Chapter 67 Loving somebody is not stupidity

Chapter 67 Loving somebody is not stupidity
Lucia’s POV

My eyes remain fixed on him. Not because I’m waiting. Because I’m afraid if I look away, he’ll change his mind.

People like Dante do not speak about themselves unwillingly or without purpose. 

And yet tonight, pieces of him have fallen at my feet one after another, and I do not know whether to hold them gently or pretend I never saw them.

His jaw shifts once. Then settles.

“My brother’s name was Matteo.”

The sentence is simple. Like saying his name costs less than remembering him.

I stay quiet.

Dante’s gaze drifts somewhere over my shoulder. Not at me. Past me. Years behind me.

“When we were children, people used to think we were inseparable.” His mouth twitches faintly. 

Not a smile. Memory. “My mother hated it when we fought because it never lasted. One minute, we wanted to kill each other. The next, we were stealing from the kitchen together.”

I blink.

Because for a second, for one strange second— I can almost picture Dante as a boy.

And it feels wrong in an unfamiliar way.

“He was louder than me,” Dante continues after a while. “Always had something to say. My mother loved that.”

His expression softens briefly. Almost without permission.

“She loved loudly.”

The words leave him easier. I notice that. Talking about his mother costs him less.

“My father was different.” His eyes harden slightly. “Everything was discipline. Expectations. Training.”

His fingers tap once against his knee. “The older we got, the more obvious it became that one of us would inherit everything.”

I straighten slightly. Because now— Now I understand.

This isn’t only grief.

It’s legacy.

“La Cosa Nostra doesn’t survive on sentiment.” His voice lowers. “Eventually affection becomes usefulness.”

Something twists unpleasantly in my stomach. His gaze flicks toward me briefly before returning elsewhere.

“Matteo hated authority.” He pauses.

“I followed rules.” Another pause. “My father noticed.”

“At first it was small things.” Dante exhales through his nose. “Training. Meetings. Responsibilities.” His brows pull together slightly.

“Then people started comparing us.”

His tone changes. “Matteo noticed before I did.”

Silence. I don’t interrupt. I think he would stop if I did.

“He became angrier,” Dante says eventually. “Everything irritated him.”

His eyes lower to his hands. “Sometimes he would disappear for days.”

Another pause.

“Sometimes he would come back and refuse to speak to me.”

I swallow. Because this part sounds familiar.

Not mafia. Not power.

Family.

“My mother tried.” His mouth softens again.

“She forced dinners.” he takes a breath.

“Conversations.” Another.

“She prayed.”

The last one almost sounds bitter.

“Eventually she stopped trying.”

The sentence settles between us. Quietly devastating. I stare at him. At the man who always looks untouchable. And realise grief has lived in him much longer than I thought.

“When my father died…”

He stops. Corrects himself.

“No.”

His jaw tightens. “When my father started preparing me properly…”

There. That wording mattered.

“I think Matteo began hating me.”

I frown immediately. Not because of the statement. Because of how calm he says it. Like he made peace with it years ago. Or convinced himself he had.

“I was promoted within the organisation.”

His gaze remains distant. “He was becoming reckless. One day, my father gave an order.”

I freeze. Dante notices. Of course, he notices.

His eyes meet mine briefly. And for the first time tonight— There is warning in them.

Not for me. For the story.

“I had to exile him.” The words land hard. I inhale sharply before I can stop myself.

Dante’s expression doesn’t change. “He was causing problems.”

Another pause. “Dangerous ones.”

His hand closes loosely. Not enough to call it a fist. Enough that I notice.

“When I gave the order…” His throat shifts. “He looked at me and laughed.”

My chest tightens. “He asked if power mattered more than blood.”

Silence. I say nothing. Because something tells me this part still hurts.

Years later. Maybe more now. His eyes lower. And his next words come quieter.

“I didn’t answer him.” The room feels unbearably still. A clock ticks somewhere far away. Or maybe I imagine it.

Dante exhales slowly. “I should have.”

That hurts.

His gaze stays ahead. “I wasn’t the man who killed Matteo.”

The sentence comes firmly. Certain. No hesitation.

“But I think…” He stops. Brows tightening. Like the admission disgusts him.

“I think part of me buried him long before death did.”

My throat tightens instantly. Because guilt sounds different when it survives years.

His expression hardens again before softness lingers too long. “When my parents were killed…” he says eventually.

Everything inside me stills. “Something ended.”

His voice loses warmth. Completely.

“The version of me capable of waiting died too.”

I stare. Breathing carefully.

“People call me Il Serpente Nero like monsters are born.” A faint humourless smile appears. “They aren’t.”

His eyes finally meet mine fully.

“People hurt boys.”

The sentence settles somewhere deep. Too deep.

And suddenly I understand something terrifying.

Dante was not created by cruelty alone. He was built by loss. And expected to survive it.

Silence stretches between us. Then his gaze drops to my hands.

Still twisted together. Always twisted when I’m thinking too much.

His expression shifts slightly. “You don’t have to say anything.”

His voice is quiet now. I blink. Because he thinks I’m overwhelmed. Maybe I am. But not in the way he assumes.

I look down at my fingers. Then back up.

He gave me something ugly. Something human.

And maybe… Maybe truth deserves truth.

My throat tightens.

“Nico was my first love.”

The words leave before I can reconsider.

Dante goes still.

Not angry.

Not surprised.

Still.

I force myself to continue.

Because stopping now would be worse.

“I thought I knew him.”

A breath.

I stare somewhere near his shoulder.

Not his eyes.

“I was wrong.”

And for the first time in years—

Saying it hurts.

“Nico was my first love.”

Dante doesn’t react immediately. His expression doesn’t change. But I notice his shoulders still.

I look down at my hands before continuing.

“He was… everything for a while.”

My throat tightens. Not because I still love Nico. But because I don’t know what I feel.

Not after everything. Not after learning that memories can be manufactured too.

“I thought I was going to marry him.”

Dante says nothing. I am beginning to realise silence is sometimes his way of making room.

And maybe— Maybe I need room. So I keep talking.

“He proposed.”

The image flashes in my head immediately. A ring.

“I said yes.” I stare at the floor.

“At some point… I started planning my life around him.” The confession tastes embarrassing.

Not because loving somebody is embarrassing. Because I was wrong.

I inhale slowly. Then:

“Now he’s back…” My fingers twist together. “…he told me someone hired him.”

I don’t need to look at Dante to know his attention sharpened. So I continue before courage disappears.

“He said meeting me wasn't a coincidence.”

My voice lowers. “That dating me wasn’t either.”

My throat burns suddenly, but I ignore it. “He had instructions.”

The last word almost breaks. Almost. I swallow before it can.

“When I asked him if any of it was real…”

My chest tightens. “He said he wasn’t supposed to feel anything.”

The sentence hangs there. And for the first time since I started—

Dante speaks.

His voice comes low.

Controlled.

Dangerously calm.

“Who hired him?”

Straight to the centre. I blink once. Because, of course, Dante would ask that.

I shake my head slightly. “He didn’t tell me.”

Dante goes quiet again. Thinking.

I look away first.

“…I loved him.”

Dante’s expression remains unreadable.

Then his jaw shifts once. His next words come quieter.

“Loving somebody is not stupidity, Lucia.”

I freeze. Because I wasn’t expecting comfort. Especially not from him.

His gaze stays on mine. “Trusting the wrong person does not make you foolish.”

The room stills again. God.

He keeps doing that. Saying things carefully enough, they reach places anger never could.

I stare. Because I do not know what to do with a version of Dante that sounds understanding.

Then his expression hardens slightly. Not toward me. Toward something else.

Someone else.

“Nico kept approaching you after revealing this?”

The question sounds casual.

It isn’t. I hear the steel underneath.

“…Yes.”

I realise too late that this conversation is no longer only about my hurt.

Dante’s eyes lower briefly. Then return to me.

And his voice comes calm. “The next time he speaks to you alone…”

A pause. “I want to know.”

I stare at him.

And for the first time tonight, I cannot tell whether Dante is speaking as my husband…

Or as Don Vitale.