Chapter 10 - Where the Roses Bloom
Six months later, the early summer sun washed over a breathtaking, sun-drenched vineyard nestled in the rolling hills of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.
Far from the smoke, concrete, and screaming sirens of Chicago, the sprawling stone villa sat surrounded by rows of blossoming white roses and emerald grapevines. The only sound in the afternoon breeze was the gentle rustling of willow leaves and the distant, rhythmic splashing of a stone fountain in the courtyard.
On the wide cedar patio, Isabella stood near the railing, her sundress fluttering in the warm wind. She watched Dante down in the grass.
The terrifying Don of Chicago, the man whose name had once made district attorneys tremble in fear, was lying flat on his back on a colorful picnic blanket, making ridiculous cooing faces at seven-month-old Lucia. The baby giggled with delight, waving her chubby little arms and grabbing Dante’s nose with both hands. Dante burst into rich, booming laughter, catching her tiny feet and kissing her toes.
“Dante, don't tickle her before her nap!” Isabella called out with mock severity, a bright, radiant smile lighting up her face. “You know she won't sleep if she gets too wound up!”
“She’s a Moretti, bella,” Dante called back, grinning as he carefully scooped the baby up into the crook of his powerful, tattooed arm and walked up the stone steps toward the patio. “She sleeps when she wants, and she rules this house with an iron fist.”
Isabella laughed, leaning against him as he reached the deck. Dante wrapped his free arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side and inhaling the sweet scent of vanilla and lavender from her hair.
On Isabella’s left hand, catching the afternoon sun with brilliant, fiery brilliance, was a simple, flawless platinum band—not a gaudy syndicate alliance piece, but a custom ring Dante had designed himself, engraved on the inside with the date she had first served him apple pie in a rainy diner.
“Did Marcus call?” Isabella asked softly, resting her head against his shoulder as Lucia yawned, resting her sleepy head on Dante’s chest.
“He did,” Dante replied, his tone peaceful. “The harbor transition is completely finished. The council is satisfied, the businesses are thriving, and our names have been scrubbed from every active ledger. As far as the world is concerned, Dante Moretti retired to become a boring wine farmer.”
“A boring wine farmer who looks dangerously handsome in denim,” Isabella teased, kissing the corner of his jaw.
Dante looked down at her, his expression softening into an overwhelming depth of adoration. He gently reached up with his thumb, brushing away a loose strand of hair from her cheek.
“Eight months ago,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “you walked through two hundred people in the freezing rain just to save our daughter from me. You were terrified, bruised, and alone, but you were braver than any soldier I ever commanded.”
“I wasn't saving her from you, Dante,” Isabella said softly, her brown eyes gazing into his soul with complete clarity. “I was saving her for you. Because deep down, beneath all the lies they told me, I knew the man who loved me in that diner was still real.”
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“He is,” Dante said, leaning down to press his lips against hers in a long, tender, passionate kiss that tasted of sweet summer and promised forever. “And he’s never letting you go again.”
Beneath the warm Wisconsin sun, surrounded by white roses and the laughter of their daughter, the nightmare was finally over. The empire of blood was gone, replaced by a love that no lie, no syndicate, and no darkness could ever tear apart.
