I don’t even know where we stand anymore. Husband and wife in name only, enemies shaped by grief… lovers who never learned how to stop hurting each other. Sometimes, I catch myself wondering if there’s even anything left to salvage out of this relationship or if we’re already broken beyond repair.
All I know is that I’m tired.
I’m tired of missing him while he’s still right here living under the same roof as me. Love and anger have become so tangled between us that I can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins. I don’t have it in me to keep pretending this doesn’t hurt anymore.
But what can I do at this point?
Mid-afternoon, I catch him out in the atrium pacing the length of the stone path with a phone pressed to his ear. His voice is low, clipped in a way that tells me whatever he’s hearing on the other end isn’t good. Normally, I wouldn’t stop. I’d keep my headdown and continue on my way, careful not to intrude where I’m clearly not wanted.
But lately,nothingabout Dante has been normal.
He’s been holed up in his study for days now, emerging only long enough to grab a coffee or a plate of food before disappearing again, the door snapping shut behind him with no room to question him.
The house feels different when he’s like this. It’s tenser and much quieter, an odd shift from how chaotic last week’s attack had been and the aftermath. Even the staff have been moving more carefully whenever they pass by his closed door.
I’ve noticed his three closest men coming and going at odd hours, Ettore, Tommaso, Leonardo. They arrive separately and leave separately, never lingering long enough that others wandering by might overhear whatever is being discussed.
That alone tells me Dante listened to me.
Whatever doubts my father’s ledger has planted have obviously taken root deep enough for him to trust others with them.
That notion should bring me comfort. Instead, it only tightens the unease twisting in my gut. Despite all of those quiet meetings, Dante still hasn’t said a word to me. I don’t know what he’s found or what he suspects. I don’t even know if he believes any of it yet or if he’s simply trying to prove every point my father made is wrong.
While I know logically that it isn’t my place to demand answers from him—I’m his wife in name only, bound by circumstance more than the actual trust of a coveted spouse—that knowledgedoesn’t stop the need clawing at me for answers. I have too much at stake in this to remain ignorant.
If my father’s ledger is true, if Dante finally sees what he tried to stop before it was too late, then everything changes. Not just for the Cosenza family but for me and Luca too. Exoneration doesn’t undo the years we all spent running, but itwouldmean my father wouldn’t be labeled as a traitor and could possibly come back without having to worry over whether or not Dante has the motivation to take him out the second he steps foot back on home soil.
Pushing away from the wall, I follow Dante deeper into the atrium, careful to keep a few feet of distance between us. The stone path curves around the cluster of old olive trees at the center, their branches casting broken shadows across the ground as the late afternoon light filters through the glass ceiling overhead. His steps are brisk and restless, hard to keep up with even as I keep my pace relatively slow.
“You’re sure?” he says into the phone, his voice tight. “All the accounts are there?”
My heart stutters.
I slow slightly, instinct telling me that he has to be talking about the ones that funded the hit. On paper, my dad is the obvious suspect. His accounts were the ones used to pay the assailants to take out Matteo, but the money had to have come from somewhere else.
My father was wealthy, but only to an extent. He’d built his fortune carefully over decades. After my mother died, her estate had been passed to him as well, but wealth like his had limits.He lived comfortably, not extravagantly, and had always been careful. Obsessively so with sustainability.
Hiring assassins to eliminate a future syndicate heir—not to mentiontheheir of the Cosenza family—would have cost an obscene amount of money. Not just a bribe here or there but enough to buy silence and loyalty not to speak about it to anyone before the execution, along with the type of precision that guaranteed it would actually be carried out cleanly.
That kind of money doesn’t come from a man like my father. It comes from people with bottomless reserves. Men insulated by power and legacy, from those who wouldn’t feel the loss at all and would benefit from watching a thriving syndicate fall to its knees.
People like Cesare’s inner circle.
The only question is… why?
Dante pauses mid-step, coming to a halt near the last bend of the path. I stop too, my breath caught in my throat as I watch him from behind. His free hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles whitening as he listens to whatever is being said on the other end of the line. Whatever they’re telling him isn’t what he wants to hear. It’s clear in the way his shoulders draw up tight.
For a moment, an old, dangerous ache blooms in my chest.
I remember what it used to be like to ease it, slide my fingers over tense muscles as quiet words were murmured against his jaw. After a while, he’d finally exhale and relax, giving himself over to me completely. Unwinding Dante had never been simple, but when he gave in and trusted me enough to soften, it was a victory sweeter than any war won.
Now, I can only watch as he exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “I see.”
The call ends a moment later.
Dante lowers the phone but doesn’t move right away. He just stands there staring at the screen while it slowly darkens. I hesitate at the edge of the path, unsure whether to step forward or retreat. Whatever he’s just learned has shifted something fundamental in his world. For the first time in days, I wonder if it’s a sign that things are finally turning another head.
When he turns, he glances forward and catches me standing there, stilling immediately. For a long moment, we just stare at each other across the stone path. The fountain murmurs softly nearby, the leaves overhead rustling with the breeze, but none of it seems real compared to the weight settling in my chest.
