Chapter 15 - THE WIFE HE CHOSE TO LOVE
Three years later, I stood in the conservatory holding a paintbrush.
Sunlight streamed through the windows.
The lemon trees were blooming.
And somewhere behind me, a little boy was laughing.
“Mommy!”
I turned.
My son, Matteo Viera, ran toward me.
He was two years old.
Dark-haired.
Gray-eyed.
And determined to touch every painting in the room.
“Matteo.”
I laughed.
“Careful.”
He stopped.
Then grinned.
“Daddy!”
Elio appeared in the doorway.
He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
No jacket.
No tie.
Just the man I loved.
He lifted Matteo into his arms.
“Trouble?”
Matteo giggled.
“Mommy painting.”
Elio smiled.
“I see that.”
He looked at me.
“Beautiful.”
I laughed.
“You haven't seen it.”
He smiled.
“I wasn't talking about the painting.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Flatterer.”
He chuckled.
Our life had changed.
Elio had stepped away from many of the criminal operations that once defined the Viera family.
He focused on legitimate businesses.
Supported community projects.
And spent more time at home.
I continued studying art history.
Worked with restoration specialists.
And eventually opened a small gallery in Chicago.
We had renewed our vows after I returned from Florence.
A private ceremony.
No contracts.
No alliances.
No bargaining.
Just us.
My father had not attended.
Our relationship remained complicated.
I had learned that forgiveness did not require pretending nothing had happened.
Lena stood beside me during the ceremony.
Teresa cried.
Bruno smiled.
And Elio held my hands as though they were the most precious things in the world.
Now, three years later, I looked at the man who had once said he never wanted me.
The man who had called me sheltered.
The man who had expected an heir and nothing more.
He had changed.
Not overnight.
Not because I had magically transformed him.
But because he had chosen to confront the parts of himself that had hurt others.
That evening, after Matteo fell asleep, Elio and I sat in the conservatory.
The fountain murmured softly.
The painting I'd made in Florence hung on the wall.
Elio took my hand.
“Do you ever think about our wedding day?”
I smiled faintly.
“Sometimes.”
He looked down.
“I was cruel.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“I wish I could take it back.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I know.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Elio whispered:
“I didn't want a wife.”
I looked at him.
He continued.
“I wanted an arrangement.”
His eyes filled.
“But you were never an arrangement.”
I smiled.
“No.”
He kissed my hand.
“You were the person who taught me how to love.”
I looked toward the painting.
Then back at him.
“You learned because you wanted to.”
Elio smiled.
“Yes.”
I leaned against him.
For years, I'd believed my life had been decided by other people.
My father.
My family.
The world I'd been born into.
But I'd learned something.
Even when people tried to choose your future, you could still fight for the right to make it your own.
Elio kissed my forehead.
“I love you, Ginevra.”
I smiled.
“I love you too.”
Outside, Chicago glittered beneath the night sky.
Inside, our son slept peacefully.
And the man who had once believed he didn't want me held my hand like he never wanted to let go.
But the difference was everything.
He no longer held me because I belonged to him.
May you like
He held me because I had chosen to stay.
And every day, he chose me too.
