Chapter 3 - “You really don’t understand how marriage works.”
“No.”
The answer came so quickly that I stared at him.
He looked exhausted again.
“Apparently I don’t.”
That was the first honest thing he had said that reached me.
Not enough to forgive him.
But enough to hurt.
Dante took a slow breath.
“I should have come home.”
“Yes.”
“I should have told you what was happening.”
“Yes.”
“I should have listened when you asked about Sofia.”
“Yes.”
“And when she kissed me, I should have stopped it before you ever had the chance to see me fail you.”
My eyes burned.
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“I didn’t.”
I looked toward the window.
Cars moved along the street below us.
Ordinary people.
Ordinary lives.
I wondered how many marriages had ended that week because of one moment nobody could take back.
“I want a divorce.”
Dante went completely still.
I had expected anger.
Maybe denial.
Instead, he looked as if someone had removed the ground beneath him.
“Don’t.”
One word.
Quiet.
Almost instinctive.
“I’ve already contacted an attorney.”
“No.”
My eyes narrowed.
“You don’t get to say no.”
“I’m not signing anything.”
I felt the familiar frustration return.
There he was.
Dante Moretti.
The man who believed resistance was simply another obstacle.
“You can make the divorce difficult.”
I walked toward him.
“You can drag it through lawyers.”
My voice stayed calm.
“You can buy buildings and judges and half this city if you want.”
His expression turned dark.
“But you cannot force me to be your wife.”
He stared at me.
Something in his face broke.
“I don’t want to force you.”
“Then let me go.”
Dante looked toward the floor.
For several seconds, there was nothing powerful about him.
Then he nodded once.
“If that’s what you still want when the papers come, I won’t fight you.”
The words shocked me.
Dante noticed.
“I said I failed as your husband.”
His eyes lifted.
“I won’t punish you for refusing to stay married to me.”
My throat tightened.
I hated that he could still surprise me.
He turned toward the door.
Then stopped.
“I won’t ask where you’re going.”
I said nothing.
“But please don’t disappear completely.”
“Why?”
He looked back.
“Because I need to know you’re alive.”
The answer sounded so raw that I couldn’t immediately respond.
Dante opened the door.
“Your five minutes are over.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then his gaze moved over my face once more.
“I love you, Lena.”
Anger rushed through me so quickly I forgot to protect myself.
My hand went instinctively to my stomach.
Dante’s eyes followed the movement.
I froze.
He stared at my hand.
Then at me.
The room became silent.
Too silent.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Lena.”
“Leave.”
“What were you doing today?”
“That is none of your business.”
“You were carrying a medical envelope when you came upstairs.”
Cold rushed through me.
I had forgotten the clinic logo printed on the corner of the folder protruding from my purse.
Dante looked at it.
Then back at my face.
All the color left his.
“Are you sick?”
The fear in his voice stopped me.
Not suspicion.
Not possessiveness.
Fear.
“No.”
He closed his eyes for half a second.
Relief passed through him.
Then he looked at my stomach again.
And I knew.
The thought had entered his mind.
“No,” I said immediately.
His breathing slowed.
“Lena.”
“Don’t.”
He took one step toward me.
“Are you pregnant?”
My eyes filled before I could stop them.
That was answer enough.
Dante stopped breathing.
He looked at my stomach.
Then at me.
Then back again.
Whatever words he tried to form never came.
The most feared man in Chicago simply stood there staring at me like the world had changed without asking his permission.
“How long?”
I said nothing.
His eyes lifted.
“Is it mine?”
I slapped him.
The sound cracked across the room.
Dante’s head turned.
My palm burned.
I had never hit him before.
He slowly looked back at me.
“If you ever ask me that again,” I whispered, “you will never see me or this child.”
His expression twisted.
“I deserved that.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked shaken.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You meant exactly what you asked.”
“No.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“I was calculating dates.”
“You were insulting me.”
“You’re right.”
He swallowed.
“It was mine.”
The choice of tense made my chest hurt.
Was.
As if he already believed he had lost the baby too.
I walked toward the purse.
Dante’s eyes followed me.
I could have hidden the rest.
Maybe I should have.
But something in me was suddenly tired of secrets.
I took out the ultrasound photograph.
My fingers trembled.
Dante watched every movement.
I held it toward him.
He approached carefully.
Almost reverently.
When he took it, his fingertips brushed mine.
He looked at the image.
Confusion appeared first.
Then concentration.
Then his eyes widened.
He looked at me.
Then back at the photograph.
“Why are there two?”
My lips trembled.
“Because there are two.”
Dante stared at me.
I watched understanding move across the face of a man who had faced armed enemies without blinking.
“Twins?”
I nodded.
The ultrasound photograph shook in his hand.
And then Dante Moretti dropped to his knees.
I had seen men kneel in front of Dante before.
Some begged.
Some apologized.
Some offered loyalty.
Dante never seemed impressed by any of them.
Now he was the one on his knees.
Not because someone had defeated him.
Because there were two blurred shapes on a piece of paper.
“Dante.”
He didn’t answer.
His eyes stayed fixed on the ultrasound.
For several seconds, I wondered if he had even heard me.
Then his thumb moved carefully over the edge of the image.
Not touching the babies.
Almost as if he was afraid he could damage them through paper.
“Two.”
His voice cracked.
I had never heard that sound from him.
“Yes.”
“When did you find out?”
“Today.”
His head lifted.
“About the twins?”
“Yes.”
“And the pregnancy?”
“Two weeks ago.”
Pain flashed across his face.
“You’ve known for two weeks.”
“I found out after I left.”
He stood slowly.
“Were you going to tell me?”
The question wasn’t angry.
That made it worse.
“I don’t know.”
His jaw tightened.
I forced myself to continue.
“I wasn’t planning to hide your children forever.”
“Children.”
He looked down at the photograph.
The word seemed to stun him again.
“But I needed time.”
“You should have had it.”
I stared at him.
Dante inhaled.
“I shouldn’t have come here.”
That surprised me.
“You said you wanted me to leave you alone.”
His voice was rough.
“I should have listened.”
He handed the ultrasound back to me.
I expected him to demand another copy.
I expected questions.
Doctors.
Security.
Plans.
Instead, he opened the door.
“I’ll go.”
I watched him.
“You’re not going to ask anything?”
“A thousand things.”
He looked toward my stomach.
“But you don’t owe me answers tonight.”
That was new.
Dante had spent years believing information was his right.
Now he was waiting for permission.
His hand tightened around the door handle.
“I want to be their father.”
My chest tightened.
“You already are.”
“No.”
His eyes met mine.
“I mean I want to deserve it.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He left.
For almost an hour, I stood in the middle of the hotel room thinking about the sound his knees had made when they hit the floor.
The next morning, there were no flowers.
No calls.
No messages.
Instead, I received a single email from his attorney confirming that Dante had instructed his legal team not to contest my divorce filing.
I read it three times.
Then I cried.
I had spent two weeks wanting proof that Dante could finally respect a choice he hated.
The moment he gave it to me, part of my heart shattered.
That was the cruelty of loving someone who had hurt you.
Sometimes their improvement came too late to save what you wanted it to save.
I moved out of the hotel a week later.
Not because Dante told me to.
He never contacted me.
I found a small furnished apartment forty minutes outside downtown.
It had chipped kitchen cabinets.
A narrow balcony.
A second bedroom I immediately started imagining with two cribs.
My mother helped me move.
She learned about the twins when she found me sitting on the floor surrounded by baby furniture websites.
She screamed.
Then cried.
Then hugged me so tightly I reminded her there were three people inside the hug.
She cried harder.
I told her what happened with Dante.
All of it.
She didn’t tell me to forgive him.
She didn’t tell me to leave him.
She simply held my hand.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s allowed.”
May you like
I looked at her.
“For how long?”
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