Chapter 10 - Dante's Return
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The silence that filled the study was so profound you could hear the rain tapping against the reinforced window shutters.
Dante Moretti stood in the center of the Persian rug, his duffel bag dropping heavily to the floor beside his boots.
He had a jagged scar running along his left cheekbone, a souvenir from his five years in hiding.
His eyes scanned the room, bypassing the guards, bypassing the mahogany bookcases, until they landed on the sofa.
Teresa slowly pushed herself up from the cushions.
Her cane clattered to the floor, but she didn't care.
“Dante,” she cried out, her voice stronger than it had been all evening.
Dante crossed the room in three long strides, falling to his knees before his mother.
He buried his face into her lap, his broad shoulders shaking violently as five years of exile crumbled to dust.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” Dante choked out, his rough hands gripping her frail arms.
“I’m so sorry I stayed away so long.”
“My boy,” Teresa wept, running her fingers through his thick, rain-damp hair.
“My sweet boy, you came back to me.”
Luca watched them from five feet away, his expression an agonizing mixture of guilt and profound relief.
Dante slowly lifted his head and looked up at his older brother.
For a moment, neither man moved.
The ghost of their dead father, the lies of their younger brother, and five years of spilled blood stood between them.
Then Luca stepped forward, reached down, and hauled Dante up by his jacket.
Instead of a blow, Luca pulled Dante into a crushing, desperate embrace.
“Forgive me,” Luca whispered fiercely into Dante’s shoulder.
“I should have known.”
“I should have known you would never betray our father.”
Dante gripped Luca’s back with equal force, pounding his brother’s shoulder with a heavy fist.
“You were trying to keep the family from bleeding out, Luca.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I never blamed you.”
Sophie walked up to Dante, tugging gently on the hem of his damp canvas jacket.
Dante pulled back from Luca and knelt down so he was eye-level with the little girl.
“You must be Sophie,” Dante said, his voice softening completely.
“You were only four when I left.”
“Uncle Dante?” Sophie asked, tilting her head.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Grandma talks about you every single day,” Sophie said, handing him one of the crumpled paper slips from her tin.
“She told me you were building boats in a secret castle.”
Dante looked down at the scrap of paper, reading his mother’s crooked handwriting, and let out a wet, breathless laugh.
“Something like that, kiddo.”
Dante then looked past Sophie and noticed me standing near the desk, still wearing my stained housekeeping apron.
He stood up, his piercing gray eyes studying my face.
“You’re Hannah.”
“Yes, sir,” I said respectfully.
Dante walked over and offered me a hand that was covered in small calluses from years of hard manual labor.
“My mother told me on the phone that you stood in front of Vanessa Bellini and took a firing to protect her letters.”
“I couldn't let her be mistreated, Mr. Moretti.”
“Just Dante,” he corrected, squeezing my hand with genuine warmth.
“In this family, loyalty isn't bought with a paycheck.”
“You saved my mother’s life, Hannah.”
“And that makes you blood as far as I’m concerned.”
Luca stepped up beside Dante, his eyes resting on me with a quiet, undeniable warmth that made my heart race.
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“Now,” Dante said, the warmth vanishing from his face as he turned back toward Luca.
“Where is Michael?”
