Chapter 19: The Woman He Never Knew

Elena Vitiello POV

The next week passed quietly.

Almost suspiciously quietly.

No dramatic confrontations.

No threats.

No Moretti soldiers appearing from nowhere.

No attempts to drag me back to New York.

Dante simply existed on the edge of my life.

Close enough to remind me he was there.

Far enough to respect the boundaries I had drawn.

It should have made things easier.

Instead, it made everything more complicated.

Because it was harder to hate this version of him.

The old Dante would have ordered.

This Dante asked.

The old Dante demanded.

This Dante waited.

The old Dante never listened.

This Dante seemed desperate to hear every word.

And that terrified me.

Because people changing meant hope.

And hope had ruined me once already.

I wasn't eager to repeat the experience.

"You're thinking about him again."

Ruth didn't even look up from her book.

"You say that every time I visit."

"Because every time you visit, you're thinking about him."

"That's not true."

"Liar."

I sighed.

"Why does everyone call me a liar lately?"

"Because you're terrible at it."

I laughed despite myself.

"You know, most bookstore owners try to keep customers happy."

"Most customers aren't secretly in love with idiots."

"Past tense."

"Sure."

"Ruth."

"Elena."

She finally looked at me.

"Do you know what the saddest thing is?"

"What?"

"That man spent years believing you would never leave."

"That's not sad."

"No?"

"It's arrogant."

"Exactly."

I frowned.

"I don't understand."

"Arrogance is usually just fear wearing expensive clothes."

The answer followed me long after I left the bookstore.

Fear.

Had Dante been afraid?

Afraid I would leave?

No.

That couldn't be right.

The Dante I knew feared nothing.

Then again...

The Dante I knew never spent a week sitting outside coffee shops hoping to catch a glimpse of his wife.

Maybe I didn't know him as well as I thought.

Later that evening, I returned home carrying groceries.

Again.

Apparently my life now revolved around grocery shopping.

Honestly, I loved that for me.

I stepped into the elevator.

Pressed the button.

Waited.

"Long day?"

I nearly dropped the bag.

"Jesus Christ!"

Dante looked genuinely alarmed.

"Sorry."

"Why are you here?"

"I live here now."

"No, you don't."

"Temporarily."

"That's worse."

The elevator doors opened.

Neither of us moved.

"I brought something."

"If it's flowers, I'm throwing them at you."

"It's not flowers."

He handed me a small paper bag.

Suspiciously.

Like someone approaching a wild animal.

"What is it?"

"Open it."

I peeked inside.

Then blinked.

"A book?"

"Yes."

"You bought me a book."

"Yes."

"Voluntarily?"

"I'm beginning to regret this."

I pulled the novel out.

My eyes widened.

It was a first edition.

Rare.

Expensive.

Nearly impossible to find.

"How did you get this?"

"Ruth threatened me."

"What?"

"Apparently she knows people."

"That's actually believable."

"Very."

A smile escaped before I could stop it.

Dante noticed.

Of course he noticed.

The man could spot weakness from a mile away.

Except when it belonged to his marriage.

"There it is."

"What?"

"Your smile."

"Don't make it weird."

"Too late."

"Definitely too late."

For a brief moment, it felt almost normal.

Not romantic.

Not reconciled.

Just...

Normal.

Two people having a conversation.

A conversation we probably should have been having years ago.

Then his phone rang.

The sound immediately changed the atmosphere.

Both of us froze.

Because we both recognized the ringtone.

Sofia.

For years, that ringtone had been my competition.

The thing that interrupted dinners.

Birthdays.

Conversations.

Moments.

Everything.

Dante looked at the screen.

Then at me.

Then back at the screen.

The phone continued ringing.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Eventually, he silenced it.

Without answering.

The gesture hit me harder than it should have.

"You can answer it."

"I don't want to."

"Dante."

"I don't want to."

Simple.

Honest.

No excuses.

No explanations.

The phone started ringing again.

This time he blocked the number.

Right in front of me.

Then put the phone back into his pocket.

"Problem solved."

I stared at him.

"You blocked her?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because every time she calls, you look sad."

The elevator suddenly felt very small.

"That's not a reason."

"It's enough of one."

For several seconds, I couldn't speak.

Because I had spent years wishing he would choose me.

And now that he finally was...

I didn't know what to do with it.

"You're late," I said quietly.

His expression softened immediately.

"I know."

"Years late."

"I know."

"And that's the problem."

"I know."

The saddest part?

For once, I believed him.

That night, Dante sat alone in his hotel room.

Not looking at surveillance reports.

Not planning business.

Not managing soldiers.

Instead, he opened Elena's notebook again.

Near the back, he found an entry he had never finished reading.

"I think the hardest part isn't that Dante loves someone else."

"The hardest part is that if he ever turns around and chooses me, I don't know if there will be anything left of me to give him."

Dante stared at the words for a very long time.

Then he closed the notebook.

Because for the first time, he understood the real problem.

Finding Elena had been easy.

Winning her back was impossible.

Not because she hated him.

Because he had arrived after she had already spent years grieving the marriage.

And grief had a habit of turning love into memory.

Far across the city, Elena sat beside her window reading the book Dante had given her.

And for the first time since leaving New York, she wondered something dangerous.

Not whether Dante loved her.

That answer was becoming obvious.

The dangerous question was whether she still loved him enough to care.