The moment the shy waitress raised her hands, the mafia boss’s mother finally looked at someone who understood her—and Dante realized he had missed something for years.

The aftermath of the attempted ambush sent shockwaves through the city's underground, but inside the Moretti estate, it solidified an undeniable truth: Emma and Lily were no longer guests or hired staff. They were family.

That evening, Dante called Emma into his private office on the top floor. The room was dark, lit only by the glowing city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls.

When Emma walked in, Dante was standing by the window, a glass of amber scotch in his hand. He had stripped off his holster and necktie, looking relaxed in a way Emma had never seen before.

"The men who came today have been handled," Dante said quietly, turning to face her. "The family that sent them no longer exists in this city."

Emma took a step into the room, leaning back against the edge of his mahogany desk. "And your mother?"

"She's sleeping like a baby," Dante smiled faintly. "She told me before she went to bed that I was sloppy for not noticing the lieutenant's twitch myself. She gave me a lecture on situational awareness."

Emma laughed softly, the sound filling the quiet room. "She's missed thirty years of talking, Dante. She has a lot of opinions saved up."

Dante set his glass down on the window sill and walked slowly toward her. The casual air faded, replaced by that heavy, magnetic focus that always made Emma's pulse quicken. He stopped just inches away from her, his presence warm and overwhelming.

"I brought you here to be a translator, Emma," Dante said, his voice dropping to a velvety, low purr. "I told myself it was a transaction. A six-month contract to fix my home."

"And now?" Emma asked, her voice barely a whisper, her heart thumping wildly against her ribs.

"Now I don't care about the contract," Dante said softly. He raised his hand, his long, powerful fingers hovering just above her cheek before gently tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "You didn't just teach me how to talk to my mother. You saved her. You saved me from a life where I was completely blind to the people I loved."

Emma looked into his dark, intense eyes, seeing no trace of the terrifying mafia boss the world feared. She saw a man who felt deeply, who protected fiercely, and who was looking at her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Dante..." she whispered.

Dante didn't answer with words. Instead, he raised both hands into the small space between their chests. His movements were slow, deliberate, and exquisitely clear.

He signed: “You... stay... here. With... me.”

Then, he added a sign Emma had never taught him—a complex, poetic gesture he must have looked up on his own in the quiet hours of the night.

He touched his fingers to his lips, then brought his hand down, opening his palm directly over his heart, pushing it toward her: “My heart belongs to you.”

Emma’s breath hitched in her throat. Tears prickled at the back of her eyes.

"Did I... sign it correctly?" Dante asked quietly, a rare flicker of doubt in his dark eyes.

Emma smiled, a watery, beautiful smile that broke through all her remaining defenses. She reached up, taking his large hands in hers, and brought them to her lips, kissing his knuckles gently.

"Your grammar was perfect," Emma whispered.