Chapter 8 - The First Real DateDante was alive.
Isabella learned this before reaching the hospital.
What Marco had called an accident was a collision caused by a delivery truck running a red light.
Dante suffered a fractured wrist, six stitches and bruised ribs.
When Isabella entered his room, he was arguing with a nurse.
“You are not leaving,” the nurse said.
“I have dinner.”
“You were hit by a truck.”
“I made a reservation.”
“You didn't,” Isabella said from the doorway. “I did.”
Dante stopped.
The nurse looked relieved.
“You're his wife?”
Isabella hesitated.
Dante answered first.
“It's complicated.”
The nurse pointed at Isabella.
“Keep him here.”
Then left.
Isabella folded her arms.
“You were planning to leave?”
“I was late.”
“You were unconscious.”
“Poor excuse.”
She laughed.
He smiled.
And suddenly they were no longer Don and Donna Morty.
Just two people in a hospital room trying to figure out whether love could survive the damage done in its name.
Isabella sat.
“I thought you were dead.”
Dante's smile disappeared.
“I'm sorry.”
“You didn't drive the truck.”
“No, but apparently I've trained you to expect catastrophe whenever I miss dinner.”
“That is true.”
He studied her.
“Were you worried?”
She gave him a look.
“Don't ruin the moment.”
His smile returned.
Their first date happened in the hospital cafeteria.
Dante wore a sling.
Isabella ate terrible pasta.
Neither had bodyguards at the table.
Technically.
Marco sat fifteen feet away pretending not to watch them.
They talked for three hours.
Not about crime.
Not about inheritance.
About books.
Music.
Her childhood.
His.
Isabella discovered Dante hated olives despite eating them politely for years because Maria believed he liked them.
Dante discovered Isabella wanted to see Alaska.
“You hate cold weather.”
“I hate being cold in places I've already seen.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It doesn't need to.”
He smiled.
There was freedom in being misunderstood without being corrected.
Over the following months, they dated.
Actually dated.
Coffee.
Dinner.
Walks.
Sometimes Isabella kissed him goodbye.
Sometimes she didn't.
Dante never assumed.
The change was almost painfully slow.
Exactly as it needed to be.
Meanwhile, Lorenzo's trial approached.
He had cooperated against Bellini, but prosecutors still sought prison time for kidnapping Maria and attempting to coerce Isabella.
Before sentencing, Lorenzo requested to see her.
She almost refused.
Then went.
He sat behind reinforced glass.
The arrogance remained, but it had thinned.
“You won,” he said.
“This wasn't a game.”
“It always is in our family.”
“That's why your family destroyed itself.”
Lorenzo leaned back.
“Dante loves you.”
“I know.”
“You always wanted that.”
Isabella was silent.
Then she realized something.
“No.”
Lorenzo frowned.
“I wanted to be valued.”
She looked directly at him.
“I confused that with being loved because I was nineteen.”
His smile faded.
“You think people change?”
“Some do.”
“My brother?”
“That's between him and me.”
Lorenzo laughed.
“You sound like a Don.”
“No.”
Isabella stood.
“I sound like myself.”
Lorenzo received eleven years.
Maria attended sentencing.
When it ended, she walked outside, inhaled deeply and said, “Good. Now somebody take me to lunch.”
Isabella laughed so hard she cried.
By the following summer, Dante's home confinement ended.
Bellandi Harbor was thriving.
Morty Trucking had been reorganized into a legitimate logistics company.
Dante sold several properties and used part of the proceeds to compensate businesses harmed by the old network.
One evening he visited Isabella's townhouse.
He brought orchids.
She opened the door.
“You remembered.”
“Of course.”
“Why orchids?”
“You dislike roses.”
Isabella stared.
“No, Alderman Bellini's wife disliked roses.”
Dante's face fell.
She burst out laughing.
Six years of marriage, and he did not know her favorite flower.
He looked genuinely embarrassed.
“What do you like?”
“Peonies.”
“Peonies.”
“Pink.”
He nodded solemnly.
“I will remember until death.”
“That's dramatic.”
“I'm Italian.”
“You're from Rhode Island.”
“My ancestors are offended.”
She laughed again.
Later they sat on the floor eating pizza because Isabella's dining table was covered in contracts.
Dante noticed one.
“Expansion?”
“Boston.”
His eyebrows rose.
She smiled.
“Yes. Actual Boston.”
He shook his head.
“I deserve that.”
“Yes.”
She leaned against the sofa.
“I've been thinking about the divorce papers.”
Dante became still.
“What about them?”
“I signed them.”
He did not move.
Pain passed through his expression before he controlled it.
“Okay.”
One word.
No argument.
No anger.
“Okay?” she asked.
“You wanted a choice.”
His voice was quiet.
“I meant it.”
Isabella reached into the drawer.
She handed him the papers.
He looked down.
Her signature was there.
But beneath it, written in pencil, were four words.
Not filed. Not yet.
Dante looked up.
“I don't understand.”
“I needed to sign them.”
“Why?”
“To prove to myself that I could.”
His eyes softened.
“And now?”
“Now I want to decide what comes after because I want it, not because my father arranged it or you controlled it or our families expect it.”
Dante slowly put the papers down.
“What do you want?”
Isabella looked at him.
“A year.”
“For what?”
“For you to court me.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Court you?”
“Properly.”
“We've been dating for months.”
“You brought me the wrong flowers.”
“Fair.”
“And at the end of the year?”
“I decide whether those papers go to court.”
Dante considered it.
Then extended his hand.
“Deal.”
She shook it.
He started to release her.
Isabella held on.
Then pulled him closer and kissed him.
Slowly.
When they separated, Dante looked almost dazed.
She smiled.
“One year.”
“I may need less.”
“Arrogance.”
“Optimism.”
“Go home, Dante.”
He stood.
At the door, he turned.
“Pink peonies?”
She nodded.
The next morning, forty-eight pink peonies arrived at her office.
Isabella stared at them.
Then at the card.
I may have overcorrected. — D
She laughed.
Her assistant leaned inside.
“Ms. Bellandi?”
“Yes?”
“There are another twelve bouquets downstairs.”
May you like
Isabella covered her face.
Some things, apparently, took longer to fix than others.
