Chapter 15
SCARLETT
I wake up the next morning in Dante’s bed and for a second I’m oblivious to where I am.
The sheets are softer than anything I’ve ever felt. The room is huge, with furniture in black and grey. Typical Dante, everything about him reeks expensive, money and power.
Then I realize there’s an arm wrapped around my waist, heavy and possessive, pinning me against a very warm, very naked body.
Oh god.
Last night comes flooding back in vivid detail. The kitchen. The counter. Dante’s hands on me and his mouth and the way he made me completely fall apart before putting me back together again.
Then he’d carried me upstairs to his bedroom because apparently my room wasn’t an option. Something about wanting me in his space, in his bed, where he could keep me close.
I should have argued and insisted on my own room, my own space, my own boundaries.
But I was still trembling from the best sex of my life and my brain wasn’t exactly working properly, so I just let him carry me like some romance novel heroine and fell asleep wrapped around him.
Now it’s morning and I have to face what we’ve become.
Not just co-parents forced together by circumstance. Not just two people with complicated history. But lovers-ish who can’t keep their hands off each other despite every logical reason why this is a terrible idea.
The arm around my waist tightens and I feel Dante’s breath against my neck.
“Stop thinking so loud,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “I can hear your brain working from here.”
“I wasn’t thinking that loud.”
“You were practically screaming.” He pulls me closer and I can feel every inch of him against my back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just…processing.”
“Processing what?”
“This. Us. Whatever this is.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then he rolls me onto my back so he can look at me properly. His grey eyes are intense even half-asleep, studying my face like he’s trying to read my thoughts.
“Regrets already?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” I push my hair out of my face. “This is complicated, Dante.”
“Everything about us is complicated. Doesn’t make it wrong.”
“Doesn’t make it right either.”
His jaw tightens. “You’re the one who said you were done running. That you wanted this.”
“I know what I said.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
How do I explain that I’m terrified? That letting him in like this feels like giving up the last piece of control I have? That I’m falling for a man who kills people for a living and I don’t know how to reconcile that with who I am?
“The problem is that this changes everything,” I finally say. “And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
“Too late. Everything already changed the moment you called me.” He cups my face with one hand. “The moment you got on that plane. The moment you let me touch you last night. You don’t get to take it back now.”
“I’m not trying to take it back. I’m just saying this is a lot to process.”
“Then process it. But do it here, in my bed, where you belong.”
The possessiveness in his voice should annoy me and make me want to argue and push back and insist on my independence.
Instead it makes heat pool low in my belly because apparently I have terrible taste in men.
“I need to check on Luca,” I say, trying to change the subject.
“Rosa’s with him. He’s fine.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I pay attention to everything in my house. And because Rosa texted me twenty minutes ago to say he’s eating breakfast and asking where you are.”
I feel a pang of guilt. “I should go to him.”
“In a minute.” Dante’s hand slides down my side possessively. “First, tell me you’re not going to run.”
“I’m literally naked in your bed. Where would I run to?”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
I look at him, studying him intently. At the scar on his shoulder from god knows what. At the hard lines of his face that soften slightly when he looks at our son.
“I’m not running,” I say quietly. “I told you that last night and I meant it. But I need you to understand that this terrifies me.”
“What terrifies you?”
“This.” I gesture to the air. “This line we’ve crossed. I—”
He leans forward and covers my mouth with his in a kiss, slow and deep, and I forget why I was worried in the first place.
By the time I make it downstairs, Luca is on his second helping of pancakes and chattering away to Rosa about dinosaurs.
“Mama!” He jumps up when he sees me. “Where were you? Rosa said you were sleeping but it’s really late!”
I glance at the clock. Nine thirty. Not that late, but for Luca who’s used to me being up at six, it might as well be noon.
“Sorry, baby. I was tired from yesterday.”
“D is still sleeping too. Rosa said he works really hard so he needs rest.”
D. When did he start calling Dante that?
I look at Rosa, who just smiles knowingly and goes back to cooking.
“That’s right,” I say, sitting down next to Luca. “Dante works very hard.”
“Can we go outside today? I want to show D the fort I’m building.”
“Maybe later, sweetheart. If it isn’t too cold. Eat your breakfast first.”
The next few days settle into something that almost resembles normal life, though it’s anything but peaceful.
Luca continues warming to Dante in ways that make my heart ache and heal at the same time. He follows Dante around the house like a shadow, asking a million questions about everything.
“Why do you have so many guards?”
“To keep bad people away.”
“Why are there bad people?”
“Because the world isn’t always safe, buddy.”
“But you keep us safe, right?”
“Always.”
I watch these exchanges from doorways and windows, seeing Dante struggle with how much truth to tell a five-year-old. Seeing him wrestle with guilt and unfamiliar emotions as he tries to explain adult failures in terms a child can understand.
One afternoon I find them in Dante’s office, Luca sitting on his lap while Dante works on his computer.
“D, what kind of job do you do?”
My breath catches. I freeze in the doorway, waiting to see how Dante handles this.
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see the tension in his shoulders.
“I do a lot of things,” he finally says.
“Like what?” Luca asks further, and I can see a look of helplessness settle on Dante’s face, he looks like he needs rescuing.
“Transportation, exportation and importation of goods.”
“What does that mean? And what type of goods?”
At this point, I know I have to step in or Dante will probably lose his mind from all the questions.
“Um…baby, why don’t you let D concentrate on work. He needs to make more money to get you toys.”
Dante looks up at me, a look of relief filling his expression.
For a moment, I fear Luca will protest but he just mumbles “okay,” and goes back to coloring while Dante works.
Later that night after Luca’s asleep, Dante finds me in the library.
“He asked about the scars on my hands today,” he says without preamble. “Wanted to know how I got them.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I got hurt at work. Which is technically true.” He pours himself a drink. “How long until he starts asking questions I can’t answer without lying or traumatizing him? You saw things yourself back there.”
“I don’t know.”
“This is harder than I thought it would be. Being a father.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“Am I? Because I have no idea what I’m doing half the time.” He drains his glass. “I can run an empire. I can make grown men piss themselves with fear. But a five-year-old asking innocent questions destroys me.”
I move closer and take the glass from his hand. “You’re doing better than fine, Dante. He adores you.”
“He shouldn’t. He should be afraid of me like everyone else.”
“He’s your son. He sees past the scary exterior to the man underneath.”
“There is no man underneath. Just more darkness.”
“That’s not true.” I cup his face, making him look at me. “I’ve seen you with him. The way you read to him at night. The way you make sure his food is cut into small pieces. The way you check on him three times after he’s asleep to make sure he’s okay. That’s not darkness, Dante. That’s love.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then pulls me into his arms and just holds me.
And I let him, because apparently we’re doing this now. Being a real couple. Being a family.
Even if it terrifies me.
Rosa has become Luca’s favorite person besides Dante and me. She sneaks him cookies when she thinks I’m not looking and teaches him Italian words that he butchers adorably.
“Mamma, I learned a new word! Biscotti!”
“That’s wonderful, baby. What does it mean?”
“Cookies!” He grins proudly. “And Rosa makes the best biscotti in the whole world.”
Rosa just smiles and ruffles his hair. “You are too sweet, piccolino.”
I watch her with my son and feel grateful for her presence. She’s fierce in her protection of both of us, like a grandmother who’ll cut anyone who threatens her grandchild.
One morning she finds me in the kitchen making coffee and just starts talking.
“You’re good for him, you know.”
“For Luca?”
“For Dante.” She hands me cream. “I’ve worked for the Moretti family for twenty years. Watched Dante grow from an angry teenager into a harder man. But since you’ve been here, I’ve seen glimpses of who he could have been. Who he still might be.”
“I don’t think I have that much influence.”
“You have more than you know.” She pats my hand. “Just don’t give up on him when things get difficult. He needs you both.”
Elena becomes a regular visitor over the next two weeks, and somehow she becomes my first real friend in this world.
It starts with her bringing the kids over to play with Luca. Then it turns into coffee while Rosa watches them. Then it becomes these long conversations about everything and nothing.
“So I’m obsessed with this new true crime podcast,” she says one afternoon. “About this cold case from the nineties. Want me to send you the link?”
“God yes. I’ve been dying for something good to listen to.”
“Really? I thought I was the only weirdo who finds murder mysteries relaxing.”
“Are you kidding? Give me a good unsolved case and I’m happy for hours.”
We bond over podcasts and books and recipes. She tells me about the struggle of finding activities both kids enjoy doing together. I tell her about Luca’s obsession with dinosaurs.
It’s so wonderfully normal that I sometimes forget where I am. Forget that armed guards patrol outside. Forget that I’m building a friendship with the wife of a man who works for my son’s father who runs a criminal empire.
“Can I ask you something?” Elena says one day while the kids are playing.
“Sure.”
“How are you handling all this? The lifestyle, I mean. It’s not easy.”
“Is it that obvious I’m struggling?”
“No. But I remember when Marco first brought me into this world. How overwhelming it was. How scared I was all the time.” She takes a sip of coffee. “It gets easier. You learn to compartmentalize. To separate the man you love from the work he does.”
“Does it ever stop being terrifying?”
“No. But you get used to the fear. Learn to live with it.” She looks at me seriously. “Marco told me about the attacks. About why you’re here. Are you okay?”
“Physically, yes. Mentally…” I trail off. “I’m working on it.”
“If you ever need to talk, I’m here. No judgment, no reporting back to anyone. Just girl talk.”
And she means it. I can tell.
So I tell her things I haven’t told anyone. About how strange it is living with Dante. About my fears for Luca’s safety. About the confusing mess of feelings I have for a man I should probably hate.
She listens without judgment and offers advice when asked. And slowly, I start to feel less alone.
The nights are the hardest because that’s when my carefully constructed walls start to crumble.
Dante and I fall into a routine. He works late in his office while I put Luca to bed. Then I go to his room and we fall into each other like we’re both drowning and the only way to breathe is to get closer.
It’s not always frantic like that first night. Sometimes it’s slow and almost tender. Sometimes it’s rough and desperate. But it’s always consuming.
And afterward, when we’re tangled together in his bed, I feel the truth I’ve been avoiding settle over me like a blanket.
I’m falling for him. Really falling. Not the shallow attraction from six years ago in the club, but something deeper and more terrifying.
I’m falling for the way he reads to our son with infinite patience. For the way he listens when I talk. For the rare smiles that transform his whole face. For the gentleness he shows me when we’re alone.
I’m falling for Dante Moretti with my eyes wide open about exactly who and what he is. And it scares me more than anything else.
One night I wake up from a dream drenched in cold sweat.
Dante’s immediately awake beside me. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a dream. Go back to sleep.”
“Talk to me.”
“It was nothing. Just…” I press my hands to my face. “Fragments. Memories from that night.”
“What kind of memories?”
“I don’t know. It’s all jumbled.” I try to focus on the images. “There was a woman, I think. Her voice was cold. Elegant. Giving orders.”
Dante goes very still. “What else?”
“Hands. Expensive perfume mixed with fear.” I shake my head. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s all scattered.”
“Try to remember. Any detail could be important.”
“Why? It’s not that easy,” I snap.
“Because if you’re remembering things you blocked out, it might be connected to the ledger. To why they’re hunting you.”
“You think I know something I don’t remember?”
“I think your brain protected you by locking away traumatic memories. But they’re still there. And now that you’re safe, they’re starting to surface.”
The thought makes my skin crawl. “I don’t want to remember.”
“I know. But we might not have a choice.” He pulls me against his chest. “Whatever you remember, whenever you remember it, tell me immediately. Even if it seems insignificant.”
“Okay.”
But lying there in the dark, wrapped in his arms, all I can think about is that cold woman’s voice from my fractured memories.
And the growing certainty that whatever I’ve forgotten might be the key to keeping us all alive. Or getting us all killed.