Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Dante
Facing Elena's tear-streaked face, I couldn't control my body's reaction. She always cried so pitifully, her clothes disheveled and loose, and my gaze kept drifting to her chest against my will. She didn't even notice.
Back in my room, I took a quick shower, staring at my erection until it calmed down before finally collapsing into bed.
Tonight had blindsided me. Marco and I had only gone to check on the underground casino renovations, but we'd walked straight into an ambush. The attackers were unknowns, but their weapons were top-grade—I'd examined the bullets left on the ground. Russian imports.
These bastards came out of nowhere and injured Marco. Their skills were solid. In all my years running the Moretti family, I'd never been ambushed like this. A goddamn disgrace. If word got out, I'd be a laughingstock.
The wound was deep. My head felt fuzzy—probably from whatever Elena had fed me. I couldn't fight it off and sank into sleep.
When I woke again, moonlight spilled through the window, pooling across the floor. Someone was holding my hand. I followed the line of sight and found Elena. She'd showered, changed into a nightgown, a blanket draped over her shoulders, curled up at my bedside keeping watch.
Thick hair cascaded over one shoulder, making her face look even more pale and flawless.
I had to admit—Elena was a beautiful woman.
Back when she was poor, wearing cheap clothes with no money for makeup, you could still see her delicate features.
After becoming Mrs. Moretti, though she still lived frugally, her improved quality of life had transformed her visibly.
Softer, more serene. Beautiful as a tender flower blooming quietly in the night.
I needed to check on Marco—he'd taken that bullet for me. I tried to slip my hand free, but Elena's grip was tight. I couldn't pull away.
The movement startled her awake. Elena lifted her head groggily, eyes barely open, but she looked at me first. "You're awake? How do you feel? Does it still hurt?"
Her voice was hoarse with sleep, carrying a nasal quality that made something stir in me.
I stared at her face, my body surging with a sensation I couldn't suppress. "I'm fine."
She exhaled in relief, rubbing her eyes and pulling the slipping blanket back up. "Do you want water? I'll get you some water."
Elena didn't notice my gaze. She reached out to check my forehead. "Thank God, no fever. So there's no serious infection..."
She kept chattering, and when she leaned down, her neckline gaped open, exposing everything. My throat went dry. That soft white nightgown looked nearly transparent in the moonlight as she carelessly exposed her body to me without any guard.
Earlier on the couch I'd barely controlled myself, but now I couldn't hold back anymore. Without another word, I grabbed the back of her head and kissed her.
Elena froze in my arms for a moment but didn't pull away.
Her lips were impossibly soft, carrying warm breath that fell across my face.
My fingers threaded through her hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss.
Her body gradually softened, one hand braced on the mattress beside me, the other caught in my palm.
As the kiss intensified, my breathing grew heavier, heat rising through my body that I couldn't contain. I'd nearly lost control on the living room couch. Now she was here at my bedside again, holding my hand, looking at me with those freshly-woken eyes—I'd reached my limit.
I flipped her beneath me, avoiding my injured side. Her nightgown slid off her shoulder, exposing a vast stretch of collarbone and snow-white skin. My gaze darkened. I lowered my head to kiss her neck. She tilted her head back, fingers gripping my collar.
I could feel her heartbeat—rapid, pressed against my palm.
My uninjured hand slid down her body, fingers finding the heat between her thighs.
She gasped against my mouth as I pushed inside her, her body arching into my touch.
I kept my movements gentle, watching her face as I worked her slowly, learning what made her breath catch, what made those small sounds escape her throat.
"Dante—" She breathed my name like a prayer.
I added another finger, curling them just right, and her whole body tensed.
She came apart beautifully, trembling and gasping, her fingers digging into my shoulders as the pleasure rolled through her.
I kissed her through it, gentler than I'd ever been, feeling her pulse around my fingers as she rode out the waves.
When she finally caught her breath, her eyes were glazed and satisfied, her cheeks flushed pink. Better than last time, I could tell. The tenderness had made all the difference.
But my own body was a different story. My cock strained against my pants, hard to the point of aching, throbbing with every pulse of my heart.
Heat flooded my skin, restless and demanding, every muscle tight with the need to bury myself inside her.
I could barely think past the urgency coiling low in my gut—I needed her, now, more than I needed air.
Just as I reached for my belt, about to undo my pants, she suddenly pressed her hand against me. "Don't."
My chest heaved, breathing hard as I looked down at her. Elena's face was flushed, her eyes glassy with a sheen of moisture, but her gaze was firm. She looked at me, full of concern. "Your wound hasn't healed. You can't do this now. It'll tear open."
I fought to control myself. "It's fine."
But she pushed me away, grabbed her nightgown and pulled it on, then turned to look at me seriously, though her voice carried a hint of shyness. "Dante... wait until you've healed."
I studied her curiously. She'd never been this insistent about anything before. She wanted an heir so badly—logically she should be jumping at this opportunity.
"What?" I stared at her, letting out a laugh. "Don't want an heir anymore?"
She froze, then lowered her eyes, lashes trembling slightly in the moonlight. "I do want one. But I want you healthy more."
The look Elena gave me conveyed deep concern, as if I mattered tremendously in her life. Heat spread through my chest—not desire, but something else equally powerful surging up.
"Alright." I suppressed myself, patting the bed. "Get some sleep. I won't touch you."
Elena obediently lay down, pressed against my body, close to me. Like a child without security, she grabbed my hand and held it to her chest before closing her eyes. Her gesture made my heart unbearably soft.
She fell asleep quickly. I gently extracted my hand—she didn't wake. So I slipped out of bed quietly, left the room, and headed to the manor's operating room to check on Marco.
The hallway was silent. Marco's room was on the east side of the second floor, door ajar, light spilling out. I pushed inside. He sat propped against the headboard, torso wrapped in bandages, face still pale but his spirits better than before.
The surgery went well, then.
"Feeling better?" I settled onto the nearby couch, lighting a cigar.
"Much better now. Nothing serious—bullet just got my shoulder." Marco looked pale as death, probably trying not to worry me, keeping his tone light. "How about you?"
"Surface wound. Nothing serious." The burning tobacco smell drifted out. I took a deep drag, feeling my body relax slightly. "Those men—do you remember what they looked like?"
Marco frowned. "Too dark to see much, didn't get a good look. But I remember one guy had a tattoo on the back of his neck. Looked like Santa Muerte."
"Santa Muerte. They're from Mexico."
"Probably the same group as the Mexican cartel I was tracking," he said. "And their equipment wasn't what street thugs usually carry. Looked like professional firearms. Good shots too."
I fell silent for a moment.
The Moretti family had been rooted in New York for years. We'd always stayed in our lane with the Mexican cartels. Why would they suddenly show up at the underground casino? And breaking in late at night—looked like they were searching for something.
"I'll handle the investigation. You focus on recovery." I stood, clapping his uninjured shoulder. "For now, don't worry about anything. Just heal."
"About Elena—"
I paused. "Put that on hold."
Marco nodded, didn't push it.
The next morning, Alfredo came with a message. Salvador wanted to see me.
I entered Salvador's room. He was propped against the headboard, staring blankly out the window. His body was more fragile now, couldn't handle wind, so even wheeling himself outside had become nearly impossible. He spent most of his time confined to bed.
Morning light streamed through the window, making his white hair almost painful to look at. He seemed older than last time, cheeks sunken, skin on the backs of his hands wrinkled like crumpled paper.
"Heard you were injured," Salvador spoke, then started coughing after one sentence. I said nothing, just poured him tea.
Salvador took the tea, gulped it down, and once his breathing steadied, looked up at me. "Know who they were?"
"Looks like Mexican cartel." I had no real leads, sitting in the nearby chair. "I've never dealt with Mexican operations. Maybe they've got eyes on the casino, want a piece."
Salvador pulled a file from his bedside drawer and tossed it in my lap. "See for yourself."
The envelope was thick, containing several photos—blurry surveillance screenshots capturing a few men's profiles and backs. Beneath the photos lay a stack of detailed information about Mexico's Cruz family.
"The Cruz family?" I frowned. "Aren't they based in Mexico?"
I kept flipping through. This file was detailed—didn't look recently compiled, but accumulated over several years. It documented the Cruz family's territorial distribution, their actual operations. All dirty—human trafficking and underground drug trade.
I frowned, still unclear how they'd cross paths with the Moretti family.
Salvador was quiet for a while, as if remembering.
He spoke. "Years ago, I dealt with the Cruz family.
Their methods were filthy, no moral boundaries, dealing in things I wouldn't touch.
So I refused their patriarch's offer to partner.
They wanted access to one of our transport routes. What they'd use it for—you can guess."
I looked at the disturbing photos in the file, understanding Salvador's words.
"I never told you—the car accident that cost me my legs, the Cruz family arranged it.
After I rejected them, they kept trying to retaliate, wanting to kill me and take the Moretti family.
Fortunately, you grew up. You stepped up and took the family burden, so they didn't dare make another move.
" Salvador talked too much, his body seeming to burn through oxygen, wheezing continuously.
I stared at him in shock, unable to speak for a long time. He'd never told me any of this. I only knew he was strict with me, but I didn't know our family had been targeted like this all along, that he'd suffered such vicious retaliation.
"If you're really going up against them, you can't be careless." Salvador looked at me, his gaze showing rare concern. "I know you want to move the family into more legitimate business. I have no objection. But it'll tie your hands. I'm afraid you won't be able to handle that kind of filth."
He hadn't spoken to me in this tone for a long time.
Not ordering. Not mocking. More like a father warning his son. I'd only heard this tone when I was very young.
"Understood." I put the materials back in the envelope, formulating my next move. Passive waiting wasn't my style. Salvador's legs, Marco's injury—I'd repay them a thousand times over.
"Thanks for the warning." For once, we ended a conversation on relatively easy terms. I stood. "Rest well. I need to get to the office."
"Dante." As I turned to leave, he suddenly called after me.
I stopped, summoning what patience I had. "What now?"
"How are things with Elena?" Salvador started coughing again. I turned to look at him. He couldn't break the habit of interfering in my life.
My tone was impatient. "Nothing's happening. None of your schemes will work out."
Strangely, Salvador didn't explode. He was quiet for a moment, his breathing rough as a bellows. When he spoke again, his voice was slow and heavy. "I know because of Isabella, you've always hated me."
He rarely brought up my mother voluntarily.
My gaze fell on his aged profile. Salvador was truly old now, nothing like the vigorous man who'd once commanded New York's underworld.
That Don who could make all of New York tremble with one word was now just an old man who needed half a minute to recover from a coughing fit.
His eyes turned toward the window. From here you could see the greenhouse in the distance, transparent glass revealing the various flowers inside. The nearby garden was planted full of roses, blooming year-round.
"Your mother loved these flowers most."
I clenched my fists.
"She said living in the manor was too stifling.
All gray stone walls, not a hint of color.
I didn't understand then—what value could planting flowers bring?
So I ignored her. After she was gone, I had the entire garden planted with flowers.
Roses, wisteria... blooms year-round. Sitting in my wheelchair watching them every day, I finally understood how she felt. "
His voice was flat as he spoke, as if narrating someone else's story, but I saw his fingers on his knee curl slightly.
"You know." He finally turned to look at me, those cloudy eyes holding something I'd never seen before. "Many things I've done, there's no going back. I owe your mother an apology. Only she can't hear it anymore."
The room went quiet for a long time. Wind blew in from outside, white curtains swaying gently. Roses bloomed in the garden, all colors, opening passionately yet peacefully in the sunlight.
"Too late."
My heart contracted painfully. Isabella had suffered such violent agony, ultimately trading her life for this simple apology.
"It is too late. She'll never know." He gazed at the flowers outside, saying softly, "But Dante, this apology is also for you to hear."
Salvador's gaze stayed on the window, not looking at me, eyes fixed on those roses as if imagining a meeting with someone who no longer existed. I stood in the room for a while, wanting to speak but unable to convince myself to forgive him. After all, a devil's remorse isn't worth much.
The hallway sunlight stung my eyes. I raised my hand to block it, striding downstairs. Passing the garden, those roses bloomed in full glory, red as flames, but my gaze didn't linger on them.