Chapter 7 - What Dante Was Too Afraid to Say
Leah refused to believe it.
"Carlo?"
The man who had checked deliveries beside her for years.
The man who complained about flowers.
The man who had carried her suitcase to the car when she left.
Raphael nodded.
"We confronted him."
"Why?"
Dante's expression was grim.
"Not here."
They returned to the estate.
Leah hadn't crossed its gates in months.
The sight of the house struck her harder than expected.
Nothing had changed.
And everything had.
Mrs. Bellini hugged her so fiercely Leah nearly lost her glasses.
Then Carlo entered the study.
He looked twenty years older.
Dante stood beside the fireplace.
Raphael remained near the door.
Leah sat opposite Carlo.
"Tell me."
Carlo lowered his head.
"I wasn't watching you."
"Then why disconnect the cameras?"
"Because Bianca asked me to."
Silence.
Leah stared.
"Bianca is dead."
"She asked me years ago."
Carlo reached into his coat and removed a small notebook.
"She knew the estate security system archived footage externally. She didn't trust everyone who had access."
Dante frowned.
"Why?"
Carlo looked at him.
"Because she was preparing Leah's independence."
The townhouse.
The trust.
Documents.
Bianca had quietly arranged everything.
Carlo explained that after her death, he periodically disabled one side camera when transferring boxes containing Bianca's private records.
He feared the documents might disappear if the wrong people discovered them.
"But why last week?" Leah asked.
"Because the final archive was being moved."
"The envelope?"
He nodded.
The mystery wasn't an enemy.
It was Bianca.
Protecting Leah even after death.
Dante looked furious.
"You should have told me."
Carlo met his gaze.
"She specifically told me not to."
"Why?"
Carlo hesitated.
Then handed Dante the notebook.
Inside was Bianca's handwriting.
Dante read silently.
His expression changed.
"What does it say?" Leah asked.
He handed it to her.
Dante confuses protection with possession because he is terrified that people who are free to leave may actually do so. Do not let him make that fear Leah's burden.
Leah looked at Dante.
He didn't defend himself.
Carlo left.
Raphael followed.
Soon Leah and Dante were alone.
The same house.
The same silence.
But no longer the same people.
"She knew you well," Leah said.
"Too well."
"Why were you so afraid I'd leave?"
Dante stared toward the dark window.
"My mother left."
Leah knew very little about Dante's mother.
Nobody discussed her.
"How old were you?"
"Nine."
His voice remained steady.
"She told me she'd come back."
"She didn't?"
"No."
His father had taught him the wrong lesson afterward.
People stayed because they needed you.
Loyalty was secured.
Dependence was safer than choice.
Dante had spent his adult life rejecting his father's cruelty while unknowingly preserving part of his logic.
He protected people.
Provided for them.
Made himself necessary.
And Leah had become the person he couldn't imagine losing.
"So you kept me close," she whispered.
"Yes."
"But wouldn't admit why."
"Because if I admitted I loved you, you could reject me."
Leah's eyes filled.
"And instead you rejected me first."
Dante closed his eyes.
"Yes."
There was nothing romantic about that truth.
Nothing noble.
It was simply human.
And painful.
Leah approached him.
"I can't promise I'll never leave."
"I know."
"I can't become part of this house again just because you love me."
"I know."
"I have my job."
"I know."
"My townhouse."
"I know."
"My own life."
"I know."
She almost smiled.
"You're becoming annoyingly agreeable."
"I'm terrified."
That made her stop.
Dante looked directly at her.
"I don't know how to do this without controlling the outcome."
"Then don't control it."
"What do I do?"
"Ask."
The word seemed foreign to him.
He nodded.
Then, with almost absurd seriousness:
"May I take you to dinner?"
Leah laughed through her tears.
"That's your big move?"
"I'm new at this."
"Clearly."
"Is that a yes?"
She let him wait.
Just long enough.
"Yes."
His relief was visible.
"And Leah?"
"Yes?"
"May I kiss you?"
The question changed everything.
Not because she had never imagined his kiss.
She had.
Too many times.
It changed everything because Dante Raviieri—the man who gave orders as naturally as breathing—had finally asked.
Leah stepped closer.
"Yes."
The kiss was gentle.
No desperation.
No possession.
Years of unsaid things compressed into something surprisingly quiet.
When they separated, Dante rested his forehead against hers.
"I should have done that years ago."
"No."
Leah touched his face.
"You should have told the truth years ago."
He nodded.
"You're right."
Outside, dawn was beginning to lighten the horizon.
Leah realized they had spent the entire night talking.
For once, neither had tried to win.
Before she left, Dante walked her to her car.
"Call when you arrive."
She gave him a look.
He immediately corrected himself.
"Would you let me know when you arrive?"
Leah smiled.
"Maybe."
He groaned.
She laughed.
Then she drove away.
Dante watched until the car disappeared.
But this time, watching Leah leave didn't feel like losing her.
Because she was leaving freely.
And for the first time, he understood that if she returned, it would mean infinitely more.
Three hours later, Leah received a message.
Not from Dante.
From Mrs. Bellini.
It contained a photograph of something Leah had forgotten existed.
An unopened envelope hidden inside Bianca's old recipe book.
On the front:
May you like
For Dante and Leah—if those two fools ever figure it out.
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