Chapter 10 - THE GARDEN OF MARINO
Three years later.
The morning sun warmed the courtyard of the Oyster Bay estate. The iron gates were still there, and the security systems remained the most advanced in the northeast, but the atmosphere inside the estate was entirely unrecognizable.
Children's laughter echoed across the manicured lawns.
A two-year-old boy with dark, unruly hair and Dante's deep brown eyes was chasing a golden retriever through the sprinkler spray near the fountain.
Rosa sat in a custom electric wheelchair on the paved patio, clapping her hands with delight every time the boy tripped over his own feet and scrambled back up with a grin.
"Watch him, Dante!" Rosa shouted toward the open terrace doors. "He has your feet! He's going to run right into the rosebushes!"
Dante stepped out onto the patio, wearing a casual linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was carrying a tray with fresh fruit and coffee. The dark shadows that had once lived permanently beneath his eyes were entirely gone, replaced by small, light laugh lines around his corners.
He placed the tray down beside his mother, leaning over to kiss the top of her silver head.
"He's fine, Ma," Dante smiled, watching his son. "He's tougher than he looks."
Clara emerged from the house a moment later, holding a four-month-old baby girl wrapped in a soft yellow blanket against her chest. She looked happy, healthy, and completely radiant, her eyes glowing as she watched her husband and son.
Dante walked over to her instantly, wrapping one arm around her waist and leaning down to press a soft kiss against the baby's forehead, then against Clara's lips.
"How is little Rosa doing?" he asked softly.
"She just fell asleep," Clara smiled, looking down at their daughter. "Though her brother is making enough noise to wake up the whole harbor."
Dante looked out over his lawn—at his mother laughing in the sun, his son playing in the water, and his wife holding their baby in his arms.
For thirty years, he had believed that his family's legacy was written in blood, fear, and the dark corners of a city that never cared if he lived or died. He had thought that power was something you grabbed with an iron fist and held until someone stronger cut your fingers off.
Now, he knew the truth.
Power was not the gun in his desk or the men at his gates. Power was the quiet, unbreakable courage of a woman who had thrown herself into the path of fire for love—and in doing so, had taught a monster how to become a human being.
"What are you looking at?" Clara asked, tilting her head up to look at him with a tender smile.
May you like
Dante pulled her closer against his side, feeling the warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart, and the soft, peaceful rise and fall of her chest.
"Nothing," Dante whispered, pressing his lips against her hair as the golden morning light washed over the garden. "Just my world."
