Chapter 23
Dante
I wake up with my face pressed against my wife’s stomach, one arm slung across her waist, the other curled beneath me.
Lately, I find myself waking up like this more and more, wrapped around her, grounded by the weight and warmth of her body, as if the simple act of holding her could stop time, or reverse it. It never does, but I try anyway.
She’s still asleep, lying on her back, her breathing slow and even. Her skin glows soft in the morning light, and her lips are parted just slightly.
Peaceful.
Something I don’t take for granted anymore.
I shift a little and lift my head, resting my chin lightly above her ribs. Her eyes are still closed, but I reach up, trailing my knuckles across her cheekbone. She stirs under my touch.
A soft hum escapes her lips. Then, her lashes flutter, and she blinks herself awake. When her eyes find mine, she smiles, quiet and slow and just for me. That smile carves straight through my chest, every single time.
She stretches, arms overhead, a small sigh leaving her mouth.
“What time is it?”
“Still early,” I murmur.
We haven’t spoken much these past few days, not about anything deep, at least. But I can see that she’s lighter. Bit by bit, her therapy sessions with Dr. Verdi are giving her back pieces of herself. The woman I carried out of that basement isn’t the same one lying beside me now. She’s not healed, I know better than to believe that. Healing will take time. But she’s fighting. And for now, that’s what matters most.
Last night, she woke up screaming again, another night terror. I didn’t ask what it was about. I just sat at the piano until her breathing calmed, then lifted her into my arms and brought her outside, letting the night air cool her skin.
We remained beneath the stars until she drifted off, her head resting against my chest. I carried her back to our room, and didn’t let go.
The nightmares haven’t vanished, but they come less often now, and that counts for something.
I haven’t pushed her to talk about what happened in that basement. She’s not ready. I don’t ask. I wait. The only thing that matters is that she knows I’m here, for whatever she needs, for however long it takes.
We haven’t spoken about the things I said to her the day she was taken, either.
I haven’t asked for forgiveness.
Forgiveness I don’t fucking deserve.
But I will. I’ll fall to my knees and beg for it, when she’s ready to hear me.
She yawns beside me, soft and sleepy.
“You remember Mattia has a football match today, right?”
she murmurs, rubbing her eyes.
“You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am, leonessa,”
I say, leaning forward to press a kiss to the tip of her nose.
I push off the bed and stretch, raking a hand through my hair before turning to her, palm extended. She takes it without hesitation, rising as the sheets slip from her body.
We make our way into the bathroom. She brushes her teeth beside me at the marble double vanity, her shoulder nudging mine. We wash our faces in silence, side by side in the mirror, and for a moment, it feels disarmingly… ordinary.
She walks back through the bedroom and into the closet, slipping off her silk pyjama dress in one slow, fluid motion. The fabric slips to the floor, leaving her in nothing but a thong, her skin aglow, her breasts bared, nipples a soft, rosy flush against the cool air.
It takes everything in me not to reach for her.
Not to palm the weight of her in my hand, not to drag my mouth across every inch of her skin like a man starved.
I have the patience of a fucking saint, and even that’s wearing thin.
She says nothing as she reaches for a pair of leggings, but the smirk playing at the corner of her lips tells me exactly what she’s doing. She knows I’m watching. She wants me to.
My wife is putting on a show, just for me. And the thought sends a possessive pulse through my veins, slow, steady, and utterly consuming.
And I watch, unabashed, devouring every movement like a man who’s been denied too long.
I give in. I move behind her, close enough to feel her warmth, lower my head and sink my teeth into the tender curve where her neck meets her shoulder, just enough to make her gasp.
She shivers, goosebumps rising across her skin. Her bottom lip catches between her teeth, and she lifts her gaze to mine, a wicked little smile curving her mouth as she pulls the fabric up her legs, slow and knowing.
I press one more kiss to her shoulder… and step back. Barely.
“I see you’re really dressing up for the game,”
I say, arms crossed, one brow arched as I watch her pull on the leggings, an outfit she usually reserves for pilates or the gym.
They cling to her like a second skin, every curve on full display. I take my time with the view, unapologetically focused on how tightly they hug her ass.
She smirks.
“I dress appropriately for the occasion,”
she says smoothly.
“Unlike you. You’d show up to a beach party in a suit, and wear the same one to someone’s sentencing.”
“I have a reputation to maintain,”
I say, smoothing the sleeve of my shirt.
“Yes, yes,”
she mutters, tugging a T-shirt over her head.
“But I don’t think the suit is doing all the work. I’m pretty sure people would still fear you in a tracksuit.”
I arch a brow.
“They should.”
My smirk fades as I reach for my suit jacket.
“I have something to take care of after breakfast,”
I say evenly.
“I won’t be long. Then I’ll drive us to the game.”
She goes still, her movements faltering mid motion.
“You’re going to end him today,”
she says softly, not a question, but a certainty.
I glance up. She already knows. And I’m not surprised. My wife has always been unnervingly perceptive.
And I’ve never been one to lie to her. Not even by omission. I don’t believe in sugarcoating, especially not with her.
“Yes,”
I say simply.
“I’ve let him breathe too long.”
She studies me for a moment. Then something shifts in her expression, like a decision forming.
“I’ll be there,” she says.
I look at her, conflicted. Part of me wants to keep her far from it all, to shield her, to never let her set foot anywhere near him again.
But the other part… the other part is proud.
Proud of the way she’s reclaiming her control, piece by piece, on her own terms.
“Are you sure?”
She nods. Her eyes are steady, her voice is calm.
“Yes. I think it’s time I take a piece of my life back.”
I study her, the determination behind her eyes. After a second, I nod once.
“Do what you came to do. I’ll hold your steadiness if your hands start to shake.”
Then I thread my fingers through hers and lead her downstairs, to the dining room.
The house is quiet. Sunlight pours through the arched windows, warm and indifferent.
Mattia’s voice is the first thing I hear as we enter.
He’s seated at the long table, animatedly telling some story to Leonardo, who pretends to listen while sipping his espresso like it’s his last day on earth. Luka sits across from them, silent, but present, and Mario’s nearby, nursing his coffee with a smirk that suggests he’s heard this story three times already. He glances toward Luka now and then, suspicion etched into every look.
He still doesn’t trust the boy, no different than I do.
Thinks he was sent to observe, to gather information, to play innocent while reporting back to whoever’s listening.
But I’m not careless enough to let it matter. I don’t speak freely around him, and nothing critical is ever left exposed. Our systems are sealed, our files locked down tight. I didn’t become Capo dei Capi by letting a teenager outmanoeuvre me.
Still… maybe my wife is rubbing off on me. Because I no longer feel the threat the way I did at first. There’s something honest in the boy’s eyes when I question him. He’s either well trained, or… innocent.
When Harlow and I walk in, hand in hand, every head turns.
They look at her, and I see the shift in their expressions. Soften. Like she’s light in a house full of shadow.
And I clench my jaw.
This is my fucking wife.
She’s giving warmth to this entire house, and I find myself irrationally jealous of every single person she so much as looks at. I’ve killed men for less than the way Mario smiles at her. And Mario’s like family. Which makes it worse.
I pull her chair out, and she sits, offering me a soft smile as I take the seat beside her, at the front of the table.
Bianca enters then, flanked by two maids, each carrying silver trays. The scent of espresso, warm pastries, and citrus fills the room.
“Signora,”
Bianca says warmly, placing a cappuccino in front of Harlow, the foam perfect.
“Buongiorno. Enjoy.”
Harlow murmurs a soft, “Grazie.”
Mattia digs in immediately, his fork already halfway to his mouth before he speaks.
“Today’s the match,”
he says, glancing up at me with that earnest, hopeful pride.
“You’re coming, right, papà?”
It cuts deeper than I care to admit, how hard my son tries to earn my pride, like it isn’t already his by default.
I know he treads carefully around me. I see it in the way he watches my reactions, chooses his words with too much care.
And it guts me.
But I don’t know how to be soft. Wasn’t raised with softness. Love wasn’t gentle in my world, it was control, protection, survival. Affection never came wrapped in words or comfort. So I love him the only way I know how, by pushing him to be strong. To endure. To be prepared.
Still, I know he needed more than that. Always did.
He needed a mother figure. And he didn’t have one.
Not until Harlow.
She gave him the steadiness I couldn’t. The affection, the warmth.
He stopped picking fights at school after she came into our lives. Stopped acting out. She sees him. Loves him in a way I never could’ve learned on my own. And I’m fucking grateful, more than I’ll ever say out loud, that she’s here.
Perhaps it makes me a selfish bastard, but it’s a good thing the woman who gave birth to him never stayed, she made it easier on me than I expected.
Because, one, I wouldn’t have allowed it. And two, she was never cut out to be a mother. She made that clear from the outset, and she wasn’t wrong.
I never would’ve married her. Not even for a child.
If she had truly wanted to be part of his life, she could’ve tried to build something on her own. But she didn’t.
And as fucked up as it sounds, I’m relieved.
She wasn’t right in the head. Too self absorbed, too consumed by her own vanity. She would’ve done nothing but damage him in the long run.
Better to grow up without a mother than with one like her.
For me, she was just a passing indulgence, nothing more. The kind of woman who collected men like handbags, power hungry, spoiled, living off the attention of the highest bidder.
She wasn’t in the business, not officially. But she never stuck to one man long enough to pretend she was built for family.
I don’t know where she is now, and frankly I don’t give a single fuck.
She knows better than to come near Mattia. If she ever tries, I’ll put her in the ground myself. That door has been closed for years, and it’s never opening again.
I may be hard on my son, but it’s not because I don’t love him. It’s because I do. He’s one of the only people in this world I’d burn it all down for.
I just don’t know how to say or show it.
That’s trauma for you.
But the way he looks at me, like I’m the sky, like I hung the fucking stars, shakes something loose in my chest I don’t know how to name.
It terrifies me.
I clear my throat, and with it, the thoughts I can’t afford right now.
“Of course,” I say.
Mattia beams.
“Luka, you too! You have to see how many goals I’ll score in one game.”
Leonardo lifts a brow.
“And what about me? Do I get an invitation, or have I been completely cast aside?”
Mattia grins, still chewing.
“You can come too.”
Leonardo exhales a dramatic sigh.
“How moving. Truly. Could you try saying it again, this time with a touch of sincerity?”
Luka’s eyes sweep the table before landing on Harlow. He doesn’t speak right away, waiting, it seems, for her signal.
She gives him a small nod, a soft smile playing at her lips.
“It’s your choice, if it’s something you want.”
His response is immediate, unwavering.
“Yes. Of course.”
He’s been orbiting her and Mattia almost constantly these past few days.
I’ve returned to work, more of it than I care to admit left to rot while I focused on one thing only, keeping my wife alive. Now that she’s stronger, I’m out of the house more. Handling things. Pulling strings. Making sure the world keeps turning.
But even when I’m gone, I’m watching.
I always fucking am.
I didn’t know I had it in me, this obsessive need to see her, to know she’s breathing, moving, safe.
The security feeds stream straight to my phone.
Live.
Constant.
Silent.
No matter where I am, boardroom, safehouse, airstrip, I’ve got eyes on the estate. On her. Always.
I’ve become something of a stalker, watching her just to keep my sanity intact.
I tell myself it’s strategy. Precaution. Security.
But truth is, I just can’t fucking breathe unless I know she’s safe.
Luka and Mattia are always by her side, reading, lounging near the pool, kicking a football around the garden.
And she laughs. She looks happy.
He makes her laugh. The fucking Albanian.
And that earns him something. Not trust. Not even close. Maybe a fraction of a point. A zero point two, if I’m feeling generous.
But in my world, you don’t need to do something wrong to be dangerous. Intentions don’t matter. Proof doesn’t matter. I don’t deal in benefit of the doubt. I deal in survival.
And when it comes to her, to them, I’ll never be blind. Not even for a second.
I sip my coffee, eyes tracking him without apology.
The table feels… normal. A strange word, unfamiliar on my tongue. My wife smiles at something Mattia says. Luka offers a dry remark in return.
Leonardo, bored and reckless, tosses a croissant at Mario, who catches it without so much as glancing up, then shoots him a look sharp enough to draw blood. His hand shifts, almost imperceptibly, toward his holster.
My phone vibrates in the inside pocket of my jacket. I retrieve it, glancing at the message.
Piero’s still breathing, but just barely.
Too close. I won’t let him die before I get there. He doesn’t deserve to go quietly. He’s mine to end.
I slide the phone back into my jacket and send a wordless look across the table. Mario and Leonardo read the signal instantly, rising from their chairs in unison.
I push back my own and lean in to press a kiss to Harlow’s forehead.
“I won’t be long.”
She looks up at me, her eyes steady, and gives a single nod, quiet and certain. It’s not just understanding. It’s a promise. She said she’d be there, and she meant it. Maybe even the one to pull the trigger.
Part of me still hopes she won’t. That she won’t have to look into his face again.
What if it undoes her? What if it breaks the fragile peace we’ve started to build?
But I know better than to forbid her anything. That only makes her want it more. She’s made a habit of disobeying me since the day we met, pushing every limit, testing every boundary, unravelling me in ways no one else ever could. And maybe that’s why I can’t fucking breathe without her anymore.
We move down the corridor in silence. Mario and Leonardo at my sides. They know where we’re going.
No words necessary.
Only purpose.
Only the end.