Chapter 22: The Question She Feared

Elena Vitiello POV

The café suddenly felt too quiet.

Too small.

Too intimate.

Sofia was gone.

For years, she had been the third person in every conversation, every argument, every silence.

Now she wasn't.

For the first time since I married Dante, there was nobody standing between us.

Which meant there was nowhere left to hide.

Neither of us spoke.

The waiter awkwardly approached.

"Would either of you like anything else?"

"No," I said immediately.

"Yes," Dante said at the same time.

We both looked at him.

"What?"

"What do you need?" I asked.

"Five more minutes."

The answer was so honest it caught me off guard.

The waiter wisely disappeared.

Leaving us alone.

Again.

"You shouldn't have come here," I said quietly.

"Probably not."

"You shouldn't have followed me."

"Definitely not."

"You shouldn't have made this harder."

That one made him pause.

"Harder?"

"Yes."

"By apologizing?"

"By changing."

For the first time, Dante looked genuinely confused.

"You wanted me to change."

"When I was your wife."

The words hit.

Hard.

"I begged for pieces of this version of you."

"I know."

"You never listened."

"I know."

"Now suddenly you're attentive, patient, respectful, emotionally available—"

"Emotionally available sounds fake."

"Because it is fake."

The words escaped before I could stop them.

Silence.

Pain flashed across his face.

Good.

No.

Not good.

Necessary.

"You think this is an act?"

"I think guilt is powerful."

"This isn't guilt."

"Then what is it?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.

"Panic."

I blinked.

"What?"

"The first week after you left... I thought I was angry."

"And?"

"I wasn't."

"Then what were you?"

"Terrified."

The admission shocked me.

Because Dante Moretti wasn't supposed to be terrified of anything.

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't find you."

"You eventually did."

"That's not the point."

His eyes met mine.

"For the first time in my life, something important disappeared and I couldn't control it."

"That's not love either."

"I know."

"Then stop calling it love."

"I'm not."

That surprised me.

"You're not?"

"No."

"Then what are you calling it?"

Dante leaned back slightly.

Thinking.

Actually thinking.

"Regret."

"That's honest."

"I know."

"Anything else?"

"Shame."

"Also honest."

"Loss."

"Fair."

"And hope."

That one annoyed me.

"You don't get hope."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't get it."

The answer came too quickly.

Too emotionally.

Too truthfully.

For years, I had hoped.

And hoped.

And hoped.

Until there was nothing left.

"You're right," Dante said softly.

"I probably don't deserve it."

"No."

"But I have it anyway."

I hated that answer.

Because part of me understood it.

Hope didn't ask permission.

It simply existed.

"What exactly are you hoping for?"

His eyes never left mine.

"A chance."

"For what?"

"To know you."

I stared at him.

"You were married to me for three years."

"I know."

"You already knew me."

"No."

The answer came immediately.

"I knew your schedule."

"I knew your coffee order."

"I knew what events you attended."

"That's not the same thing."

Silence.

Because unfortunately...

He was right.

"Tell me something," he said.

"Why?"

"Humor me."

"Fine."

"What was your favorite memory before you met me?"

The question completely blindsided me.

"What?"

"Favorite memory."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know the answer."

For a second, I just stared.

Nobody had ever asked me that.

Not Dante.

Not anyone.

"When I was twelve," I said slowly.

"My father took me fishing."

Dante listened carefully.

"Fishing?"

"I hated fishing."

"Then why is it your favorite memory?"

"Because he knew I hated it."

"I'm confused."

"So was he."

A small smile appeared.

"He spent six hours teaching me how to fish."

"Did you learn?"

"No."

"Then what happened?"

"We gave up and bought ice cream instead."

For the first time, Dante smiled.

A real smile.

"That sounds very inefficient."

"Exactly."

"You enjoyed inefficiency?"

"I enjoyed being loved more than the activity."

The smile disappeared from his face.

Because he understood what I was actually saying.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I think I missed the point for several years."

"Several?"

"Many."

I laughed despite myself.

And for a brief second...

Everything felt easy.

Not fixed.

Not healed.

Just easier.

Then my phone rang.

Unknown Number.

I almost ignored it.

Almost.

Something made me answer.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Hello?"

Then a voice.

"Mrs. Moretti?"

Every muscle in Dante's body immediately tensed.

"Who is this?"

"My name is Detective Harris."

My stomach dropped.

"Detective?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What's wrong?"

"We need to ask you a few questions regarding a financial investigation involving the Moretti organization."

The world seemed to stop.

Across the table, Dante's expression turned deadly.

"What kind of investigation?" I asked.

"Not over the phone."

"Detective—"

"We'll be contacting you again shortly."

The call ended.

Silence.

Heavy silence.

Dangerous silence.

"Dante."

"No."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"That's a lie."

"Yes."

His jaw tightened.

"Which means it's bad."

"Yes."

"How bad?"

For the first time since arriving in California...

Real fear appeared in Dante Moretti's eyes.

"Bad enough that I need you to listen carefully."

"Dante—"

"Elena."

His voice dropped.

Cold.

Focused.

Dangerously serious.

"Someone is coming for me."

"What?"

"And if they can't get to me..."

His eyes locked onto mine.

"They'll try to get to you."