My father.
He turns at the sound of the door opening.
He’s thinner than I remember, his shoulders narrower than the once-broad frame that used to make him seem invincible, pared down by the years and whatever toll hiding took on him. His once-dark hair is threaded heavily with silver at the temples and along the sides, catching the low lighting like frost.
The suit he wears is simple, well-tailored but not ostentatious. It’s the same quiet charcoal grey he always favored when I was a child, the kind that let a man like him move through crowds without drawing attention. His left hand rests lightly on the head of a polished ebony cane, the grip worn smooth from use.
When our eyes meet, the years fall away in a single heartbeat.
“Elena,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Tears burn behind my eyes so fast, I can’t stop them. “Papa…”
I’m already moving, crossing the thick Persian rug on unsteady legs before he can step away from the windows. My bare feetsink into the weave as my heart slams against my ribs hard enough that I feel it in my throat. He meets me in the middle, arms held out, cane clutched in one as he shifts his weight to his better side.
I crash into him the way I always used to when I was little, pressing my face into his chest, arms wrapping around his waist as though I can hold him here with me so he never disappears again. He’s smaller than memory painted him but the scent is the same—old books, faint cigar smoke he never quite gave up, and something clean that reminds me of home.
He wraps his arms around me and hugs me tight. One hand cradles the back of my head, the other settles between my shoulder blades. He rocks me gently, though the movement is stiffer now, his cheek pressed to the top of my hair the way he used to when thunderstorms rolled in off the coast and I crawled into his lap convinced the sky was falling apart.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I whisper. I pull back just enough to look at him.
Wrinkles mar the corners of his eyes now—deep crow’s feet that weren’t there the last time I saw him—and there’s a faint tremor in his hand when he lifts it to cup my face, the other reaching down to settle on his cane again. But the smile he gives me is the same one he used to flash when I’d sneak into his study late at night with a midnight snack.
“I heard about what happened with Cesare’s old circle. And the Bellanti mess.” His thumbs brush away the tears sliding down my cheeks. “It took me a while to find you. I had to be certain no one was still hunting us.”
I smile. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
His eyes drop to the swell, widening slightly. His hand moves until his palm rests feather-light over the spot just below my navel. A soft kick answers almost immediately, as though our daughter recognizes him too.
His breath hitches. “How far along?”
I rest a hand over his, patting it gently. “Twenty-two weeks. Our second, actually. You’re already a grandpa to a little boy.”
A tear slips free and tracks down the side of his face. “Oh, how wonderful, Elena. Though, I hope the boy isn’t too stubborn?”
“He’s just like his mother,” Dante says from the doorway.
My father looks up, meeting Dante’s gaze over my shoulder. For a long moment, there is only silence between them. When he finally speaks again, he does so with a slight incline of his head.
“I have come to ask for you to grant me mercy. I… there is a lot that happened back then. And I?—”
Dante holds up his hand, silencing my father immediately. “I know. Elena found your ledger.”
His eyes snap back to mine. “You did?”
I nod, pulling my father into another tight hug before letting him go again. “You saved us, Papa. We were able to figure out what Enzo had done. That you weren’t a part of anything that happened.”
My father’s eyes shine brighter. “I never stopped trying to keep you safe. Even when I had to disappear so they wouldn’t use me to find you. Even when I had to let you believe I was gone forever.”
My throat tightens. “I know. You were trying to protect all of us. Including Matteo.”
“I failed him,” he says, voice cracking again.
“No.” I cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the silver at his temples. “You didn’t. You gave us the truth about what happened when he died. You gave Dante a chance to kill the real man who betrayed his family.”
He exhales slowly, like a weight he’s carried for years has finally begun to shift.
“I’d… like to stay,” he says, almost shyly. “Not to interfere with anything or reclaim my old position. Just… to be here. To know my grandson. And meet my other grandchild.” His hand settles gently over my belly again. “If you’ll allow it.”
