CH- 37

CH- 37
Dante’s POV

I wake to the scent of her—cypress and vanilla, salt and something darker, richer, curling around my senses like a memory I can’t shake.

A memory I never want to lose, though I know better than to hold on too tightly. Memories have a way of slipping through your fingers when you need them most.

The French doors are open wide, letting in the night’s cool breath. Pale linen curtains flutter like restless ghosts, their edges catching the faint glow of moonlight spilling over the floorboards.

Outside, the wind whispers through the olive trees below, their branches swaying softly, murmuring secrets I’m too tired—or too afraid—to chase.

The world feels suspended, balanced precariously between calm and chaos.

But it’s not the breeze that stirs me.

It’s her pacing.

At first, I don’t open my eyes. I just lie there, listening to the rhythm of her steps. Soft, deliberate, each one landing with the weight of unspoken words.

She pauses every few seconds, hesitating—as if she’s about to turn back, or walk away entirely.

Every pause hangs heavy in the air, charged with tension so thick it presses against my chest like a loaded trigger waiting to be pulled.

When I finally sit up, the sheets pooling at my waist, Isabella is standing in the doorway of the study.

Barefoot, wrapped in one of my shirts that hangs loose on her frame, the cuffs rolled up past her wrists.

Her hair is unbrushed, wild and tangled—not from sleep, but from hours spent tossing and turning, wrestling with thoughts she won’t share.

One hand is braced against the glass of the doorframe as she stares out across the garden, her silhouette sharp against the darkness beyond.

Her body is taut, coiled tight like a drawn bow, ready to snap.

The light from the hallway slices across her like moonlight across a blade, casting half her face in shadow while illuminating the other half in stark relief.

She looks ethereal. Untouchable. Like something caught between now and never—a fleeting moment I could reach for but might lose forever.

“You’re not sleeping,” I say, my voice low, almost swallowed by the hush of the room.

She flinches, just barely—her shoulders tensing before she forces herself to relax.

Turns slowly toward me, her movements measured, careful. As if she’s trying to hide how much this moment costs her.

Tries to smile, the corners of her mouth lifting faintly, tentatively.

And then failing.

“I met with the detective,” she says softly. “Niccolò Vieri.”

The name coils through my stomach like barbed wire. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.

“And?”

“He claims he knows where my father is. Or has something that could lead to him. Files. Records. Testimony.” Her jaw tightens. “But he wants something in return.”

Of course he does. No one in our world gives without strings.

I push up to my feet. “You didn’t take it.”

Her silence is brief—but it’s enough to freeze my blood.

“Tell me you didn’t, Isabella.”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just crosses the room slowly, her fingers brushing mine as she sits beside me on the old velvet sofa. Then she exhales, the sound brittle, hollowed out.
“No,” she says. “I didn’t take it.”

Relief breaks through me, sudden and sharp. I close my eyes. Grip her hand. “Good. You shouldn’t. That kind of man… he always comes back when it hurts the most.”
Isabella doesn’t argue. That’s what scares me most.

“He mentioned my mother,” she says. “He knew things. Names. Timelines. And he—” her voice drops lower “—he knew I was pregnant.”

That word detonates inside me.
I freeze.

“Pregnant? Wait, What! And you told him?”

“No. I didn’t say anything. He just… saw it. Like he was reading me.”

My pulse kicks into a run. My hand slides away from hers before she can read the storm building in me.

She hasn’t said those words aloud before. Not to me. This is how I find out—through a stranger. Through a man who weaponizes secrets for a living.

“You’re pregnant?” I ask quietly, trying to still the tremor in my voice.

She nods. Looks down at her hands.

“I wanted to wait,” she says. “To be sure. To have something soft in my hands when I told you, not just fear and bloodlines and a thousand things I can’t undo.”

She sounds like she’s apologizing. For carrying life in a world built on ruin.

I reach for her, then. Draw her into me. Press my forehead to hers.

“You think I’d be angry? Was that what you wanted to tell me?” I whisper.

“Yes it was and I think we’ve both lost too much to know how to hold something new,” she says.

I rest my palm over her stomach, so lightly I feel more air than skin. But even that touch feels like a vow.

“You already know what matters,” I say. “This baby. Us. Whatever your father was—whatever shadows he left behind—they don’t deserve your peace. They sure as hell don’t deserve our child’s.”

Her shoulders shake once, silent. But the tears don’t come. She’s always been stronger than fate allowed her to be.

“Vieri said he could expose truths. Make the past useful. But I don’t want to trade one kind of cage for another.”

“And you shouldn’t,” I say. “Let the ghosts rot. Let your father disappear into whatever pit he crawled out of. I don’t need his name carved into this life we’re building.”

She looks up at me then—eyes red, but fierce.

“I want to protect this child,” she says. “Even if that means closing doors I swore I’d rip off the hinges.”
I kiss her then. Not out of passion, but promise.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the olive branches against the terrace walls. The garden shudders. Inside, the air feels heavier, like the house itself is holding its breath.

“I’m with you,” I murmur against her temple. “No matter where this takes us.”

The silence that follows is different this time. Not hollow. Not fearful. Just… ready.

And then—three sharp knocks at the front door.

We both turn toward the sound.

Marco’s voice comes through, low but edged with annoyance.

“Isabella? Dante? Vieri dropped a note, claims his offer expires at dawn.”