38. Morning Light
Chapter thirty-eight
Morning Light
(Danica)
Morning sun paints our villa in sunshine, streaming through the open walls to cast dappled patterns across the polished floors. Outside, the ocean sparkles like scattered diamonds—postcard perfect, almost too beautiful to be real.
I sit perched on a barstool at the kitchen counter, watching Alessio move between the stove and refrigerator with the grace of a dancer.
His dark hair is still damp from an early morning swim, curling slightly at the tips.
He's wearing nothing but loose swim shorts riding low on his hips, his tanned, tattooed skin gleaming in the sunshine.
"Are you going to play or just stare at Alessio?" Dante's voice pulls me back to our game.
"I'm multitasking." I wink, laying down my next card. "Gin."
"Cazzo!" Dante curses, dropping his cards in mock frustration. "That's the third time."
"Don't be a sore loser." I gather the cards to shuffle again, enjoying the familiar feel of them between my fingers. "Maybe you're letting me win."
"Never." Dante leans back on his stool, stretching his arms above his head.
Something is different about him this morning.
The change is subtle—something in the way he holds himself, the softness around his eyes, the slightly looser set of his shoulders.
After four years together, I've learned to read every micro-expression, every twitch of muscle.
My Don has shed some invisible weight overnight.
I want to ask what happened, what transformation took place during the hushed conversation I glimpsed through half-closed eyes last night. But some spaces deserve their privacy, even between us.
"Pancakes or french toast?" Alessio calls over his shoulder, whisking eggs in a large bowl.
"Both," I say immediately, and Dante laughs.
"Always hungry,” he remarks, but his eyes linger on my face with that adoration that still makes my chest tighten after all this time.
"For the good things in life?" I brush my fingers through his hair, longer now than he usually keeps it. "Absolutely."
“Let’s start with the french toast,” Alessio suggests, slicing thick pieces of bread with steady hands. "With that coconut syrup we picked up yesterday."
Barefoot and relaxed, with his usual sharp edges softened by morning light, Alessio is a revelation. The Vegas Joker—the man whose empire rivals Dante's in both scope and infamy—standing in our kitchen making breakfast in swimming shorts like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm starving." I hop off my stool and pad over to the fruit bowl, selecting a ripe mango. "Anyone want some of this while we wait?"
"Sì," Dante follows me, reaching for a knife. "Let me."
I watch his hands as he slices the fruit with unexpected care—those hands that have ended lives now meticulously removing the stone, cutting perfect cubes. He arranges them on a plate like small jewels, his movements precise.
"You know what this reminds me of?" Alessio says, dipping bread into the egg mixture. "That morning in Santorini, after the club opening."
"God, that was, what...two years ago?" I laugh, accepting a piece of mango from Dante's fingers.
"You were so drunk," Dante says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I was celebrating! And if I recall correctly, you weren't exactly sober either, Don Fera."
Alessio tosses his head back, laughing. "He even danced on the stage!”
"I did no such thing," Dante protests, but there's no heat in it. Just fond remembrance of a night when the fearsome Don let himself be just a man among friends.
"You did," I confirm, leaning against the counter. "You and Alessio both. I have photographic evidence."
"Blackmail material," Dante corrects, but his eyes sparkle with amusement.
I watch him pop a piece of mango into his mouth, juice glistening on his bottom lip. He catches me looking and winks, a gesture so uncharacteristically playful that I almost do a double-take. Something has shifted; some door has opened. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my husband wink.
"Pass me those plates," Alessio instructs, flipping the first piece of toast with a flourish.
Dante reaches past me to grab three plates from the cupboard, his chest brushing against my back. He lingers there for a moment, arms encircling me to set the plates on the counter. It's so casual, so easy—this physical intimacy that flows between us all like water.
The smell of cinnamon and vanilla fills the kitchen as Alessio slides the first batch of french toast onto a plate. "Food's ready, lovebirds."
We move to the outside terrace with our plates, settling around the table with the ocean spread before us. Slivers of sunlight dance across the infinity pool, the water still and perfect in the morning calm.
"God, this is good," I mumble around a mouthful of syrup-soaked bread.
"Don't sound so surprised." Alessio pretends to be offended, but his eyes are warm. "I'm a man of many talents."
"Indeed you are," Dante agrees, his foot finding mine under the table, a small point of contact that feels as intimate as a kiss.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just the sounds of waves breaking on the shore and distant birdsong. It's a perfect moment—suspended in time, the three of us together without expectations or obligations.
The morning stretches before us, unhurried and golden. We polish off the french toast and fresh fruit, trading stories and observations, our conversation flowing like a gentle current. Occasionally, Dante's hand finds mine, or Alessio leans over to brush a strand of hair from my face.
These small touches—this casual intimacy—it fills something in me I didn't know was empty. This is what love looks like when it's given room to breathe, to evolve, to find its own shape.
After breakfast, Alessio refills our coffee cups and Dante deals another round of cards. I lean back in my chair, watching them both—my husband and our lover, the two men who've reshaped my world in ways I never imagined possible.
Dante catches me watching and raises an eyebrow in question.
"Just happy," I say simply.
"You deserve to be," he replies, and there's something different in his voice—a certainty, an acceptance that perhaps extends to himself as well.
I think about the man I met all those years ago, locked in his fortress of silence and duty. The man who couldn't imagine pleasure without pain, love without loss. Who couldn't fathom the kind of unconventional happiness we've built together.
"We all do," I say, reaching for my cards.
Dante hesitates, then nods, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe you're right."
"Of course she is," Alessio chimes in, shuffling his own cards. "Our Queen is always right."
"Now you're just sucking up," I tease.
"Is it working?" Alessio grins.
"Always."
The three of us laugh, the sound mingling with the rhythm of the waves. In this moment, in this unlikely found family we've created, I feel something close to perfect peace.
Later, we'll go swimming or walking along the beach. Maybe we'll nap in the afternoon heat, bodies tangled together in the massive bed. We might make love, or simply lie together, talking about everything and nothing. The day stretches before us with infinite possibilities.
But for now, there are cards to play, coffee to drink, and this quiet, profound joy to savor—the kind that comes from loving and being loved exactly as you are.
I catch Dante's eye over my cards and see a reflection of my own contentment there. Whatever burden he shared with Alessio in the darkness, its release has left room for something new to grow. Something hopeful. Something free.
And in this moment, with the sun warming my skin and the two men I love beside me, I realize that this—this unconventional, unexpected love—may be the most beautiful thing I've ever known.