Page 80 of Married to the Ruthless Mafia Heir

I watched him for a while, then said, "Dante, something's on your mind."

He went quiet, set down the document, and looked at me. "Marco told me today that everything in New York is stable. He also said... you didn't have it easy at the manor."

I froze, slowly sitting up. "What did he tell you?"

"A lot." Dante looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. "About how the other maids ostracized you when you first arrived. How Salvador constantly gave you a hard time. How you'd hide in corners and cry, with only Lucia to comfort you."

I looked down, silent.

"Elena." He called my name.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "You suffered so much where I couldn't see."

"That's all past," I said. "Besides, if I hadn't met you at the manor, I wouldn't be who I am now."

Dante stood, moved to the bed, and took my hand. "From now on, you won't suffer any indignity. Everyone at the manor who mistreated you—I had Marco deal with them."

"Deal with them?" I was surprised. "You..."

"I didn't hurt them," Dante said. "Just made sure they know who you are now. When they see you from now on, they'll respectfully call you Mrs. Moretti."

I looked at him, my nose stinging. "Thank you, Dante."

"You don't have to thank me." He lowered his head and kissed my forehead. "It's what I owe you."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Elena

After Dante's wounds finally healed, the doctor relented and cleared us to leave the hospital.

On discharge day, Dante stood by the window, staring at the distant view.

"What's on your mind?" I walked over and set a glass of warm milk beside him.

He snapped back and took my hand. "Elena, I want to take you somewhere."

"Where?"

"I want you to meet my mother."

I froze.

This was the first time Dante had brought up Isabella on his own. I'd heard the name countless times—in the maids' gossip, in Salvador's forbidden silences, in the shadow that crossed Dante's eyes whenever he mentioned his father.

I just never expected he'd want to take me to see her.

The drive there was beautiful—clear skies, good weather. Dante didn't bring any guards. He drove himself, taking us through New York's neighborhoods to a quiet cemetery.

The place was eerily still, just birdsong and wind rustling through branches. Tall plane trees lined the stone path, their leaves soaked in sunlight, green and almost translucent.

Dante held my hand as we walked to the very back.

Two headstones stood side by side, identical, as if carved from the same block of stone. The left bore Salvador Moretti's name. The right, Isabella Moretti's.

They hadn't loved each other in life, yet in death they were buried together, close.