Chapter 66 Matteo

Chapter 66 Matteo
I do not know how long I cry. But I know it’s long enough that my breathing starts to hurt.
Long enough that embarrassment slowly replaces grief.
Long enough that eventually the tears stop coming because my body grows tired before my mind does.
The strange part of all this is that Dante never tells me to stop
He doesn’t rush me or ask me any questions. Doesn’t pull away the way most people do when emotions become inconvenient.
He just stays.
One hand resting against the back of my head. The other around my shoulder.
And somehow that makes everything worse before it makes it better.
Because kindness after pain has a way of undoing people.
Eventually, I pull back first.
Not fully.
Just enough to breathe without feeling like I’m borrowing his.
I wipe at my face quickly and look away immediately.
Humiliation settles fast.
I hate crying. I hate crying in front of people more.
“You can pretend this never happened,” I mumble after a while, my voice rough from crying.
His hand leaves my shoulder slowly.
“No.”
The answer comes too quickly.
I glance at him. His expression is unreadable as usual.
Except for his eyes. His eyes are softer.
That unsettles me more than anger would.
“I mean it,” I say. “This is embarrassing.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“You think I’m embarrassed by you crying?”
I stare at him. Because yes. Obviously.
Why wouldn’t he be?
He notices the look immediately.
Then slowly exhales. Like he’s tired.
“Lucia,” he says quietly, “I have seen men bleed out in front of me and still try to apologise for making a mess. People only become embarrassed by pain when nobody makes room for it.”
Something about the sentence settles strangely in my chest.
I look away first.
Silence stretches.
Then, “What happened?”
He doesn't demand an answer from me. His voice is careful, patient.
The question sits between us, waiting.
I stare at the floor. At my hands. Anywhere but him.
Because saying things out loud makes them real. And I am not sure I want this to become real.
My throat tightens.
“I know I probably shouldn’t talk about my ex to you,” I say eventually. “This is weird.”
The word ex feels childish compared to what Nico was.
Compared to what he became.
Dante’s expression doesn’t change. I continue before courage disappears.
“I know you probably don’t want to hear about him and—”
“Shh.”
I stop.
His hand lifts slightly—not touching my face this time, just stopping the apology before it grows.
His eyes hold mine properly.
And then he says, quietly:
“Talk about it as many times as you need to.”
I blink once. He continues.
“Talk about it until it stops hurting.”
Something in my chest shifts. Because I was not expecting permission.
His jaw tightens slightly before he says the next part.
“Talk about it until I help carry some of it.”
The room goes very still. I stare at him.
He looks conflicted. Like, he doesn't believe the words that are coming out of his mouth, but he knows he means every single word.
His gaze drops briefly to where my hands are twisted together. Then returns to my face.
“If you are still hurting over something someone did to you years ago,” he says slowly, “then I’m not doing my job properly.”
Confusion pulls at my brows immediately.
“What job?”
His expression almost changes. Almost.
“Being your husband.”
The answer comes simply. Like it should be obvious.
I do not know what to do with that. So I laugh softly.
Broken around the edges. “You’ve been terrible at it.”
His mouth twitches faintly.
Not a smile. But close
“I know.”
The answer surprises me enough that I look at him. Because Dante does not admit fault easily.
Ever.
His eyes remain on mine. And for the first time since I met him, he looks… younger somehow.
Not in age. In burden.
“I know we started badly,” he says after a while. “I was hard on you.”
I go quiet. Because hard is an understatement.
He notices. His expression shifts slightly.
“I kept things from you,” he admits. “I judged you before understanding you. I expected loyalty without giving trust.”
The honesty catches me off guard. Completely.
His voice lowers.
“And I think somewhere in all of that, I forgot you were trying too.”
My throat tightens again. Not painfully this time.
I look down immediately. Because hearing Dante Vitale apologise feels strangely intimate.
More intimate than touching. Then his next words come softer. Certain.
“I want to fix that, cara mia.”
I freeze.
Not because of the endearment. Because of how gently he says it.
Like, he means every letter. Silence fills the room again.
His expression changes. Slightly.
Enough that I notice.
The softness leaves first. Something heavier replaces it.
Older.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“I think I should start with something I have never explained properly.”
I look at him. He is no longer looking at me.
His attention is somewhere else now. In the Past.
His jaw shifts once before settling.
“My brother.”
I blink. Because Dante does not speak about family. Not willingly. Ever.
His eyes stay fixed ahead.
“He wasn’t a good man,” he says eventually. “Neither was I. But people think death turns someone into something holy.”
His mouth hardens slightly. “It doesn’t.”
The room feels smaller suddenly. More serious.
I straighten without meaning to. Because I realise this is it. Trust.
He is handing me something painful.
The same way I handed him mine. And for the first time since I married Dante Vitale, I think he is choosing to let me know him.