Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elena
After Dante's wounds finally healed, the doctor relented and cleared us to leave the hospital.
On discharge day, Dante stood by the window, staring at the distant view.
"What's on your mind?" I walked over and set a glass of warm milk beside him.
He snapped back and took my hand. "Elena, I want to take you somewhere."
"Where?"
"I want you to meet my mother."
I froze.
This was the first time Dante had brought up Isabella on his own. I'd heard the name countless times—in the maids' gossip, in Salvador's forbidden silences, in the shadow that crossed Dante's eyes whenever he mentioned his father.
I just never expected he'd want to take me to see her.
The drive there was beautiful—clear skies, good weather. Dante didn't bring any guards. He drove himself, taking us through New York's neighborhoods to a quiet cemetery.
The place was eerily still, just birdsong and wind rustling through branches. Tall plane trees lined the stone path, their leaves soaked in sunlight, green and almost translucent.
Dante held my hand as we walked to the very back.
Two headstones stood side by side, identical, as if carved from the same block of stone. The left bore Salvador Moretti's name. The right, Isabella Moretti's.
They hadn't loved each other in life, yet in death they were buried together, close.
"Old Italian tradition," Dante said evenly. "Family members return to the family plot. Salvador picked this spot himself. Had them buried side by side."
I looked at the two stones. Fresh white roses lay before Isabella's grave, like someone changed them regularly.
"Do you bring these?" I asked.
"Yeah. Every two weeks." As he spoke, he knelt and removed the old flowers, then retrieved fresh ones from the car and placed them carefully.
His movements were slow, precise, like something he'd practiced many times.
"I used to hate Salvador for how he treated my mother." His voice came out soft. "Then after he died, I found something in his safe while going through his things. A photo of my mother at eighteen. On the back, he'd written that he was sorry. That he'd wronged Isabella."
I listened quietly.
"My mother once held my hand and told me not to hate him.
" Dante's fingers traced Isabella's name on the stone, lingering on the carved letters.
"She said when she married Salvador, she knew the family was all he cared about.
But she accepted it. She told me her biggest regret was never finding the courage to tell Salvador what she really felt.
That if she'd been braver, maybe things would've turned out different. "
Wind swept through from deep in the cemetery, rustling the plane tree leaves in a low whisper.
"When I was young, I just blamed Salvador.
I couldn't understand why Mother didn't fight back.
" Dante stood and brushed the dust from his hands.
"Later I realized it takes tremendous strength to stand up to him.
And my mother was just a woman who needed freedom.
She didn't have that kind of strength. So seeing them together like this now—it's almost funny. "
He stood before the two graves for a long time.
"Father." He finally spoke, voice low. "You were right. The woman you chose is perfect for me. I fell in love with Elena. She's carrying my child. But I won't walk your path. My child will be happy."
Wind blew through the cemetery, lifting the hair from his forehead.
"I know you spent your whole life doing what you thought was best for the family. You arranged my marriage your way, wanting me to marry someone who'd strengthen the family. But Father, you were wrong. Marriage isn't a transaction. Power isn't something you buy with a wife's tears."
He paused.
"I won't follow your path. I'll let Elena do what she wants—her career, her designs, everything. I'll respect it all, support it all. And I won't become you. I won't let my wife live Isabella's life."
"I forgive you, Father."
When those words came out, Dante's voice cracked. He didn't cry, just stood in the wind, shoulders sagging slightly, like he'd finally set down a weight he'd carried for years.
I went to him and took his hand. His palm was cool. I wrapped it in both of mine.
Dante turned to me, eyes reddened, but he smiled. "I've said everything I needed to say."
"They heard you." I reached out my hand. "Dante, let's go home."
He nodded, took my hand, and turned toward the cemetery exit. Sunlight fell on our clasped hands, stretching our shadows long behind us.
The two headstones stood quietly in the light, white roses swaying gently in the breeze.
On the drive back, I held his hand the whole way. He didn't pull away, just rested my hand on his thigh while steering with the other, driving slowly.
"Thank you, Elena," he said suddenly.
"For what?"
"For coming with me." He said, "When I come alone, I can never get those words out."
I leaned back in my seat, watching the scenery blur past. "Then I'll come with you every time."
"Okay." His response was soft but certain. "From now on, together."
When we pulled up to the manor, the setting sun bathed the old house in warm gold. Dante parked but didn't get out right away. He unbuckled and turned to look at me intently.
"Elena."
"Yeah?"
"This is the first time Moretti Manor has felt like home."
"This is your home." I touched his face. "Welcome home, Dante."
Dante caught my hand. "This is our home, Elena."
His deep eyes threatened to pull me in.
And I knew that coming back to Moretti Manor this time, everything would be different.
When I woke the next morning, the bed beside me was empty. I threw on a robe and went downstairs to find Dante in the kitchen, clumsily frying eggs.
Two cups of coffee sat on the counter, a plate of cut fruit, and toast that looked slightly burnt.
"Why are you up so early?" I leaned against the doorframe.
"Couldn't sleep." He slid the eggs onto a plate and brought them over. "You stood in that cemetery so long yesterday, I worried you were tired. Made you breakfast."
I looked at the misshapen egg on the plate and couldn't help smiling. "You can cook?"
"Nope." He said it matter-of-factly. "Just learned. Marco taught me."
"Marco can cook?"
"He said when he was out on his own, he had to learn everything." Dante pushed the plate toward me. "Try it."
I sat down and took a bite. A bit salty, overcooked, but seeing his expectant look, I nodded seriously. "It's good."
Dante relaxed, sat across from me, and tried a bite himself. He immediately frowned. "Too salty."
"A little salt doesn't matter." I smiled and pulled his plate over. "Give me yours too. I'll eat it for you."
Dante watched me, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Fine. I'll learn to cook; you eat."
"Deal." I grinned. "No giving up halfway."
"I won't give up." He said, "I keep my promises to you."
Looking at him, I suddenly felt like this man fumbling in the kitchen and the Don who commanded New York's underworld were two completely different people.
But I knew both sides were him.
After breakfast, Dante walked with me through the grounds. The morning air was crisp, the garden flowers in bloom, dewdrops glittering on petals in the sunlight.
"Here," I pointed to a corner deep in the garden. "I used to hide here and cry."
Dante stopped. "Why?"
"When I first came to the manor, I didn't know anything.
Salvador scolded me for messing up, and I didn't dare talk back, so I hid here and cried.
" I smiled. "Later, Lucia found me, gave me hot cocoa, and said crybabies never grow up.
After that, I planted some seeds in this corner, hoping they'd bloom into something beautiful. "
Dante didn't speak. He walked to that corner, crouched down, and pushed aside the grass. Sure enough, a small patch of white flowers bloomed there.
"What are these?" he asked.
"Hyacinths." Surprise lit my voice. "I can't believe they survived."
Dante stared at those small white flowers for a long time before standing and coming to me.
"Elena."
"Yeah?"
"This place where you used to cry—you won't cry here again," he said. "I'll have this corner turned into a proper garden, filled with hyacinths. Okay?"
My nose tingled. I nodded. "Okay."
Dante pulled me into his arms, chin resting on top of my head. "From now on, every day you spend in this manor will be a happy one."