Elena POV
We hit the Chicago city limits after dark.
The skyline rose against the bruised purple sky like a jagged row of teeth.
This was his kingdom.
Every building, every street corner, every casting shadow belonged to the Moretti family.
Dante stared out the window, his expression an unreadable mask.
Did he feel the pull of it?
Did the city sing to him in a language he had forgotten?
Or was it just lights and cold concrete to him now?
We pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Estate.
They swung open in silence.
The long driveway was lined with guards standing at rigid attention.
Their faces were masks of discipline, yet I caught the flicker of shock in their eyes as the headlights swept over them.
The Ghost had returned.
The convoy halted in front of the main house.
It was a fortress disguised as a mansion.
Stone walls climbed into Gothic arches, cold and imposing, mirroring the soul of the man who had built it.
Dante stepped out and helped Mia down.
She looked fragile against the backdrop of the massive stone facade, gripping his hand as if it were her only anchor.
The heavy front doors opened.
The Donna—Dante’s mother—stepped onto the porch.
She was draped in black, the color of her mourning for the last three years.
Her silver hair was pulled back in a severe, exacting bun.
Then, she saw Dante.
She froze.
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry that threatened to shatter her composure.
Dante stiffened.
He looked at the woman who had given him life with the blank eyes of a stranger.
"Who is she?" he asked Mia, his voice low and guarded.
"That’s your mother, Arthur," Mia whispered, using the name of the man he had become.
The Donna broke.
She ran down the stone steps, abandoning all protocol, ignoring the guards who watched.
She threw her arms around her son, burying her face in his chest.
Dante hesitated, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, before he gently patted her back.
"It’s okay," he said, his eyes darting to Mia for rescue.
The Donna pulled back, framing his face with trembling hands.
"My boy," she wept, her voice raw. "My beautiful boy. You came back to us."
Then, her gaze shifted.
She saw Mia.
And then, the swell of her belly.
Her eyes went wide with shock.
Slowly, her gaze lifted to find me.
I was standing by the lead car, half-hidden in the shadows.
I met her stare and gave a sharp, imperceptible nod.
Accept it.
The Donna swallowed her confusion.
She was a Mafia wife; she knew the code.
Survival came first. Questions came later.
"Come inside," she said, hastily wiping her tears. "You must be tired."
She ushered them toward the warmth of the house.
I waited until the heavy doors closed behind them before I walked up the steps.
The Donna was waiting for me in the foyer.
The servants had already whisked Dante and Mia away to the guest wing.
Without a word, she pulled me into the library and sealed the heavy oak doors.
"Elena," she breathed, her voice trembling. "What is this? Who is that woman?"
"She saved him," I answered simply. "She is the mother of his child."
"But you are his wife!"
"He doesn't remember me, Isabella."
I walked over to the fireplace, needing the heat.
Above the mantle hung a portrait of Dante and me.
We looked like gods in oil and canvas.
Untouchable.
"He thinks I am a cousin," I said, staring at the painted ghosts. "And that is how it will stay."
"Elena, no. We can make him remember. The doctors—"
"The doctors said the trauma could break his mind permanently," I interrupted, turning to face her. "He is happy, Isabella. Look at him. He smiles now."
She stared at me, horror slowly dawning on her features.
"You are going to let him go?"
"I made a vow," I whispered. "Until death. I only wanted him alive. He is alive. My prayer was answered."
"But at what cost?" she cried, stepping closer. "You have waited three years. You have mourned him every single day."
"I am fine."
She looked at me closely then, really looked at me.
She saw the unnatural pallor of my skin.
She saw the faint tremors in my hands.
"You are not fine," she whispered, her voice catching. "You look like you are fading away."
"I have six months," I said.
The words hung in the stale air of the library.
"My heart is failing. The stress... the defect. It’s done."
Isabella gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "No."
"Yes. So let him be happy. Let him have this life."
I looked back at the portrait, at the woman I used to be.
"I won't be here to see the end of it anyway."
