the organization.
Just with me.
He had sent me a calendar invite a few hours prior. Official business style.
He led me into his office, the one with the floor-to-ceiling windows and the heavy desk that looked like it had been carved from a single tree. He gestured for me to sit, then walked around to the other side and opened a folder.
“This,” he said, sliding it toward me, “is yours."
The word “Winery” was embossed in gold across the top of the thick manila file, as if someone had decided to dress up a business deal in eveningwear. I blinked at it, then looked up at Dante, who was watching me with that unreadable expression he wore when he was either about to give me the world or burn it down.
“Yours,” he said again, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I blinked. “What do you mean, mine?”
He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, the other resting on the desk like he wasn’t currently flipping my entire existence upside down. “I bought it. For you. The vineyard. The house. The land. Everything.”
I opened the folder slowly, my fingers trembling slightly. Inside were photos—stunning aerial shots of rolling hills blanketed in grapevines, a stone villa nestled at the center like a crown jewel. There were architectural plans, financial projections, even a mock-up of a wine label with my name on it.
Emilia Conti. Proprietor.
My throat tightened.
“You bought me a winery,” I said, because I needed to hear it out loud again, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.
He nodded. “You said you wanted to breathe. To have something that was yours. This is yours.”
I looked up at him, my heart thudding in my chest. “You’re serious.”
“I don’t joke about things I intend to burn down,” he said, and there was a softness in his voice that didn’t match the steel in his eyes. “This is your escape. Your empire. Your freedom.”
My fingers brushed over the photo of the villa, the sun-drenched stone walls, the rows of vines stretching into the horizon. It didn’t feel real. Nothing about the last twenty-four hours felt real. I’d been kidnapped, gagged, threatened. I’d stared down death and come out the other side. And now I was sitting in my husband’s office, being handed a vineyard like it was a consolation prize.
“I don’t know what to say,” I whispered.
He stood and came around the desk, crouching in front of me. His hands found my knees, warm and steady, grounding me.
“Say you’ll go see it,” he said. “Say you’ll walk the land. Say you’ll plant something and watch it grow.”
I swallowed hard. “You really think I can do this?”
He smiled, slow and devastating. “You’re Emilia Conti. You can do anything.”
I laughed, but it came out shaky. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re mine,” he said, his voice low. “And I will give you the world if it means you’ll stay.”
I looked at him, really looked at him. The man who had killed for me. Bled for me. Loved me.
And I realized something.
He wasn’t just giving me a vineyard.
He was giving me a choice.
“I’m serious about this,” he said, voice low, his thumb brushing along my jaw. “About all of it.”
“I know,” I whispered.
He leaned in, his lips brushing mine—not quite a kiss, but close enough to make my pulse thrum. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”
“I already did,” I said, surprising myself.
His brow lifted.
“I want it,” I said. “The vineyard. The land. The freedom. I want something that’s mine.”
His smile was slow, proud. “Then it’s yours.”
I pulled back just enough to look at him. “But I’m not leaving you.”
“I didn’t think you were,” he said. “But I needed you to know you could.”
"Do you think Brunello di montalcino has a starbucks mug?"
He laughed.
And that—God, that did something to me.
Because it wasn’t just about the land. It wasn’t just about the wine or the house or the rows of vines stretching into the horizon. It was about choice. About agency. About him giving me something I hadn’t had in a long time.
A way out.
And trusting me not to take it.
"Princess, I will fly you all over the world for that stupid mug collection if it means you're my wife."
I kissed him then, slow and deep, my fingers curling into his shirt. He tasted like wine and warmth and everything I hadn’t known I needed.
I thought about the vineyard. About the soil beneath my feet. About the wine I’d make. About the people I’d hire. About the life I could build.
And I thought about Dante.
About the way he’d looked at me when he handed me that folder. About the way he’d said, “This is yours.”
He hadn’t just given me land.
He’d given me a future.