Chapter 5 - The Restoration of Grace
Two days later.
The dark, suffocating cloud that had hung over the Moretti estate for three years had completely cleared.
The morning sun poured bright and warm through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master wing, illuminating the broad, sunlit gardens outside. The heavy security teams had been reduced to a quiet, discreet presence, and the dark tension of the syndicate had been replaced by the soft sound of children's laughter.
Out on the green lawn, three-year-old Leo was running freely in denim overalls, kicking a bright red soccer ball across the grass.
Chasing after him, laughing heartily, was Marco—the heavy-set mafia lieutenant who had spent ten years as Dante's chief enforcer, now acting as an overly enthusiastic soccer goalie for a toddler.
I sat on a white wrought-iron bench on the stone terrace, holding a warm cup of coffee, wearing a soft cream wool sweater.
Dante stepped out onto the terrace from the French doors, wearing casual dark trousers and a soft gray linen shirt, carrying two fresh pastries on a plate.
He set the plate down on the glass table and sat beside me, wrapping his broad arm around my shoulders, pulling me gently against his side.
I leaned my head against his chest, listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart.
"He's fast," Dante smiled, watching Leo kick the ball past Marco's hands into the small net. "He gets that from you. I was always terrible at sports as a kid."
"He gets his stubbornness from you," I teased softly, looking up into his dark, handsome face. "He refused to eat his broccoli this morning until Mia cut it into dinosaur shapes."
Dante laughed—a rich, deep, joyful sound that I hadn't heard in eleven years.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, navy velvet box.
My heart did a sweet, breathless flutter.
Dante took my right hand in his, holding the small velvet box between us. He didn't look away. His gray eyes were clear, bright, and filled with a profound, unshakeable devotion that made tears gather in my lashes.
"Eight years ago, Elena," Dante spoke softly, his voice rich with emotion, "I told you I couldn't marry you. I let fear, debt, and the dark rules of my father's world keep me from giving you the promise you deserved."
He opened the velvet box.
Inside sat an exquisite ring—a flawless, emerald-cut diamond set in a simple, elegant platinum band, sparkling brilliantly under the morning sun.
"There are no debts left, Elena," Dante whispered, looking straight into my eyes. "There are no secrets. There are no shields. There is only me, completely yours, for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?"
Tears spilled over my cheeks—not tears of heartbreak or grief, but tears of pure, soaring joy.
"Yes," I whispered, my voice breaking with happiness. "Yes, Dante. A thousand times, yes."
Dante slid the platinum ring onto my finger, pulling me into his arms, kissing my lips with a fierce, tender passion that erased every cold night I had ever spent alone in Switzerland.
From the lawn below, little Leo cheered loudly, kicking his soccer ball straight into Marco's knee, shouting:
May you like
"Look, Mommy! I scored a goal!"
Dante and I broke apart, laughing through our tears, holding each other tight under the warm Chicago sun.
