Chapter 18: The Man Outside the Window

Elena Vitiello POV

For the next three days, Dante didn't knock on my door.

He didn't call.

He didn't send flowers.

He didn't send gifts.

He didn't send threats.

Which somehow felt more unsettling than all of those things combined.

Because Dante Moretti was not a patient man.

The idea of him simply waiting felt unnatural.

Like a wolf pretending to be a dog.

Something about it made me nervous.

"He's still here," Mia announced one afternoon.

"Who?"

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend you don't know exactly who I'm talking about."

I looked away.

"I wasn't pretending."

"Liar."

"Maybe."

Mia dropped onto my couch dramatically.

"He's driving me insane."

"Imagine how I feel."

"At least he likes you."

"That is not helping."

"Fair."

She grabbed a pillow.

"Do you know what he did yesterday?"

"No."

"He spent four hours sitting in a coffee shop across from your building."

"Why?"

"Because apparently staring at your apartment is his new hobby."

I closed my eyes.

"That's ridiculous."

"Yes."

"And creepy."

"Also yes."

"Good. We agree."

Mia looked at me carefully.

"You're smiling."

"No, I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

I immediately stopped.

The annoying thing was that she wasn't entirely wrong.

Not because Dante was romantic.

Because Dante was suffering.

And after everything he'd done, a small selfish part of me enjoyed that.

I wasn't proud of it.

But it was true.

That evening, I decided to walk home instead of taking a taxi.

The city air felt cool.

Fresh.

Alive.

People filled the sidewalks.

Street musicians played near the corner.

Tourists wandered between restaurants.

Normal life.

I loved normal life.

No convoys.

No armed guards.

No criminals pretending to be businessmen.

Just people.

Halfway home, I stopped at a small bakery.

The smell of fresh bread filled the air.

"The usual?" the cashier asked.

I smiled.

"Please."

The fact that someone knew my usual order felt strangely meaningful.

For years, nobody had known anything about me.

Not really.

Except maybe Mia.

Certainly not Dante.

When I stepped back outside, my smile disappeared.

A black sedan sat across the street.

I recognized it instantly.

Not because I had seen that specific car before.

Because I knew the man standing beside it.

Dante.

He wasn't approaching.

Wasn't following.

Wasn't speaking.

Just standing there.

Watching.

The sight made my stomach twist.

Not from fear.

From frustration.

I crossed the street.

Directly toward him.

His eyes widened slightly.

"Elena."

"Are you serious?"

"Probably not."

"You've become funny lately."

"I've become desperate lately."

That answer caught me off guard.

"What are you doing?"

"Standing."

"Dante."

"Watching."

"Why?"

"Because it makes me happy."

"That's concerning."

"Probably."

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then I noticed something.

He looked terrible.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

His suit was perfect.

His hair was neat.

His posture was straight.

But his eyes...

His eyes looked exhausted.

"Are you sleeping?"

The question escaped before I could stop it.

His expression softened immediately.

"Not much."

"That's unhealthy."

"You sound concerned."

"You look like a corpse."

"Still concerned."

"Don't push your luck."

To my horror, he almost smiled.

Actually smiled.

Not the cold political smile.

Not the intimidating Moretti smile.

A real one.

Small.

Genuine.

And dangerous.

Because once upon a time, I would have done anything to see it.

"You should go home," I said.

"This is home."

"New York is home."

"Not anymore."

"That's dramatic."

"I learned from the best."

I rolled my eyes.

He looked absurdly pleased about it.

"Goodnight, Dante."

"Goodnight, Elena."

I turned away.

"Elena?"

I stopped.

"What?"

"You look happier."

The words landed softly.

Without jealousy.

Without bitterness.

Just honesty.

I didn't know what to do with that.

"I am happier."

For a moment, something painful crossed his face.

Then he nodded.

"Good."

That surprised me.

"Good?"

"Yes."

"Even if it's without you?"

His answer came immediately.

"That's the part I deserve."

The sincerity in his voice followed me all the way upstairs.

Later that night, Dante sat alone in his hotel room.

For the first time in years, he wasn't managing an empire.

Wasn't planning retaliation.

Wasn't hunting enemies.

He was reading.

Specifically, one of the books Elena had bought from Ruth's bookstore.

Because Ruth had informed him that if he wanted even the smallest chance with his wife, he should start learning who she actually was.

"You're telling me to read novels?" Dante had asked.

"I'm telling you to stop being stupid," Ruth had replied.

So now the most feared man in New York sat in silence reading a romance novel.

And for the first time in his life, trying to understand love instead of control.

Meanwhile, Elena lay awake staring at the ceiling.

Because despite everything...

Despite the pain.

Despite the betrayal.

Despite the years she had lost.

Something was changing.

Not forgiveness.

Not yet.

But the first crack in the wall she had built around her heart.

And both of them were beginning to realize that the hardest part of their story wasn't the leaving.

It was deciding whether there was anything worth returning to.