Chapter 20 A life
The SUV rolled to a stop in the underground garage beneath the brownstone. No fanfare. No welcoming lights. Just the low hum of the engine dying and the soft click of doors unlocking.
Dante helped me out—arm around my waist, careful not to press on the bruises blooming across my ribs. My legs still felt like they belonged to someone else, but I walked. I wasn’t going to be carried. Not tonight.
Marco and the driver stayed behind to sweep the perimeter. Dante led me up the private elevator in silence. The doors opened straight into the living room—same dark wood floors, same leather couch where we’d finally crossed every line a few nights ago. The air smelled like him: smoke, leather, the faint trace of gun oil. Home.
I stopped in the doorway. Looked around.
No Sophia.
No trace of her. No coat on the rack, no heels kicked off by the door, no perfume lingering like poison.
Dante noticed me looking.
“She’s gone,” he said quietly. “I chased her out the morning after you disappeared. The second I saw the burner text on your phone—her number, the photo she sent—I knew. I threw her shit in the street and told her if she ever came near this building again, I’d make sure she disappeared for good.”
I nodded slowly. Didn’t say anything.
He stepped closer. Brushed a strand of hair from my face—gentle, testing.
“You want to talk about her?” he asked, voice low. “I can tell you every lie she fed you. Show you the timestamps on the security feed—proof she doctored that photo. Or I can just say she’s nothing. Never was. And leave it.”
I looked up at him. His lip was still split, blood dried in the corner. Eyes searching mine like he was afraid I’d bolt again.
I reached up. Touched the cut on his mouth with my thumb.
“I don’t want to talk about her,” I said. “Not tonight. Not ever again.”
He exhaled. Nodded once.
“Good.”
Then he tried—light, almost playful—to lighten it.
“She was always jealous, you know. Used to complain that I looked at you different. Guess she was right.”
I pulled my hand back. Stepped away.
“Don’t.”
He froze.
“Don’t joke about it,” I said. “Don’t play like it was funny or small. She almost got you killed. She almost got me killed. I ran because I believed her. Because I thought—” My voice cracked. “I thought you’d chosen power over me. Over us.”
Dante’s face went still. Serious.
“I didn’t.”
“I know that now.” I met his eyes. “I trust you. I always have. Even when I was stupid enough to doubt it. But I don’t want her name in this house. I don’t want games about her. She’s gone. Let her stay gone.”
He studied me for a long second.
Then he stepped forward. Cupped my face with both hands—careful of the bruises.
“Okay,” he said softly. “She’s gone. End of story.”
I leaned into his touch. Closed my eyes.
He kissed my forehead. Lingered there.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led me to the master bathroom. The lights were soft, warm—not the harsh fluorescents of the warehouse. He sat me on the edge of the tub. Ran warm water. Grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink—same one he’d used on me when I was sixteen and scraped my knee climbing the fence at the old estate.
He knelt in front of me. Started with my face.
Gentle dabs with antiseptic. His fingers were steady, but I saw the way his jaw clenched every time he uncovered a new bruise. The split lip. The purple bloom under my eye. The finger marks on my throat.
“Fuck,” he whispered once. Barely audible.
I caught his wrist.
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not.” His voice was rough. “But you will be.”
He cleaned every cut. Applied ointment. Wrapped the worst of the rope burns on my wrists in gauze. When he finished my face, he helped me stand. Turned me so I could see my back in the mirror—more bruises, dark and ugly across my ribs.
He didn’t say anything. Just kept working. Slow. Methodical. Like touching me was the only thing keeping him grounded.
When he was done, he wrapped me in one of his robes—soft, oversized, smelling like him. Led me to the bedroom.
We didn’t speak much.
He helped me under the covers. Slid in beside me. Pulled me against his chest—careful, always careful.
I rested my head over his heart. Listened to the steady thump.
“Dante,” I said after a while.
“Yeah?”
“I can’t stay here.”
He went still.
“Not in Italy,” I continued. “Not in this life. Not waiting in this house for you to come home every night wondering if you’ll make it. I went to college for four years. Wasted it, maybe, hiding from all this. But my father—he sent me to school because he wanted me to be something. Not just Antonio Caruso’s daughter. Not just your… whatever I am. He wanted me to build something real. A life. A career. Out there. Not locked away.”
Dante’s arm tightened around me.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“I have to go,” I whispered. “ASAP. Like tomorrow. The States. Somewhere safe. Somewhere I can work. Use the degree. Be normal. Or as normal as I can get.”
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he exhaled.
“I’ve already started arranging it,” he said.
I lifted my head.
He looked down at me. Eyes steady.
“Private flight out tomorrow morning. New identity ready—clean, no ties back here. Apartment in New York. Security in place, but discreet. You’ll have accounts set up. Enough to start over. Job leads if you want them. You won’t be waiting on me. You’ll be living.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
“You planned this too?”
“I planned for every possibility the second you went missing.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “Including the one where you wanted out. Where you wanted to breathe without looking over your shoulder.”
I swallowed hard.
“And you?” I asked.
“I stay,” he said. “Finish what rossi started. Make sure he never comes for you again. Then… maybe I follow. When it’s safe. If you’ll have me.”
I cupped his face.
“I’ll always have you.”
He kissed me then—slow, careful, mindful of the split lip. Not hungry like before. Just… present. Reassuring.
We lay there after. Tangled. Quiet.
His hand moved down my back—light strokes over the robe, tracing the bruises without pressing.
“You need rest,” he murmured.
“I need you,” I answered.
He smiled against my hair.
“You’ve got me.”
He shifted. Pulled the covers higher. Held me close.
Tomorrow we’d leave.
Tomorrow I’d start over.
But tonight—tonight was ours.
No warehouse. No guns. No lies.
Just us.
Breathing.
Healing.
Together.