Chapter 14: The First Crack

Dante Moretti POV

The notebook remained open in his hands long after midnight.

The penthouse was silent.

Too silent.

For years, Dante had considered silence a luxury.

Now it felt like punishment.

He stared at Elena's handwriting.

Small.

Neat.

Careful.

Every page felt like a confession he had never bothered to hear.

"Today Dante smiled at me."

"Today Dante spoke to me."

"Today Dante remembered my favorite dessert."

The early entries were filled with hope.

Pathetic amounts of hope.

The kind only someone deeply in love could possess.

Then the pages changed.

Slowly at first.

Then all at once.

"Today he forgot our anniversary."

"Today he left with Sofia again."

"Today I realized I spent six hours waiting for a man who never planned to come home."

Dante closed the notebook.

Because he couldn't read anymore.

Because every page felt like an accusation.

And every accusation was true.

Across the room, his phone buzzed.

Sofia.

Again.

For a long moment, he simply stared at the screen.

Then he declined the call.

Immediately it rang again.

Declined.

Again.

Declined.

The fourth time, he answered.

"What?"

"Dante!"

Her offended tone instantly grated on his nerves.

"I've been trying to reach you all evening."

"I'm busy."

"With what?"

"Something important."

"More important than me?"

The question hung in the air.

For years, the answer would have been no.

Tonight it was different.

"Yes."

Silence.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me."

"Dante—"

"Goodnight, Sofia."

He hung up.

For the first time in years.

And strangely, he felt nothing.

No guilt.

No urgency.

Nothing.

Because suddenly all he could think about was Elena sitting alone on her birthday eating pasta while he drank champagne on a yacht.

The memory made him sick.

Meanwhile...

San Francisco

Elena Vitiello POV

Life was becoming routine.

And routine was beautiful.

Nobody knew who I was.

Nobody expected anything from me.

Nobody needed me to smile politely while they discussed criminal empires.

I found a small bookstore two blocks from the apartment.

The owner was an elderly woman named Ruth.

She had purple glasses and zero respect for personal boundaries.

"You're heartbroken," she announced on my second visit.

I blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"Heartbroken."

She pointed at me.

"You buy poetry and drink black coffee."

"That's your evidence?"

"I've owned this store for twenty years."

"And?"

"Trust me."

I laughed.

A real laugh.

Not the polite society version.

Not the controlled Moretti version.

A genuine laugh.

The sound surprised me.

Ruth smiled.

"There she is."

"Who?"

"The woman hiding underneath all that sadness."

For a moment, I didn't know what to say.

Because maybe she was right.

Maybe Elena Vitiello had spent so long being Elena Moretti that she forgot who she actually was.

That evening, I returned home carrying three books and a paper bag filled with pastries.

The apartment felt warmer now.

Lived in.

Safe.

I was unlocking the door when a voice spoke behind me.

"You always loved bookstores."

Every muscle in my body froze.

My heart stopped.

No.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

I turned around.

Relief nearly made my knees give out.

"Mia."

"Miss me?"

"I almost had a heart attack."

"Good."

"You're impossible."

She grinned.

Then pulled me into a hug.

The first hug I'd received in weeks.

And unexpectedly, it almost made me cry.

"How bad is it?" I asked quietly.

"New York?"

"Dante."

Mia's smile disappeared.

"Bad."

"Define bad."

"He fired six people."

"That's normal."

"He threatened three Capos."

"Still normal."

"He hasn't slept properly in four days."

I looked away.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"He's angry."

"No."

Mia shook her head.

"That's the problem."

"What do you mean?"

"He's not angry anymore."

"Then what is he?"

For the first time, Mia looked genuinely uneasy.

"Heartbroken."

I laughed immediately.

"Dante doesn't get heartbroken."

"That's what I thought too."

"Mia."

"Elena, he found your notebook."

Everything inside me stopped.

"What?"

"The old one."

"No."

"Yes."

"The blue notebook?"

"Yes."

Horror flooded through me.

Eight years of feelings.

Eight years of embarrassing, vulnerable, humiliating honesty.

"Oh my God."

"Exactly."

"Kill me."

"I considered it."

"Mia."

"What?"

"He read it?"

"Every page."

I covered my face with both hands.

This was worse than being kidnapped.

Far worse.

"Elena."

"No."

"Elena."

"Absolutely not."

"He's coming."

My hands slowly lowered.

"What?"

"He's coming."

"Coming where?"

"Here."

The apartment suddenly felt smaller.

The air felt thinner.

"How long?"

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"His jet landed this afternoon."

Silence.

"He's in California?"

"Yes."

For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.

Because New York had felt far away.

Safe.

Manageable.

But California?

California was real.

California meant Dante wasn't searching anymore.

He was hunting.

And Dante Moretti always found what he hunted.