Chương 6 - THE NIGHT DANTE STOPPED ASKING ME TO COME HOME
At thirty-six weeks, I moved out of the hotel.
Not back to Dante.
I rented a furnished townhouse in Lincoln Park.
Three bedrooms.
Tiny patio.
No doorman who knew the Moretti name.
Dante offered security.
I declined his people.
Hired a licensed firm independently after Mara convinced me pregnancy plus public financial litigation made some protection sensible.
That distinction mattered.
I knew the guards.
Their contract was with me.
I could end it.
Nobody sent Roman-style? Wrong universe. No.
Dante visited only by invitation.
He never entered my bedroom.
Never opened cabinets.
Never acted like rent somehow made the house temporary.
He had no key.
One Tuesday evening, he assembled two bassinets in the living room.
Badly.
I watched.
“You’re doing it backward.”
“I own construction companies.”
“You owned gambling rooms too.”
“Unrelated.”
“The screws disagree.”
He glared at the instructions.
I laughed.
For ten minutes, we were almost us.
Then his phone rang.
Sofia’s name appeared.
My body went cold before logic arrived.
Dante saw my face.
He turned the screen toward me.
“I haven’t spoken to her since Christmas.”
“Then why is she calling?”
“I don’t know.”
He declined.
The old part of me wanted to demand the phone.
Read messages.
Verify.
I hated that she could still reach inside my nervous system with three syllables.
Dante said:
“You can look.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“I don’t want to become your parole officer.”
His expression softened.
“Okay.”
Sofia left voicemail.
Dante put it on speaker only after asking.
She had received a subpoena related to Luca.
Needed a copy of an old Moretti contract from Dante’s attorney.
Nothing personal.
Fine.
My body took longer to believe it.
Dante noticed.
“I’m sorry.”
“For the call?”
“For making your body react like that.”
I looked at him.
That apology mattered more than saying Sofia meant nothing.
Because she had meant something.
The affair had been real.
He could not erase it.
We finished the bassinets.
One still wobbled.
Dante took it apart and started again.
Later he asked:
“Do you think you’ll divorce me?”
Direct.
I appreciated it.
“Yes.”
His hands stopped.
Not:
Maybe.
Not:
I don’t know.
Yes.
Dante looked toward the floor.
“Okay.”
“You knew.”
“I hoped.”
“I know.”
“Do you hate me?”
“No.”
“That almost feels worse.”
“It shouldn’t.”
He looked at me.
“I still love you.”
My throat tightened.
“I still love you too.”
That surprised him.
Then hope entered his face.
I stopped it immediately.
“Love is not a verdict.”
His expression changed.
I continued.
“I can love you and still know I should not be married to you.”
“You cheated.”
“You gaslit me.”
“You let me sign things I didn’t understand because involving me was inconvenient.”
“You built a life where everyone knew more about my legal position than I did.”
“You’re changing.”
“I see that.”
“But I cannot make staying married the reward for your improvement.”
Dante closed his eyes.
The sentence landed.
After a long time:
“What happens to us?”
“We become parents.”
“And after?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
No bargaining.
Then:
“I won’t ask you to come home again.”
I stared.
“You won’t?”
“No.”
“If you ever want to be with me, I want you walking toward something you choose.”
“Not back to something I own.”
The man had finally learned the sentence.
Maybe too late.
Still worth learning.
Two nights later, my contractions started at 1:14 a.m.
Real this time.
I called the hospital.
Then Mara? No.
Then Dante.
He answered immediately.
“Lena?”
“I think it’s time.”
Silence.
Then a thud.
“Did you fall?”
“Coffee table.”
I laughed through a contraction.
“Chicago’s most feared man defeated by furniture.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Can I come?”
“Yes.”
That question.
Still.
Yes.
Dante arrived in twelve minutes.
Probably violated traffic laws.
I chose not to ask.
At the hospital, I labored for nine hours.
Twin A arrived first.
A girl.
Mia Grace Moretti.
Five pounds, eleven ounces.
Screaming.
Perfect.
Three minutes later, Twin B.
A boy.
Nicholas Enzo Moretti.
Five pounds, eight ounces.
Dante heard the middle name and broke.
“Enzo?”
I nodded.
“Your father was complicated.”
“So are you.”
“Apparently I collect difficult Morettis.”
He laughed through tears.
Then something happened outside the delivery room that nobody noticed except our lawyers.
At 10:43 a.m., the Moretti Descendant Protection Trust activated.
Fifty-two percent of the voting control in Moretti’s legitimate companies transferred irrevocably for Mia and Nicholas.
And I became trustee.
At 11:15, while Dante held our daughter, Julian received confirmation on his phone.
He showed Dante.
Dante read it.
Then looked at me.
“Congratulations.”
I laughed weakly.
“For taking your company?”
“It isn’t mine anymore.”
He looked at Mia.
“Maybe that’s good.”
Then he lowered himself beside my hospital bed.
One knee on the floor.
Not begging for marriage.
Not asking me to forgive him.
He looked at our son asleep against my chest.
Then at our daughter in his arms.
And said:
“I don’t want the company back.”
“I want permission to be their father.”
That was the day Chicago’s most feared man finally understood the difference between power and permission.
I gave him the only answer that mattered.
“Earn it every day.”
He nodded.
May you like
“I will.”
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