Chapter 9 - The Pastina
Three weeks later. Spring had finally begun to thaw the freezing streets of New York. The heavy sleet of February was a distant memory, replaced by the warm, golden afternoon sun filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Dante’s penthouse overlooking the Hudson River. Sophia stood in the massive, state-of-the-art kitchen. She was wearing one of Dante’s oversized dress shirts, her hair tied up in a messy bun. The stove was on. A pot of rich chicken broth was simmering. She poured in a cup of tiny, star-shaped pasta. Footsteps padded softly against the hardwood floor. Two strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind, and Dante pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Sophia scolded lightly, though she leaned back into his embrace, her heart swelling. “I’ve been in bed for three weeks, Sophia. If I look at the ceiling anymore, I’ll lose my mind,” Dante murmured, resting his chin on her shoulder. He moved a little slower than before, wincing slightly as he shifted his weight, but the color had returned to his face. “Your mother will kill me if you tear your stitches,” Sophia warned, stirring the soup. “My mother likes you more than she likes me,” Dante chuckled. “She told me this morning that if I don’t put a ring on your finger by Christmas, she’s writing me out of the will.” Sophia smiled, turning off the burner. The last three weeks had changed everything. The Moretti family name had been cleared of the financial scandals Vanessa had threatened them with. Dante had legally transferred the dangerous aspects of the family business to a legitimate corporate structure, stepping away from the violence that had defined his father’s reign. Anthony Rossi was two weeks into a luxury rehabilitation center in upstate New York, calling Sophia every Sunday, sounding more like the father she remembered from her childhood. Sophia poured the pastina into two bowls, adding a generous grating of fresh Parmesan cheese. She carried them to the small dining table by the window. Dante pulled out her chair for her before sitting down himself. He looked at the soup, then up at Sophia, his dark eyes filled with a profound, quiet peace. “You know,” Dante said softly, reaching across the table to take her hand. “The night you walked up to Table Nine, I thought you were terrified of me.” “I was,” Sophia admitted, tracing her thumb over the dark ink of his tattoos. “And now?” Sophia looked at the man who had bought her father’s life, protected her from a monster, and taken a bullet to save her family. He was no longer the terrifying mobster in the tailored suit. He was just Dante. “Now,” Sophia smiled, squeezing his hand tight, “I’m just hungry.” Dante let out a rich, genuine laugh—a sound that filled the sunlit room and erased the last shadows of the winter. He picked up his spoon and took a bite of the soup. “It’s good,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But I think it needs more salt.” Sophia picked up a dinner roll and threw it perfectly, hitting him squarely in the chest. Dante caught the bread, laughing harder. Outside, the city rushed on, loud and chaotic. But inside the penthouse, sitting across from the man she loved, Sophia Rossi finally felt exactly where she belonged. Safe. Loved. And home.
