15. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Francesca
Morning light spills across the antique sheets, warming my skin as I stretch with a groan.
Dante's side of the bed is empty, the sheets already cool. The ache between my thighs reminds me of everything that transpired last night.
My surrender. His possession.
And oddly, the startling tenderness that followed.
I trace fingers over marks he's left on my body. Possessive bruises blooming like dark flowers on my pale skin that I didn't even realize he was making.
I rise, wrapping myself in a silk robe I find hanging in the massive wardrobe. Through the terrace doors, I spot Dante in the distance, phone pressed to his ear as he paces along the stone wall that marks the property's boundary.
Business never stops, even in paradise.
"Ah, signora! You are awake." Maria's cheerful voice greets me as I enter the villa's kitchen. The elderly woman stands at a marble counter, flour dusting her hands as she works dough. "I was preparing to bring breakfast to your room."
"I'd rather join you here, if that's all right."
Maria's weathered face brightens as she notices how I'm drawn to the domestic scene before my eyes.
"Of course! It gets lonely with just Romano and myself. It's nice for different company."
I watch her knead. "What are you making?"
"Focaccia. An old family recipe." She gestures toward a stool. "Sit, sit. Would you like coffee?"
I nod, settling at the counter as she pours rich espresso into a delicate cup. The kitchen is a perfect blend of ancient and modern—stone walls and exposed beams complementing state-of-the-art appliances.
"So, I assume you've known Dante a long time?" I ask casually, sipping the perfectly brewed coffee as I try to forget the feeling of him between my thighs last night.
Maria's hands pause momentarily, something like sadness crossing her face. "Since he was a small boy. He would come with his mother during summers. Such a curious child, always asking questions, always wanting to help Romano in the garden."
The image she paints seems impossible to reconcile with the dangerous man who claimed me under this very roof last night.
"Hard to imagine."
"Oh yes." Maria shapes the dough into a circle.
"Before his mother's death, he was different.
Quieter than his brother, but so bright, so eager to learn.
" Her eyes meet mine across the counter.
"This is the first time he has returned since Elena died.
And the first time he has ever brought a woman here. "
"I'm not exactly here by choice," I remind her gently.
Maria's smile turns knowing. "Perhaps not initially. But choices change, no?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "It's... complicated."
"Love always is, cara mia ." She dusts the dough with herbs and olive oil. "Especially for men like him. Men raised to believe emotion is weakness."
"Oh, Maria. Slow down. I wouldn't call it love," I counter quickly.
Maria shrugs, the gesture eloquently Italian. "You young people like different words now. But I am old. I see what I see."
Before I can form a response, Romano appears at the doorway, his weathered face creased with concern.
"There you are, tesoro ," he says to Maria before nodding respectfully to me. "Signora, the young master appears... agitated this morning. Perhaps you might..." He trails off, clearly uncomfortable suggesting I manage Dante's mood.
"He's working too much," Maria declares, sliding the focaccia into the ancient stone oven. "Always on that phone. Even as a boy, he never knew how to rest properly."
I find myself nodding in agreement. "I'll check on him."
As I turn to leave, Maria catches my wrist with a flour-covered hand. "Wait. Let me show you something first. Something that might help you understand him better."
I follow her through the villa's winding corridors to a room I haven't yet explored. Inside, bookshelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, each filled with leather-bound volumes. A massive desk sits in one corner, while comfortable reading chairs sit before a fireplace.
"This was Elena's library," Maria explains, crossing to a cabinet beneath one of the shelves. "Dante spent hours here as a child. Reading poetry aloud to his mother while she painted."
She withdraws a worn sketchbook, handling it with care before offering it to me. "Perhaps this will help you see him as she did."
I accept it cautiously, aware I'm being granted access to something intimate and private. The cover is soft leather, worn at the edges from handling. When I open it, I find myself looking at a boy's face rendered in charcoal.
Even without the coldness that now defines him, Dante is immediately recognizable—perhaps ten or eleven years old, his expression serious but vulnerable in a way I've never witnessed.
Page after page reveals him in various states.
Reading beneath a tree, helping Romano with garden tools, asleep on a window seat with an open book on his chest.
"He doesn't know I kept these," Maria admits. "After Elena died, in exchange for us to be allowed to live here freely, Vito ordered everything of hers destroyed. But Romano and I saved what we could. We knew someday… Dante might want these memories."
I study a particularly striking portrait. It's a sketch of teenage Dante, his expression already hardening into the man he would become. Yet Elena had captured something in his eyes, a depth of feeling he now keeps ruthlessly contained.
"Thank you for showing me this," I say quietly, returning the sketchbook to her.
"He works so hard to become the monster everyone believes him to be," Maria says, her voice tinged with sorrow. "Perhaps you can remind him that monsters are made, not born."
***
The next few days blur together in unexpected domestic rhythm.
Mornings, I explore the villa and its grounds, always aware of the invisible boundaries of my freedom. Afternoons, Maria teaches me traditional Italian cooking, her hands guiding mine through generations of culinary wisdom.
And Dante... Dante works. Endlessly.
His days are filled with phone calls in multiple languages, encrypted messages that break the small amount of attention he gives me before he has to attend video conferences with lieutenants scattered across Europe.
He's building his empire from this remote hillside, piece by piece.
And my job?
To keep him happy.
By the fifth evening, I surprise him by preparing dinner alongside Maria. I make fresh pasta with a sauce that simmers all afternoon, serving it with crusty bread still warm from the oven and a local wine Maria assures me is Dante's favorite.
He enters the dining room looking exhausted, dark circles beneath his eyes. He stops short when he sees the table, beautifully set on the terrace with candles and flowers from the garden.
"What's this?" he asks.
"Dinner," I reply simply.
He takes his seat as Maria delivers the first course, her knowing smile directed at me before she discreetly withdraws.
"Try the wine," I suggest, settling across from him. "Maria says it's your favorite."
He raises the glass, inhaling its rich bouquet before tasting.
"Ah… she remembers," he murmurs, something almost like nostalgia softening his features. "I haven't had this since..."
"Since you were last here with your mother," I finish softly.
His eyes sharpen on me. "So you've been asking questions. I should have known not to leave you alone."
"Is that forbidden?"
"No," he admits. "Completely expected, actually."
His shoulders gradually relax as the wine and food work their magic, the constant tension he carries easing visibly.
"I secured the French maritime corridor today," he says eventually, slicing into the perfectly cooked veal. "Beaumont's support was the final piece. Having you translate the nuances in Paris proved invaluable."
The praise warms me more than it should. "Does that bring you closer to what you want?"
"Luca still controls the northern shipping lanes, but now I have the whole of the south." A smile curves his lips, transforming his face. "The Ravelli shipments are effectively split down the middle."
"And the throne?" I ask, reaching for my wine. "Is it closer?"
"Every day," he confirms, his eyes meeting mine across the flickering candles. "But I'm beginning to realize that the throne itself means nothing without the right queen beside it."
Heat blooms in my cheeks at his words, direct yet somehow more intimate than any touch that's deprived me since the night he took my virginity.
"Is that what I am to you now? Your queen rather than your captive?"
"Perhaps you're both," he replies, his honesty disarming me. "Perhaps those categories matter less than they once did."
I find myself laughing, the sound surprising us both. "Dante Ravelli, admitting something that matters more than power?! I never thought I'd see the day."
To my astonishment, he laughs too. It's a genuine sound, rusty from disuse but startlingly beautiful.
"Well, certain priorities have become... clearer recently. Since Paris. Since… the other night."
I feel my core heat at the memory, but I do well to stop the rush.
Before I can respond, he rises, coming around the table to stand before me. His hand extends, an invitation rather than a command. "Come with me. There's something I want to show you."