Chapter 6 - A TASTE OF FREEDOM
Two weeks passed.
The snow on the mountain began to melt, yielding to the pale green shoots of early spring.
Elena’s strength returned rapidly. Under Dr. Calloway’s care and Mrs. Gable’s relentless feeding schedule, the pale, hollow look in her cheeks vanished. Her skin regained a healthy glow, her dark eyes sparkled with life, and her small baby bump was now faintly visible beneath the soft sweaters Dante had bought for her.
For the first time in her life, she was allowed to walk freely.
She spent her afternoons in the grand library, reading books on art history and gardening—subjects she had dreamed of studying as a girl. Dante rarely interrupted her during the day, but every evening at seven o'clock, he joined her in the dining room for dinner.
They did not discuss the war, nor did they mention the Ashworths.
Instead, Dante asked about her favorite books. He listened intently as she talked about her love for old classical paintings, his sharp, icy eyes watching her expressions with a quiet, intense focus that made her heart flutter in strange, unfamiliar ways.
One evening, as rain tapped softly against the windowpanes, Elena sat by the fire in the library, sketching the stone hearth on a pad of heavy paper.
Dante walked in, carrying two cups of warm chamomile tea. He handed one to her, sitting in the armchair opposite hers.
“You’re talented,” Dante noted, looking at the sketch.
Elena flushed slightly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “It’s just a hobby. Vivienne used to throw away her old art supplies, so I would steal the pencils from her trash.”
Dante’s jaw tightened slightly at the mention of her sister, but his tone remained calm. “You don't have to steal pencils anymore, Elena. Anything you want, you ask me.”
Elena set the sketchbook down, looking at him thoughtfully. “Why are you so good to me, Dante? You’re supposed to be a ruthless mafia boss. The news calls you a monster.”
Dante took a sip of his tea, staring into the roaring flames.
“Monsters are created, Elena,” he said softly. “When my father died, I had to become ruthless to keep his enemies from killing my family. I’ve done terrible things to protect my empire. But I have never harmed a child, and I have never harmed a woman who couldn't fight back.”
He turned his head, his sea-cold eyes locking onto hers with profound warmth.
“When I pulled back that dress three weeks ago,” Dante whispered, “I saw a woman who had suffered more violence than my hardened soldiers, yet still had enough love in her heart to protect her unborn baby. You aren't weak, Elena. You are the strongest person I have ever met.”
Elena felt a lump form in her throat. No one had ever called her strong. No one had ever looked at her with anything other than disgust or pity.
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She reached out, her small, warm fingers gently resting over Dante’s large, scarred hand on the armrest.
Dante didn't pull away. He turned his hand over, his fingers intertwining with hers, holding her grip with a soft, protective strength that made her feel entirely safe for the first time in her life.
