Chapter 8
921 Words
Third Person POV
Private jet, en route to Italy.
The hum of the engines filled the cabin, steady and familiar. Dante sat with his elbows on the armrest, reading through a folder thick with photos and printouts. Across from him, Marco nursed an espresso and watched the clouds roll past the window like he didn't have a care in the world.
"Gallería Bellini is under investigation," Dante said, flipping to the next page. "Too many cash sales, too fast. The façade isn't holding."
Marco grunted. "Should've expected that. The minute they started taking crypto from teenagers, it was over."
"Any movement from the authorities?"
"A financial crimes unit in Rome is sniffing around. Nothing formal yet, but if they connect it to the laundry, we'll need a new shell," Marco said.
Dante leaned back, the folder resting against his leg. "Pull back funds. Quietly. We'll freeze transfers through the gallery for now. Redirect everything through Milan."
Marco nodded once. "I'll handle it."
Silence settled again, thick and easy.
Then Marco smirked. "So. Speaking of cash flow... how's the maid?"
Dante didn't look up. "Which one?"
"Come on. You know which one."
Dante turned a page, slow and deliberate. "I don't have time for distractions."
"That wasn't a denial."
"It wasn't an invitation either."
Marco chuckled, leaning back with his cup. "You don't talk to most of them, but you've spoken to her more in a week than you've spoken to anyone in that house in months. She doesn't even flinch when you get that voice. You know, the one that makes grown men recalibrate their life choices."
Dante closed the folder with a soft snap.
"She's quiet. Efficient. That's all."
Marco raised a brow. "Uh-huh. And she just happens to have the same taste in literature?"
That gave Dante pause. A flicker of thought crossed his face before he masked it again.
Earlier that morning, he'd found her in his closet—of all places—dusting shelves and humming under her breath. She had a book tucked under her arm. One he hadn't seen in circulation in years. When she noticed him, she didn't flinch. Just straightened, nodded, and asked if he'd read the rest of the author's works.
And for some reason, he stayed. Talked. A full conversation. About writing styles. Translations. The slow ache of characters who lost everything and built themselves again.
He had forgotten what it felt like—being spoken to like a man, not a threat.
Dante leaned forward slightly. "She asked if I had any Italian titles in mind."
Marco blinked. "You offered her books?"
"I asked if she wanted one," Dante corrected flatly. "From Italy."
Marco grinned like a man connecting too many dots. "That's new."
Dante didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled out his phone, thumbed a quick message to his personal contact in Florence.
"Find and send me a list of notable Italian authors. Literature, fiction, historical. Good translations. Prioritize female writers and anything with a psychological edge."
He hit send, then slipped the phone away like it hadn't happened.
Marco watched him over the rim of his cup, silent now.
Dante stared out the window. "She said she liked books that didn't apologize for being honest."
"You remembering her words now?" Marco asked, more amused than surprised.
"She's not like the others," Dante muttered. "She exists in her own space. Doesn't try too hard. Doesn't shrink."
"Or run," Marco added. "That's the part that scares you, isn't it?"
Dante didn't reply.
Instead, he shifted back, eyes returning to the folder—but the numbers were already starting to blur.
.....
Italy. Dante's family estate, outskirts of Florence.
The house was old. Too quiet. The kind of silence that carried ghosts you couldn't see but always felt.
Dante stood alone in the study. The same one his father used to drink in. Same window, same ancient desk. Nothing had changed, except the man standing inside it.
A worn book sat on the shelf behind him. The Count of Monte Cristo—his mother's favorite. She used to read it aloud when he was a boy, long before the nights were filled with shouting and slammed doors.
He pulled it down, thumbed the cover. Pages yellowed, spine cracked. Familiar.
It was the first book he'd ever finished on his own. He remembered the way Edmond Dantès was wronged, buried in darkness, and came back colder, smarter. Untouchable.
He thought it was strength then. Maybe he still did.
But lately...
He set the book down and exhaled through his nose.
A knock sounded behind him. Marco.
"We're clear on the gallery situation," Marco said. "Everything's back in place."
Dante nodded but didn't turn around.
Marco stepped inside, then paused. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Dante said, his voice low. "Just remembering."
"Place still feel like a cage?"
Dante glanced toward the window. "No. Cages are louder."
Marco leaned against the doorframe. "You never talk about her."
"Who?"
"Your mother."
Dante was quiet for a beat. "There's not much to say. She was kind. That didn't save her."
Marco didn't press. He knew better.
Instead, he asked, "You think about her when you look at Ally?"
Dante turned then—just slightly. Just enough to let the question land.
"No," he said. "I try not to think at all."
Marco smiled sadly. "Yeah, well. That's never worked for you."
Dante didn't argue. He just turned back toward the window, where the garden had long since overgrown and swallowed the paths she used to walk.
- Writer
