Page 81 of Married to the Ruthless Mafia Heir

"Old Italian tradition," Dante said evenly. "Family members return to the family plot. Salvador picked this spot himself. Had them buried side by side."

I looked at the two stones. Fresh white roses lay before Isabella's grave, like someone changed them regularly.

"Do you bring these?" I asked.

"Yeah. Every two weeks." As he spoke, he knelt and removed the old flowers, then retrieved fresh ones from the car and placed them carefully.

His movements were slow, precise, like something he'd practiced many times.

"I used to hate Salvador for how he treated my mother." His voice came out soft. "Then after he died, I found something in his safe while going through his things. A photo of my mother at eighteen. On the back, he'd written that he was sorry. That he'd wronged Isabella."

I listened quietly.

"My mother once held my hand and told me not to hate him." Dante's fingers traced Isabella's name on the stone, lingering on the carved letters. "She said when she married Salvador, she knew the family was all he cared about. But she accepted it. She told me her biggest regret was never finding the courage to tell Salvador what she really felt. That if she'd been braver, maybe things would've turned out different."

Wind swept through from deep in the cemetery, rustling the plane tree leaves in a low whisper.

"When I was young, I just blamed Salvador. I couldn't understand why Mother didn't fight back." Dante stood and brushed the dust from his hands. "Later I realized it takes tremendous strength to stand up to him. And my mother was just a woman who needed freedom. She didn't have that kind of strength. So seeing them together like this now—it's almost funny."

He stood before the two graves for a long time.

"Father." He finally spoke, voice low. "You were right. The woman you chose is perfect for me. I fell in love with Elena. She's carrying my child. But I won't walk your path. My child will be happy."

Wind blew through the cemetery, lifting the hair from his forehead.

"I know you spent your whole life doing what you thought was best for the family. You arranged my marriage your way, wanting me to marry someone who'd strengthen the family. But Father, you were wrong. Marriage isn't a transaction. Power isn't something you buy with a wife's tears."

He paused.

"I won't follow your path. I'll let Elena do what she wants—her career, her designs, everything. I'll respect it all, support it all. And I won't become you. I won't let my wife live Isabella's life."

"I forgive you, Father."

When those words came out, Dante's voice cracked. He didn't cry, just stood in the wind, shoulders sagging slightly, like he'd finally set down a weight he'd carried for years.

I went to him and took his hand. His palm was cool. I wrapped it in both of mine.

Dante turned to me, eyes reddened, but he smiled. "I've said everything I needed to say."

"They heard you." I reached out my hand. "Dante, let's go home."

He nodded, took my hand, and turned toward the cemetery exit. Sunlight fell on our clasped hands, stretching our shadows long behind us.

The two headstones stood quietly in the light, white roses swaying gently in the breeze.

On the drive back, I held his hand the whole way. He didn't pull away, just rested my hand on his thigh while steering with the other, driving slowly.

"Thank you, Elena," he said suddenly.

"For what?"

"For coming with me." He said, "When I come alone, I can never get those words out."

I leaned back in my seat, watching the scenery blur past. "Then I'll come with you every time."

"Okay." His response was soft but certain. "From now on, together."

When we pulled up to the manor, the setting sun bathed the old house in warm gold. Dante parked but didn't get out right away. He unbuckled and turned to look at me intently.