Chapter 8 - The Father's Exile
Three days later, the winter’s first snowflakes began drifting down over the Gold Coast, dusting the stone balustrades of Dante’s mansion in white.
In the second-floor sitting room, a roaring fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with the comforting scent of burning applewood.
Elena sat at a wide mahogany drafting table, reviewing architectural blueprints for the modernization of Terminal 4. Her sketches were precise, brilliant, and infused with the vision of an heiress who was finally the architect of her own destiny.
The room’s heavy double doors clicked open, and Dante entered, carrying an international priority courier envelope bearing a Swiss diplomatic postmark.
"From Zurich," Dante said, placing the envelope on the desk beside her tea.
Elena set her charcoal pencil down, picking up the silver letter opener. She sliced open the top, pulling out a handwritten letter on expensive hotel stationery.
It was from Victor Valente.
Elena, the letter began, the handwriting shaky and uneven.
I know you will never forgive me for boarding that plane. In my mind, I thought that if I was gone, Giancarlo would focus his demands on my personal assets and leave you in peace.
I was a coward. I let pride, debt, and fear blind me to the monster I had invited into our home.
I am signing over all remaining international hotel holdings to the Moretti-Valente Trust today. I will not return to America. I don't deserve to walk the streets of the city you saved.
Dante Moretti is a dangerous man, Elena. But he is a man of honor. He kept a promise his brother died for.
Live the life I was too weak to give you.
Your father.
Elena read the letter once, then folded the parchment neatly and placed it into the open flames of the fireplace.
She watched the paper catch, curling into black ash that floated up the chimney flue and disappeared into the Chicago sky.
The past was burned. The debt was settled.
Dante stepped up behind her chair, his strong hands resting gently on her shoulders, kneading the tension from her neck with rhythmic, practiced warmth.
May you like
"Are you all right?" he asked softly, his lips brushing the crown of her hair.
"I am better than all right, Dante," Elena answered, leaning her head back against his chest, looking up into his dark, protective eyes. "For twenty-six years, I was a bargaining chip on other people's balance sheets. Today, I am the owner."
