Chapter 12 - The Departure
(Word count target: ~2000 words)
The Russo estate was quiet when we returned.
Sophia was waiting for us in the grand foyer, holding her stuffed teddy bear, wearing a yellow cardigan over her dress. The second the heavy front doors opened, her big brown eyes lit up.
“...Daddy! ...Clara!” she called out—her voice stronger now, clear and melodic.
Dante dropped to his knees instantly, catching his daughter as she threw herself into his arms. He held her tight, lifting her into the air, a rare, radiant smile breaking across his face as he kissed her cheeks.
“We won, sweet girl,” Dante whispered, holding her close. “No one’s ever taking you away again.”
Sophia laughed—a bright, tinkling sound that filled the grand foyer with pure magic. She reached out one small hand, tugging at my sleeve. “Clara... play blocks?”
My heart broke into a thousand jagged pieces. I smiled through the lump in my throat, stepping forward to touch her curl. “Of course, sweetie. Let’s build the biggest castle in the world.”
We spent the afternoon in the family room. I forced myself to absorb every second—the scent of fresh pastries baking in the oven, the sound of Sophia’s laughter, the warm, quiet presence of Dante sitting beside us on the rug. I memorized every detail, holding them tight against my chest like precious jewels I would have to live on for the rest of my life.
At 8:30 PM, after Sophia was fast asleep in her canopy bed, I walked down the quiet corridor of the west wing to my bedroom.
My battered suitcase sat open on the plush rug. Over the last two hours, I had quietly packed my old clothes, my worn kitchen aprons, and my notebook of pastry recipes. I left the expensive designer dresses Dante had bought me hanging neatly in the walk-in closet, untouched.
On the nightstand lay the two documents: the title deed to the commercial building on Spring Street in SoHo, and the signed annulment petition.
I picked up the pen.
My hand was shaking violently. Tears blurred my vision, dripping onto the white paper. It’s what you agreed to, Clara, I told myself fiercely. You saved Sophia. You got your dream. Don't ruin it by wanting things that aren't yours.
I pressed the nib to the paper and signed my name on the annulment line. Clara Brooks.
I set the pen down, zipping up my suitcase with a final, heavy sound.
I dragged my bag out into the dark hallway, heading toward Dante’s private study to leave the papers on his desk.
The study door was half-open. Warm yellow light streamed out onto the dark wood floorboards.
I stepped into the room softly.
Dante was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out into the dark garden. He had stripped off his suit jacket, his dark dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, holding an amber glass of scotch in his hand. He looked massive, solitary, and deeply melancholic.
He didn't turn around, but he heard my footsteps.
“You’re packed,” Dante said quietly. It wasn't a question.
“Yes,” I whispered, setting the manila folder with the signed annulment and deed on the corner of his heavy oak desk. “I signed the papers, Dante. Marcus can file them on Monday.”
Dante took a slow sip of his scotch. He turned around slowly, his gray eyes locking onto me standing in the doorway with my heavy suitcase beside my feet.
The intensity in his gaze was suffocating.
“You’re leaving tonight?” he asked, his deep voice dropping into a low, rough murmur.
“It’s better this way,” I said, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. “Sophia is safe. The trial is over. If I stay longer, it will only confuse her... and make it harder when I leave.”
Dante walked slowly toward me, stopping three feet away. He set his glass down on the desk, his gaze sweeping over my face, my eyes, and my trembling lips.
“And what about you, Clara?” Dante asked softly. “Is it easy for you to walk out that door?”
“I have my bakery to build, Dante,” I lied, looking down at my shoes because I knew if I looked into his eyes, I would crumble completely. “It’s what I came here for.”
Silence fell over the study—a long, agonizing silence.
Dante stepped closer. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently lifting my chin until I was forced to look at him.
“Look at me and say that again,” Dante commanded softly. His gray eyes were dark, stormy, and raw with a fierce, agonizing emotion. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel anything for me, Clara. Tell me this was just a business deal, and I will let you walk out that door right now.”
My breath caught in my throat. Tears spilled over my eyelashes, tracking down my flushed cheeks.
“Dante... please don't do this,” I sobbed softly. “You’re Manhattan’s most powerful man. You live in a world of fortresses, bodyguards, and danger. I’m just a baker from Queens. We don't belong together.”
“I don't give a damn about Manhattan, Clara!” Dante roared softly, his voice thick with raw, desperate passion. He caught my face in both of his massive hands, his thumbs gently wiping away my tears. “I don't care about the money, the reputation, or the world outside those iron gates! You brought this dead house back to life! You saved my daughter! You saved me!”
He pressed his forehead against mine, his hot breath fanning across my lips.
“I fell in love with you the second I saw you holding my daughter in that restaurant, Clara,” Dante whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “Do not walk away from me. Please.”
My heart exploded with a wave of pure, overwhelming joy.
I dropped my hands to his chest, clutching his dress shirt, pulling him down to me.
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“I love you too, Dante,” I cried softly. “I love you so much.”
Dante let out a low, rough growl, his mouth crashing down onto mine in a fierce, possessive, intoxicating kiss that shattered the last remaining wall between us. He lifted me easily into his arms, kicking the study door shut behind us, as the rainy Manhattan night dissolved into pure, roaring passion.
