Chapter 9 - THE WOMAN WHO REFUSED THE MANSION
Four months later, Clare left Dante.
At least, that was how the tabloids described it.
MYSTERY WOMAN WALKS OUT ON SALVATORE BILLIONAIRE.
The truth was less dramatic.
And more important.
Clare rented an apartment.
Dante hated it.
“It has one bathroom.”
“Yes.”
“The elevator makes noise.”
“It’s an elevator.”
“The doorman is seventy-three.”
“His name is Frank.”
“He couldn’t stop an attacker.”
“He stopped you yesterday because you forgot your visitor badge.”
Dante scowled.
Clare smiled.
“That’s why I like him.”
She needed a life that belonged to her.
Not Richard.
Not Dante.
Hers.
She returned to nursing.
Three shifts a week at a maternal health clinic in Manhattan.
Maya started preschool.
Marco became the absurdly overprotective uncle who arrived with enough birthday gifts for twelve children.
And Dante?
Dante learned how to knock.
It was harder than dismantling a criminal empire.
He was cooperating with federal authorities, selling businesses connected to illegal operations and converting legitimate holdings into a conventional investment group.
Some associates called it weakness.
Dante called it retirement from stupidity.
Every Wednesday, he brought Leo to Clare’s apartment.
Not because Leo needed nursing anymore.
He had finally accepted bottles and solid foods.
Dante came because Maya expected him for spaghetti night.
One Wednesday, Clare opened the door.
Dante held flowers.
Maya frowned.
“You got Mom flowers again?”
“Yes.”
“You like her.”
Dante looked at Clare.
“Unfortunately.”
Clare laughed.
Maya whispered loudly, “You should kiss.”
“Maya.”
“What?”
Dante removed his coat.
“She has excellent instincts.”
“Don’t encourage her.”
Later, after the children slept, Clare found Dante washing dishes.
“You know I have a dishwasher.”
“I don’t trust it.”
“You don’t trust appliances?”
“I trust people even less.”
She leaned against the counter.
“You’ve changed.”
He looked over.
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“Better or worse?”
“Different.”
That answer mattered more.
Dante dried his hands.
“I want to ask you something.”
Clare stiffened.
He noticed immediately.
“No ring.”
She relaxed.
Dante almost smiled.
“I learned something.”
“What?”
“You don’t like surprises involving permanent life decisions.”
“Excellent progress.”
“I want you to come home.”
Clare’s smile disappeared.
“Dante—”
“Not my home.”
He stepped closer.
“Ours.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I bought nothing.”
She blinked.
“That might be the most romantic sentence you’ve ever said.”
“You choose it.”
“Choose what?”
“Where we live. Apartment. House. New York. Ohio. Rome. Somewhere else.”
He paused.
“Or we don’t live together.”
Clare stared.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“And if I say no?”
“I come back Wednesday.”
Her eyes filled.
Richard had used love as a contract.
Dante was offering it as a choice renewed every week.
Clare touched his cheek.
“Ask me again.”
“Come home with me.”
She kissed him.
“Yes.”
A month later, they chose a brownstone in Brooklyn.
Not a mansion.
Not a fortress.
A home.
Maya picked the room facing the backyard.
Marco installed security cameras anyway.
Clare made him remove half.
Dante secretly put two back.
Clare discovered them.
He slept on the couch.
For one night.
The next morning, Maya climbed onto him.
“Are you in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I made a poor decision.”
Maya nodded wisely.
“Grown-ups do that a lot.”
Dante looked toward Clare.
“Apparently.”
Their happiness lasted exactly thirteen days before a letter arrived.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
Alessia.
Elena.
And a third woman.
Clare.
Taken outside St. Matthew’s Hospital four years earlier.
On the back:
ASK CLARE WHAT SHE REMEMBERS ABOUT THE NIGHT MAYA WAS BORN.
Dante stared at it.
Clare’s hands began shaking.
Because suddenly she remembered something she had buried beneath anesthesia, grief and years of manipulation.
A woman leaning over her hospital bed.
Dark hair.
Tears.
Alessia.
May you like
And four words whispered into Clare’s ear:
Please protect my goddaughter.
