Chapter 12
The moment the SUV pulls into the driveway, I’m already walking toward it. I don’t know why. Maybe I do. But I’m not admitting that shit out loud.
Rocco steps out first, scanning the perimeter like he always does. Gia hops out next, shaking a shopping bag at me like a trophy.
But then—
Elena steps out. Slow. Careful. A little unsure of her footing.
And I fucking stop breathing.
She’s wearing jeans — actual denim that hugs her hips — and a deep red top that flows with every small movement she makes. The color hits her skin like it was made for her. Her hair is soft around her face. She looks…
Christ.
My chest tightens, and something sharp and possessive unfurls in my gut.
She blushes the second she sees me watching her.
Cheeks blooming pink. Eyes lowering but not with fear — with something else.
Something that makes my pulse slam against my ribs.
I move toward her before I realize I’m doing it.
My hand finds the edge of her sleeve, tracing the soft fabric.
“Elena,” I say quietly, “you were already beautiful.” Her breath catches. “But right now… you’re gorgeous.”
“Why?” she whispers.
“Because you’re carrying something you didn’t have this morning.”
She looks up at me with eyes full of earnest confusion. “What is that?”
I lean in, brushing her hair behind her ear.
“Confidence,” I say. “And do you know what that makes you?”
She shakes her head.
“A Moretti.”
Her lips part on a shaky breath.
And right then, right in that moment, I want to take her out of this house, out of this city, out of anything dangerous or painful, and keep her somewhere only I can reach her.
“Go upstairs,” I say softly. “Get ready.”
Her brow furrows. “For what?”
“For dinner.” I let my thumb glide once over her cheekbone. “With me.”
Her eyes widen — hope blooming so fast it nearly knocks the air from my lungs.
“Oh,” she whispers. “Yes. I’ll… I’ll get ready.”
She heads inside, clutching her bags, excitement flickering across her face like sunrise.
I turn immediately to Rocco.
“Status,” I command.
Gia snorts. “Seriously?” She crosses her arms. “You’ve been getting updates all damn day.”
I give her a look. A very specific look. The one that usually makes grown men rethink their entire life choices. Gia just laughs. Nico, behind her, hides his smirk in the collar of his jacket.
But then Gia sobers—completely. Her expression shifts into something fierce and protective.
“I like her,” she says softly. “El. She’s sweet and quiet and funny when she forgets to be scared.”
My jaw clenches.
“And it’s fucked up,” Gia continues, “the way her family raised her. Controlling every minute of her life like that. No one deserves that.”
I feel the rage burn beneath my skin, low and violent.
“She deserves better, Sandro,” Gia says. “You better treat her—”
“Stop.” My voice is sharp. Hard enough that Rocco glances up.
Gia’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t tell me how to treat my wife,” I growl. “I know exactly what she deserves.”
Gia opens her mouth—No. She launches into a rant. “Oh, you know? You KNOW? Because as far as I can tell—”
Nico reacts before she can get going. He steps behind her, wraps his hand around her upper arm, and starts steering her toward the car. “Alright, that’s enough,” he murmurs calmly.
Gia huffs, crosses her arms, then remembers she’s supposed to be mad at me and tries to twist back around.
But by then Nico has her halfway down the drive. She stops, points at me dramatically.
“Be nice to her!” she calls.
“Gia,” Nico warns.
She straightens, drops her shoulders like it’s all an act, and flashes a bright smile.
“Anyway! Gotta go!” Nico rolls his eyes, but she waves—big and exaggerated. “Love you, Sandro!”
Despite the chaos, the headache forming behind my eyes, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch.
“Love you too,” I call back. “And thank you… for today.”
She winks and disappears into the SUV with Nico. The second they’re gone, we walk into the house.
I turn to Rocco again, raising an eyebrow.
He clears his throat and stands at attention. “Right,” he says. “Update.”
Rocco doesn’t leave anything out. He reports: The stores.
The dressing rooms. The saleswoman Gia almost murdered.
The laugh Elena let slip. The clothing choices she liked.
The scent she chose for her hair. The moment she asked if I would like the dress.
The way her shoulders loosened as the day went on.
How her voice slowly grew steadier. How she started choosing things without hesitation.
And the part that punches me hardest in the chest:
“She smiled a lot today,” Rocco says quietly. “Real smiles.”
I exhale slowly. I needed to hear that more than I’ll ever admit.
“Good,” I say. “Text me if she ever stops.”
“Yes, sir.”
I look up the stairs where Elena disappeared. Tonight… I’m taking her on a date. Not for show. Not for the alliance. Not because it’s expected. Because I want to be the reason she keeps smiling like that.
I don’t get any work done. My eyes keep flicking toward the staircase like a fool waiting for a miracle. And then—
I hear footsteps. Soft. Hesitant. A pause near the banister. I look up.
And I fucking stop breathing.
Elena stands at the top of the stairs in the dress — the rose-colored one she chose in the shop. The one Gia said made her glow. The one Rocco said I’d approve of.
Approve. That’s not even close to what I feel. Because in that moment—
I finally see my wife. Not the timid girl from her father’s house. Not the terrified bride I met at the altar. A woman.
She walks down the stairs slowly, her fingers lightly tracing the railing, her lashes lowering when she sees the way I’m looking at her.
Holy hell. I can’t stand still. I move to her instantly, my chest tight, my pulse slamming against my ribs, every instinct in me screaming to touch her.
I stop directly in front of her. I want to tell her she’s beautiful. But the word tastes wrong.
“I want to say you look beautiful,” I murmur, voice low and rough.
Her brows pull together in confusion, that soft little scrunch she does that kills me every time.
“But ‘beautiful’ doesn’t touch how you look right now.”
She opens her mouth, breath catching—
And I tip her chin up with my fingers, tilting her face toward mine. This kiss is not like our first one. Not desperate. Not hungry. It’s soft. Warm. When I pull back, her lips are parted, her cheeks flushed.
“Roses,” I whisper against her cheek. “You smell like roses.”
A tiny, shy smile curves her lips. I take her hand — because not touching her feels impossible — and guide her outside. I open the SUV door for her, helping her inside like she might break if I let go. Then I get in beside her.
“Valentino’s,” I tell my driver.
Rocco climbs into the front seat silently. Elena looks confused, glancing between him and me. Before she can overthink, I touch her knee gently.
“While I would protect you with my life,” I explain, “Rocco is here to make sure nothing happens to you.”
Her expression twists into something like fear… or guilt.
“I—” Her voice cracks. “I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.” Then her voice lowers, “I'm not worth it.”
My chest twists so hard it almost aches. I grip her chin, tilting her face toward mine. Then I press a quick, soft kiss to her lips — a reassurance.
“Elena,” I whisper against her mouth, “you’re worth everything.”
A small sound escapes her — not quite a sob, not quite a sigh.
And she doesn’t look away this time. She looks right at me.
And in her eyes, for the first time, I see trust. A spark of something more.
Something new. Something ours. I take her hand again — I don’t care if I never let go — and rest it on my thigh as the SUV pulls away from the house.