Chapter 29 Chapter 29

Chapter 29 Chapter 29
Lily
The apartment feels too quiet.
After spending the night at the villa with Dante—waking up to birdsong, morning sunlight slipping through linen curtains, and his warmth beside me—coming back here feels… cold. The penthouse is as beautiful as ever, but empty in all the ways that matter.
I drop my purse on the console table and step out of my shoes. My hand brushes the hem of the grey summer dress I wore yesterday, still clinging to the scent of rain and citrus. My skin still tingles from his touch, from the way he looked at me—not just like a man who wanted me, but like someone who saw me.
Truly saw me.
I press my fingers to my lips, still remembering how he kissed my forehead that morning. He didn’t have to, but he did. Dante always does the little things that make my chest ache. Not because they hurt—but because they remind me I can feel again.
A soft knock on the door pulls me out of my thoughts.
I open it and there she is—Bella.
She stands with a soft smile, wearing a cream blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans. Her hair is tied back loosely, and in her hands is a brown box tied with a pale ribbon.
“I brought pastries,” she says. “Thought you could use some sweetness.”
I blink, then smile despite everything. “You always know when I need comfort carbs.”
She steps inside, and we settle onto the couch. She places the box on the coffee table and opens it—an assortment of flaky croissants, chocolate-filled Danish, pistachio tarts. It smells like heaven.
“So…” she starts carefully, “how was it? The villa?”
I exhale, tugging my legs up under me.
“It was beautiful,” I say, almost dreamily. “Like being in a different world. The rain trapped us overnight, so we stayed there. There was a private pool, a garden, even the silence felt healing. I watched it rain from the window and for the first time in months, I wasn’t thinking about grief or danger or what comes next.”
She watches me with kind eyes, and I continue.
“And Dante… he was—” I pause, smiling to myself. “He was just there. Protective. Playful. Soft in ways I didn’t expect. It’s like the world we came from didn’t follow us there.”
“Did you sleep with him?” she asks gently, not judging—just asking.
I shake my head. “No… I mean, yes, we shared a bed, but we didn’t do anything. We just… existed next to each other. And that alone felt intimate enough.”
Bella smiles faintly, like she’s glad for me, even with all the history tangled between us. I pick up a croissant, pulling a piece apart.
My phone buzzes.
Dante.
“Heading to the store. Gonna cook dinner tonight for you and your guest. The godfather will join us too. Don’t stress about anything. Just relax until I’m there. – D.”
I read the message twice, warmth spreading through my chest. There’s something reassuring about knowing he’s out there thinking of me. It’s not grand gestures—it’s moments like this.
“Dante’s cooking tonight,” I tell Bella, smiling.
“Ooh,” she grins. “Lucky you.”
“Yeah. The godfather will be here too.”
Her expression shifts—she stiffens just a little. Understandable. Being in the presence of the godfather can feel like standing in a lion’s den, even if he’s always been gentle with me.
“Well, that means I should probably leave before dinner,” Bella says, brushing crumbs from her lap. “But for now, I’m here—and you can tell me everything, even the parts you’re scared to say aloud.”
I look at her—really look at her—and I’m grateful. For her presence. For her patience. For the pastries and quiet company.
I lean back into the couch, pull the throw blanket over my lap, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself talk. Not as the girl who lost too much. Not as Sebastian’s widow. But as Lily. A woman trying to live again.
And tonight, with Dante and the godfather, I’ll sit at a dinner table not just as someone broken—but maybe… maybe as someone healing.
LILY’S POV – Dinner with Dante & the Godfather
By the time the sun begins to slip behind the skyline, a golden wash pools through the kitchen windows. The penthouse feels warmer than usual, glowing in a soft hush of twilight—and maybe it’s not just the weather.
Maybe it’s because Dante’s here.
He comes in early, a brown paper bag tucked under one arm and a fresh sprig of basil sticking out from the top. His sleeves are rolled up, veins visible on his forearms, and there’s a quiet spark of mischief in his eyes as he drops the groceries on the counter.
“No takeout tonight?” I tease, leaning against the marble island.
“I’m cooking,” he says with a proud little smirk. “From scratch. You better be hungry.”
“I’m starving.”
He grins and tosses me an apron. “Just watch. Don’t touch.”
I laugh and settle on the barstool across from him, chin resting in my hand as he gets to work. I’ve never seen a man like him cook. He moves with purpose and ease—grating fresh parmesan, cracking eggs, mixing flour right on the counter to make pasta dough from nothing but instinct and tradition.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask, honestly fascinated.
Dante glances up briefly, brushing flour off his hands. “My mother died when I was little. We brothers had to manage ourselves after that. Cooking became survival. Then… comfort.”
I watch him roll out the dough with slow, practiced strokes, the muscles in his arms flexing under his shirt. “Sebastian used to cook too,” I say softly. “But he was chaotic in the kitchen. You’re more... poetic.”
He chuckles lowly and steps around the island to grab a pan, passing by me close enough that I catch his scent—cologne and rosemary and something warm. He leans in without warning and presses a kiss to my cheek, slow and lingering.
My breath hitches.
He doesn’t say anything. Just goes back to sautéing garlic like nothing happened.
But my skin’s buzzing.
The smell of browned butter, fresh herbs, and simmering tomato fills the room as he works. I sip wine and watch him toss the pasta into the pan, flicking it expertly, sauce clinging to the ribbons of fettuccine.
“You’re full of surprises,” I murmur.
He glances over his shoulder with a raised brow. “You haven’t seen anything yet, sunshine.”
I bite my lip at the tone.
As he plates the food, he comes closer, his fingers brushing my wrist as he sets a dish in front of me. His touch lingers—a few seconds too long, enough to send shivers down my spine. When I look up, he’s already watching me. His eyes darken for a moment, just a flicker, like he’s debating something.
But then, the doorbell rings.
The godfather arrives in a long dark coat, looking like royalty and command wrapped into one. I stand politely, and Dante greets him with a respectful nod.
Dinner is quiet at first, filled with soft clinking of silverware and casual praise for the food. Then the godfather looks at me directly.
“I have something to discuss with you, Lily,” he says in his deep, unwavering voice.
I straighten. “Yes?”
“Dante has to leave for important work in Sicily. The men there need him. And I’m asking you to go with him. Consider it a vacation—some time away. It will be good for your healing… and a chance to connect with our Italian roots. You can learn about the culture, the land. Find yourself again.”
My eyes widen, lips already tugging upward. “That would be great!” I grin, genuinely. The idea of Italy stirs something exciting in me—a flicker of adventure, of escape.
I glance toward Dante, and he’s gawking at me, happy and maybe a little stunned. Like he didn’t expect me to say yes so easily.
The godfather stays a little longer, sharing some updates and old stories. I listen, nodding when needed, but my mind is already painting scenes of Sicily—of markets and villas and sun-drenched hills. When he leaves, the apartment returns to a soft hush again.
Dante and I move around the kitchen, clearing the dishes together.
“Italy with you,” I tease, bumping my hip into his.
“That will be amazing.” He dries a plate, then pulls me toward him with one hand around my waist. “You wanted to escape this morning… see, God heard you.”
I smile up at him, and he looks at me like I’m all the light in the room.
His palm moves from my waist to my back, guiding me into him. I don’t resist.
My hands are wet from rinsing, but I place them on his chest anyway. His shirt soaks a little, but he doesn’t care. He just looks down at me.
“This morning,” he murmurs, his voice raspier now, “when you walked around in that damn dress… I nearly lost my mind.”
“Why didn’t you do anything?”
“Because you were vulnerable. And I don’t want to be the reason you feel broken again.”
“I don’t feel broken with you,” I whisper. “I feel… human again.”
His gaze drops to my lips.
And this time, when he kisses me—it’s not soft. It’s deep and needy. His mouth claims mine with a hunger he’s been holding back for far too long. My back hits the counter and his hand slides up my thigh, gripping the hem of my dress.
“I’ve been trying to behave,” he growls against my lips. “But you make it impossible.”
“Then stop trying,” I whisper, pulling him closer.
He lifts me effortlessly onto the counter, his hands warm against my skin. The cool marble beneath me, the warmth of his body, the faint taste of wine still on my lips—it’s dizzying. His mouth moves to my neck, trailing fire with each kiss. My fingers tangle in his dark hair.
“Are you sure?” he murmurs between kisses.
“I wouldn’t stop you if I wasn’t.”
And just like that, we forget the plates in the sink, the world outside this penthouse, and all the ghosts we carry.