Chapter 8
Six months later, I sat at a corner table in Trattoria Lucia, watching the dinner rush from a safe distance.
The restaurant had been remodeled. New paint. New menu. New name—Arya’s, if you could believe it. Dante had insisted.
“You brought the place back to life,” he’d said when I protested. “It should carry your name.”
Tonight was the soft reopening. The dining room was full—tourists, regulars, a few faces I recognized from the mansion. Matteo Rossi sat at a corner table with his wife, raising a glass in my direction when I caught his eye.
Some wars end. Some wounds heal.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, warm and familiar.
“Hide out here long enough, and they’ll put you to work.”
I looked up at Dante. He wore a dark suit, no tie—the uniform of a man who no longer needed to prove anything.
“They can try.”
He sat across from me, taking my hand across the table. “Luca’s out of the hospital.”
“Good. Is he still insisting on the scar?”
“It’s a conversation starter, he says.”
I laughed. It felt good. Light. Normal.
The past six months had been chaos. Marco’s arrest, following the discovery of evidence I’d helped gather. The restructuring of the family business. Legitimate investments. Real estate. A foundation that funded arts education in underprivileged neighborhoods.
Dante had changed. Not completely—he was still a man who could be dangerous when he needed to be. But the darkness that had consumed him for so long had receded. In its place was something lighter. Warmer.
He smiled more now. Actually smiled.
“Elena’s going to kill you for leaving the office early,” I said.
“Elena runs the office now. She can handle it.”
“Delegate. That’s growth.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He lifted my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “I had a good teacher.”
“Who taught you to delegate?”
“Who taught me to trust.” His eyes met mine, warm and steady. “To love. To believe that the future could be worth fighting for.”
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Good. I like seeing you emotional.”
“Monster.”
“Your monster.”
I leaned across the table and kissed him. The restaurant hummed around us—the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation, the sizzle of the kitchen. Life, continuing.
When we broke apart, a waiter appeared at our table, holding a bottle of wine.
“Compliments of the chef,” he said, setting it down.
I looked at the label. A 2015 Barolo. My mother’s favorite.
“Marco’s trying to get on your good side,” I murmured.
“It’s working.”
Dante poured two glasses, handing one to me. He raised his.
“To Arya Ki. Who walked into a restaurant, spoke her mind, and changed everything.”
I clinked my glass against his.
“To Dante Vitale. Who yelled at a waitress and fell in love.”
He laughed—a real, full laugh that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.
“Are you ever going to let me live that down?”
“Never.”
“Good.” He squeezed my hand. “I don’t want you to.”
We drank. The wine was perfect. The night was warm. And the man I loved sat across from me, his eyes full of light, his hand in mine.
May you like
Six months ago, I was a waitress running from a monster.
Tonight, I was home.
