Elena Moretti POV:
Three days later, the heavy tires of a private jet stamped with the Moretti family crest hit the runway of a hidden island in the Caribbean.
The cabin door opened. A rush of warm, tropical air blew over my face, carrying the salty scent of the ocean. It instantly stripped away the freezing tension of the New York winter.
Dante had bought this island six months ago. He had legally wiped it off the public maps and renamed it after me. There were no tourists, no paparazzi, and no enemies. The only other people on the island were a staff of heavily vetted, mute servants who operated like ghosts.
I stepped off the plane wearing a flowing, white bohemian maxi dress. The silk brushed against my bare legs.
Five-year-old Leo sprinted past me. He kicked off his expensive leather loafers and ran barefoot onto the pristine white sand. He shrieked with pure, uncontained joy as he chased a tiny hermit crab toward the crashing waves.
I took a deep breath, letting the absolute silence of the island settle into my bones.
Dante walked up beside me. He had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt. He handed me a cold coconut with a straw. I took a sip of the sweet water, leaning my head against his shoulder.
As the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky in violent streaks of purple and gold, the island transformed.
The servants had set up a low wooden table directly on the beach, surrounded by hundreds of flickering white candles. There was no grand orchestra, no fake socialites. The only sound was the rhythmic, hypnotic crashing of the tide against the black rocks.
We ate dinner in peace. After an hour, Leo rubbed his eyes, exhausted from running. A servant gently picked him up and carried him back to the master villa to sleep.
Dante stood up. He held his hand out to me.
We walked together down the beach, stepping onto a long wooden pier that stretched far out over the dark water. We reached the end and sat down on the edge, our legs dangling over the ocean.
The sea breeze whipped my hair across my face. I rested my cheek against Dante's chest, listening to the slow, steady thud of his heart. It was the safest sound in the world.
Suddenly, Dante lifted his wrist. He checked the glowing dial of his watch.
He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. "Three," he whispered. "Two. One."
From the darkness of the ocean miles ahead of us, a sharp, whining whistle pierced the air.
*Fweeeeeeee.*
A streak of bright orange fire shot up into the pitch-black sky. A second later, it detonated with a massive, booming explosion, scattering a million golden sparks across the stars.
My body instantly went rigid. My pupils shrank to pinpricks.
The sound of the explosion bypassed my logical brain and slammed directly into my trauma. Ten years ago. The yacht in Chicago. Sofia firing the industrial firework directly into my chest. The burning flesh, the drowning, the absolute terror.
My breathing turned into frantic, shallow gasps. I threw my hands over my ears and curled my knees into my chest, a violent, involuntary physical reaction. I was trying to make myself as small as possible to survive the blast.
Dante moved instantly. He wrapped his massive, muscular arms around my shaking body. He didn't let me hide. He locked me tightly against his chest, trapping my hands so I couldn't cover my eyes.
"Look at it," Dante commanded. His voice wasn't harsh, but it was an absolute, unbreakable order.
Another firework screamed into the sky and exploded. The boom shook the wooden pier.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trembling violently.
"Open your eyes, Elena," Dante whispered fiercely against my temple. "The people who hurt you are dead. The past is dead. Look at the sky."
I forced my eyes open, my vision blurred with panicked tears.
A massive firework detonated directly above us. It exploded into a giant, brilliant red heart. The crimson light washed over the dark ocean, reflecting off the water and illuminating my pale, terrified face.
Dante took my trembling hand. He pressed my palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. It was beating steadily, radiating intense heat.
"The man sitting with you right now," Dante said, his voice thick with raw devotion, "is a man who would rip his own heart out before he let a single spark touch your skin."
Another barrage of fireworks lit up the sky. Blue, green, gold.
I stared at the colors. I listened to the explosions. There was no pain. There was no blood. There was only Dante's arms holding me, anchoring me to the earth.
Slowly, the frantic hammering in my chest began to slow. My muscles uncoiled. The cold terror in my veins was flushed out by the overwhelming, suffocating warmth of Dante's love. He was forcing me to rewrite my darkest memory.
The grand finale erupted, turning the night sky into a blazing dome of light.
As the final sparks drifted down toward the water like glowing snow, Dante reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small black velvet box and flipped it open with his thumb.
It wasn't a ring. Resting on the black velvet was a heavy, solid gold wax seal. The metal was engraved with the crest of the oldest, most powerful European syndicate.
"I spent the last six months gutting the European boardrooms," Dante whispered. "This is the absolute controlling stake of their empire. Happy ten-year anniversary, my queen."
I stared at the gold seal. I looked up at the smoke clearing from the sky. The final, deepest scar on my soul broke open and dissolved into nothing.
Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and fast. I didn't wipe them away. I turned my body, throwing my leg over Dante's lap, straddling him on the edge of the pier. I framed his face with both hands and crashed my mouth against his.
I kissed him with everything I had, tasting the salt of my tears and the ash in the air.
Elena rests against Dante's damp chest, her voice hoarse but full of strength: "Dante, I am never going to be afraid of the dark again."
