Page 58 of The Mafia King's Lost Son
“So I’m obsessed with this new true crime podcast,” she says one afternoon. “About this cold case from the nineties. Want me to send you the link?”
“God yes. I’ve been dying for something good to listen to.”
“Really? I thought I was the only weirdo who finds murder mysteries relaxing.”
“Are you kidding? Give me a good unsolved case and I’m happy for hours.”
We bond over podcasts and books and recipes. She tells me about the struggle of finding activities both kids enjoy doing together. I tell her about Luca’s obsession with dinosaurs.
It’s so wonderfully normal that I sometimes forget where I am. Forget that armed guards patrol outside. Forget that I’m building a friendship with the wife of a man who works for my son’s father who runs a criminal empire.
“Can I ask you something?” Elena says one day while the kids are playing.
“Sure.”
“How are you handling all this? The lifestyle, I mean. It’s not easy.”
“Is it that obvious I’m struggling?”
“No. But I remember when Marco first brought me into this world. How overwhelming it was. How scared I was all the time.” She takes a sip of coffee. “It gets easier. You learn to compartmentalize. To separate the man you love from the work he does.”
“Does it ever stop being terrifying?”
“No. But you get used to the fear. Learn to live with it.” She looks at me seriously. “Marco told me about the attacks. About why you’re here. Are you okay?”
“Physically, yes. Mentally…” I trail off. “I’m working on it.”
“If you ever need to talk, I’m here. No judgment, no reporting back to anyone. Just girl talk.”
And she means it. I can tell.
So I tell her things I haven’t told anyone. About how strange it is living with Dante. About my fears for Luca’s safety. About the confusing mess of feelings I have for a man I should probably hate.
She listens without judgment and offers advice when asked. And slowly, I start to feel less alone.
The nights are the hardest because that’s when my carefully constructed walls start to crumble.
Dante and I fall into a routine. He works late in his office while I put Luca to bed. Then I go to his room and we fall into each other like we’re both drowning and the only way to breathe is to get closer.
It’s not always frantic like that first night. Sometimes it’s slow and almost tender. Sometimes it’s rough and desperate. But it’s always consuming.
And afterward, when we’re tangled together in his bed, I feel the truth I’ve been avoiding settle over me like a blanket.
I’m falling for him. Really falling. Not the shallow attraction from six years ago in the club, but something deeper and more terrifying.
I’m falling for the way he reads to our son with infinite patience. For the way he listens when I talk. For the rare smiles that transform his whole face. For the gentleness he shows me when we’re alone.
I’m falling for Dante Moretti with my eyes wide open about exactly who and what he is. And it scares me more than anything else.
One night I wake up from a dream drenched in cold sweat.
Dante’s immediately awake beside me. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a dream. Go back to sleep.”
“Talk to me.”
“It was nothing. Just…” I press my hands to my face. “Fragments. Memories from that night.”
