Chapter 57 The Aftermath

Chapter 57 The Aftermath
Jasmine:

Outside the window the ocean was a flat grey, not beautiful, just cold. I sat at the small kitchen table with a cooling mug of coffee between my hands and watched the waves hit the shore. Three days had passed since New York, three days since blood soaked Nikolai’s shirt, three days since Pietro and Valentina showed their faces and the truth, three days since my life fell apart.

The little house Dante had rented sat on a quiet stretch of coast, several hours from the city. There were no guards, no soldiers, no servants moving through halls. No one called me Godmother, Elena Vorn, or Jasmine. The silence felt louder than gunfire. 

When Dante came into the kitchen carrying a paper bag, with his hair damp from the morning rain, he set a box of pastries on the table without a word. “You haven’t eaten,” he said, and I looked down at my coffee. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“You said that yesterday. And the day before.” He sighed; worry showed in the tight line at his mouth, and I knew he was trying to hold himself together for both of us. I could not find the energy to care.

My thoughts stayed back in that ballroom in New York, with a man bleeding in my arms. Dante sat across from me and for a long time we said nothing; the silence between us had shifted after the shooting, awkward and careful, as if we were both pretending nothing had happened. I hated that, and I hated myself even more. 

The memory twisted my stomach: the kiss, the way I had whispered the wrong name, the look on Dante’s face. 

“You should rest,” Dante suggested, kindly.

I forced my eyes open. “I’m fine,” 

“No, you’re not,” he answered too quickly, and I looked away. 

Outside the waves kept crashing. “I’ll survive,” I said, and I saw pain cross his face before he hid it. He wasn’t worried about my body; he was worried about my heart, and there was nothing he could do for that.

Dante left for a few hours, supplies, checking contacts, and I wandered the empty house alone. It felt strange not to be watched. No cameras, no guards, no Nikolai. For months I had fought him, argued with him, complained until I was raw, and now the silence he left felt wrong, as if something crucial had been ripped away. 

I turned on the television; the news was background noise until a segment about New York made me sit up. It mentioned a disturbance at a private event, no names, no deaths, no mention of Nikolai. My pulse sped. If Nikolai were dead, the underworld would be alight with gossip and danger; someone would be talking, someone would be calling. The report ended and moved on. Nothing. I turned the volume up, then shut the TV off. I would not let myself hope, hope hurt people.

Dante returned with groceries and saw the blank look on my face. “What happened?” he asked, already reading me. 

I forced the question out. “Have you heard anything?” 

He froze for a beat and then said, “About him?” 

I hated that he knew. “No,” I said, wanting it to be a lie. He put the bags down and moved closer. 

“There are things you need to consider,” he said. 

I laughed, bitter. “I’ve had plenty of time to think.” 

“Then think harder,” he said, his voice brittle. He rarely raised his voice, and the edge surprised me. He rubbed his face and finally sat. “I don’t think Lucien’s death was the end of the plan,” he said. 

I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?” 

Dante leaned forward. “I think Pietro wanted more than leadership,” he said. “He wanted complete control.”

“Obviously,” I said, but Dante shook his head. 

“Not just the title. Everyone who could challenge him.” The words hung between us: my father, me, and maybe even Nikolai. I asked why Pietro would care about Nikolai. Dante said Pietro might not have cared about him personally, but he would care about the war Nikolai represented. War creates chaos; chaos creates opportunity; opportunity creates power. The idea that this had started long before my father’s death made my stomach drop. If Dante was right, Pietro had not simply reacted, he had planned, patiently and carefully, shaping events until they served him.

Later that night I could not sleep. I left the house after midnight and walked the empty beach. The wind was sharp and the ocean stretched endlessly. I stood there for a long time, thinking and remembering: the Moretti estate, the gardens, the piano in the hall, the long table where we took breakfast, the sound of his laugh and the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. A raw ache widened in my chest; I pressed my hand against it as if I could stop the pain. I still loved him, despite the lies, despite the blood, despite everything. Tears filled my eyes and the sea blurred. Then, I whispered into the wind, “Please be alive,” and the words blew away.

When I came back, a light stayed on and Dante sat in the living room waiting. We did not need words; when our eyes met something shifted between us, not anger, not understanding, but acceptance. He did not know what I had said on the beach, he did not know who I had been thinking about, and yet he felt it all. I saw resignation in his expression. He had saved me, protected me, given up everything for me, and still my heart belonged to someone else. The thought of that hurt him, and it hurt me too.