Chapter 10 - CONFESSIONS IN THE DARK
Three weeks later.
The Lombardi estate in Marblehead sat perched above the Atlantic ocean.
Waves crashed against the granite cliffs in rhythmic succession.
The mansion was quiet.
The war had ended with surgical finality.
Without Salvatore and Bianca, the remaining Falcone capos had surrendered their territories or fled to Florida.
The federal indictments had swept the corrupt port officials out of office.
The Lombardi syndicate stood unchallenged across New England.
Inside the sunlit library, Gemma sat on a velvet chaise lounge with a thick wool blanket over her lap.
Her incision had healed to a neat, pink scar.
Color had returned to her cheeks.
She was reading a financial audit report, because old habits died hard.
The heavy oak doors opened.
Dante stepped in.
He didn't wear tactical gear or shoulder holsters anymore.
He wore an unbuttoned charcoal dress shirt and tailored trousers.
He carried a silver tray with two porcelain cups of tea.
Earl Grey.
A slice of lemon.
Exactly the way she had ordered it for him every afternoon at three o'clock for five years.
He set the tray on the mahogany side table.
He handed her a cup.
“You shouldn't be serving me tea, Mr. Lombardi,” she teased gently.
“I told you,” Dante said, sitting on the edge of the chaise beside her legs.
“Never call me that again.”
She took a sip, smiling over the rim.
“It feels strange. Calling the most feared man in Boston by his first name.”
“You earned the right,” Dante said.
His expression turned serious.
The playful warmth faded into deep, brooding contemplation.
“I never told you about Leo,” he said quietly.
Gemma set her teacup down.
She reached out and placed her small, warm hand over his.
“You don't have to talk about it if it hurts.”
“I want to,” Dante said.
He looked out the French doors at the gray Atlantic.
“When our father died, Leo was only sixteen.”
“I promised him I would clean up the business.”
“I told him he wouldn't have to carry a gun.”
“He went to Harvard. He wanted to design container ships.”
Dante swallowed, his jaw tightening.
“When he died... I felt like my soul had been cut out of my chest.”
“I thought if I married Bianca, if I created peace between the families, his death would have meant something.”
“I almost walked into a snake pit to honor a lie.”
Gemma squeezed his fingers.
“You didn't know, Dante.”
“No,” he said, turning his dark eyes back to hers.
“Because I was blind.”
“I looked at power, I looked at contracts, I looked at duty.”
“And I ignored the only person who was actually protecting me.”
He leaned closer.
His thumb traced the soft curve of her cheek.
“Why didn't you leave, Gemma?”
“When you found the file at the Falcone estate... you could have taken your passport and vanished.”
“You could have caught a flight to Europe before they even realized you were gone.”
“Why did you come back to my building?”
Gemma held his gaze without flinching.
“Because you were going to marry her the next morning,” she said softly.
“Because you were going to die.”
“And I couldn't live in a world where you didn't exist.”
The raw honesty of her words hit him like a physical blow.
Dante didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He leaned forward and captured her mouth with his.
This kiss was slow, tender, and filled with five years of unspoken devotion.
Gemma sighed into his mouth, her fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against hers.
“You resign as my assistant,” Dante whispered against her lips.
Gemma blinked, startled.
“What?”
“Effective immediately,” he quoted her letter with a faint smile.
“I accept your resignation.”
“Dante—what am I supposed to do now?”
May you like
Dante reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a velvet box.
