Page 91 of Married to the Ruthless Mafia Heir

"What was Salvador like with you?"

Dante paused, silent for a moment. "He was strict. When I was little, he taught me to shoot. If I missed, I got punished.When other kids played, I practiced shooting, studied ledgers, learned how to survive in this manor."

"He never held you?"

"Never." Dante's voice was flat. "He'd just stand far away and watch me. Then he'd say, 'Dante, you need to become someone worthy of the Moretti name.'"

My chest tightened hearing this.

I pulled Jenny closer. "But now you can hold your daughter."

Dante looked down at Jenny's sleeping face. For a long, long time, he finally said, "Yes."

"I'll hold her well," he said, voice rough. "Give her everything I never had."

"If Salvador were still here today..." He suddenly spoke. "Seeing Jenny. I wonder what his face would look like."

I listened quietly, not interrupting.

"He was hard his whole life. Never said things the easy way." Dante's voice was soft. "But if he were here, seeing his granddaughter, he'd probably secretly have people send over the best of everything. Then he'd say with a straight face, 'Not bad.'"

I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I squeezed his hand. "He would have."

Dante turned to look at me. He nodded. Said nothing more.

Maggie moved into the manor too, in the room next to the nursery. She said she came to help with her granddaughter, but I knew—she wanted to be close to me. When I worked as a maid in the manor alone, she always worried I'd be wronged. Now she could finally watch over me every day. Watch over her little granddaughter.

During the day, while I sketched designs, Maggie took Jenny to the garden for sun. The warm light fell on them. Little Jenny lay in her stroller while Maggie sat in a nearby chair, wearing reading glasses, hemming my garments.

I bent over my work, focused on my sketch. On the page—a little baby dress. I planned to make it for Jenny myself.

My daughter deserved the most thoughtful design in the world.

Three years later.Autumn. New York.

The brand "Jenny" had become one of America's hottest new independent bridal labels. Custom orders were backed up two years.

And today was Jenny's first fashion show.

The night before, I sat in my studio staring at the final piece hanging on the wall—the finale gown—checking every pearl on it over and over. I'd checked it countless times already, but my hands still trembled.

Footsteps behind me. A pair of large hands settled on my shoulders, pressing gently.

"Nervous?" Dante's voice came from above.

"A little," I admitted. "This is the brand's first show. I can't mess it up."

"You never mess up." Dante sat beside me, looking at me. "Three years ago, when you walked into our wedding in the dress you made, pregnant, I watched you from below. I knew then—you'd succeed at anything."

"This is different." I looked down, fingers twisting together. "That was our wedding. Everyone there knew us. Tomorrow, it's all of New York watching."

Dante took my hand, wrapping it in his palm. "So what? All of New York is just there to witness how good you are."

I looked up at him and suddenly laughed. "When did you get so smooth?"

"Always have been." Completely serious. "Just never had anyone worth saying it to before."

I relaxed a bit, standing up to look one last time at the finale gown. "Let's go home. Sleep. Tomorrow's a battle."