Chapter 90 - The Words Slipped Out

Chapter 90 - The Words Slipped Out
Lucia’s POV

Three days.

That’s how long it took to undo the web of lies someone had meticulously crafted to destroy Dante.

Three sleepless, gut-wrenching days of pushing through sealed records, frozen accounts, and silent phones. But Lucas had been right, he told me what they’d done to Dante and I knew in my bones this wasn’t justice. It was sabotage. A setup. And I couldn’t watch him drown.

I hadn’t just brought a lawyer to that precinct, I’d brought firepower. The kind that worked in shadows and thrived on leverage. The kind that knew how to pry open vaults and bend the rules without breaking them. Men like Dante didn’t get saved by rules. They got saved by people willing to bleed for them.

And I was one of those people.

No matter how much I tried to pretend otherwise.

By the end of the third day, the financial irregularities were debunked. The digital trail leading to Dante’s accounts had been traced back to a shell company tied to a name we both knew far too well: Gabriel Rucci.

The press didn’t apologize, of course. They never do. But the court quietly dropped all charges. One by one, the walls came down. And Dante Romano walked out of that station without cuffs.

I was waiting for him.

He didn’t smile at first. But when our eyes met, something shifted between us. It was quiet, intense, and heavy, like we were on the edge of something we couldn’t quite explain.

“I owe you,” he said, voice low.

“You don’t owe me anything,” I said. “It was the right thing to do.”

He studied me for a long moment, like he was trying to read what I wasn’t saying. Then his voice dropped, calm and certain.

“Come work for me, Lucia.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“You did more than just save me. You saved my empire from going under. I need someone like you on my team—someone I can trust to clean up the mess.”

I froze.

A hundred questions clawed at my mind.

He killed my sister. My mother. And now he was offering me a place in his bloody empire like it was some kind of dream promotion.

I looked at him. The man who haunted my nights. The man who’d broken me in every way that counted.

“I…” My voice faltered.

I wanted to be done with him. Truly. But something in me always turned back—heart, body, soul.

“I’ll think about it,” I whispered

He nodded. “That’s all I ask.”

But as I watched him walk away, something in me twisted painfully.

Because I wasn’t sure if I could work for him without falling all over again.

And I’d already done that once.

I needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t smell like him.

So I went to the hospital. Not like I had anywhere else to go.

I hadn’t left the hospital since the fire. Our house—what was left of it—was a charred skeleton behind yellow tape, and my father was nowhere near being discharged. The nurses brought me a cot after the third night. No one asked questions. Maybe they understood. Or maybe they just saw the grief clinging to me like smoke.

But as I reached the hallway outside his room, I saw him.

The fake journalist.

The same one who had gone sniffing around Dante’s cell like a vulture.

He was standing near the nurse’s station, trying to charm his way into restricted files. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

My blood went cold. What the hell did he want now? If he’d been working for Vincenzo or Gabriel, then his bosses were already rotting six feet under.

I walked straight to the front desk and asked to speak to hospital security.

By the time security arrived, I had already called the cops. I told them exactly what was going on—harassment, trespassing, and the false stories he’d been spreading about my father and Dante.

When they led him away, I said quietly, “This isn’t over. You’re going to answer for what you did.”

He spat something, but I didn’t care.

Because justice, no matter how late, felt like oxygen.

Back in my father’s room, the tension was immediate. He was awake when I walked in, blinking slowly at the window like he wasn’t sure if it was morning or night.

“Dad,” I said gently.

His head turned. “Lucia.” Relief softened his face for a moment. “You came.”

“I’m always here,” I whispered, sitting beside the bed.

He studied me like he was trying to remember something. Then his brows pulled together. “You eat today?”

I nodded, even though I hadn’t. “Yeah. You?”

“Hospital…food’s still terrible,” he muttered, then glanced at the IV. “They’re keeping me alive with—this stuff now, huh?”

There was a flicker of his old humor there, buried beneath the fog. I smiled faintly.

“I, uh…” I hesitated, unsure how to say it. “There’s something I should tell you.”

He watched me quietly, eyes sharpening for a brief second.

I swallowed. “Dante offered me a job.”

That clarity vanished. He blinked again, slower this time. “Dante… Dante Romano?”

“Yes.”

The change was immediate. His face tightened. His hands curled slightly at his sides.

“No,” he said sharply. “No, Lucia. Don’t. Don’t you go back to him.”

His voice had cracked, like the weight of remembering hurt more than the IV ever could.

“Dad—”

“You think he’s changed?” he rasped. “That man… he’s poison. He took your sister. He took your mother. And now he wants you?”

Tears stung the backs of my eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s always like that,” he snapped. Then, softer, “You think he won’t…break you? I see what it’s done to you. I might be sick…but I’m not blind.”

He was breathing hard, his eyes wide. He didn’t even seem to realize the machines were beeping faster.

I reached for his hand. “Okay. It’s okay. I just wanted to tell you.”

His gaze drifted again. He blinked at me like he was seeing me for the first time.

“You look like her,” he murmured. “Your mom. When she was scared but pretending not to be.”

My throat closed. I held his hand tighter.

“Don’t let him take you too,” he whispered.

I swallowed thickly. “You’ll have to forgive him one day, whether you like it or not—because…”

I stopped.

Because what?

Because I loved him?

Because I never stopped?

Because every time I looked at Dante, I felt like I was standing too close to a fire that could burn me alive and I didn’t want to move?

I wanted to scream. At my father. At myself. At this twisted love that no longer felt like love—just a hollow ache I kept feeding because it was the only proof I was still alive.

But I couldn’t say any of that.

Not to the man who’d already lost so much.

So I swallowed the words and changed the subject instead.

“I should get some air,” I said quietly.

He didn’t stop me.

I stepped out into the hallway, the air heavy with antiseptic and tension, and that’s when I saw him.

Dante.

Clean-shaven, his dark hair slicked back just enough to shine a little. His sharp jaw looked more defined. He wore a clean, fitted shirt that showed his broad shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing strong forearms. His eyes were calm but burning with a quiet fire—intense and hard to read, but impossible to look away from. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his brow furrowed like he’d been waiting too long.

Or maybe… listening too long.

“Were you eavesdropping?” I asked softly.

His jaw tightened. “No.”

“Dante.”

He sighed. “I was going to knock. Then I heard my name.”

He was too close. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—leather and danger—and feel the way my pulse jumped in my throat. I hated how much it still affected me….. how he could unravel me just by being this close. And looking this hot.

I looked away, heart pounding.

I hadn’t meant to say it yet. But somehow, the words slipped out before I could stop them.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” I said.