Chapter 2 - The Door UnlockedThe heavy oak door creaked softly as Dante turned the lock for the first time in eighteen months.
A gentle draft of cool air, smelling faintly of old paper, dried rose petals, and vanilla perfume, drifted out into the hallway. The room was bathed in the warm, golden light of the late afternoon sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling lace curtains.
I stood at the threshold, holding my breath, as Sophia walked inside, her patent-leather shoes clicking softly against the hardwood floorboards.
Dante stepped into the center of the room. He looked at the velvet armchair near the window, at the unfinished book resting on the side table, and at the silver-framed photograph of Carmela smiling in a garden of pink roses.
Tears—hot, silent, and heavy—finally spilled over Dante’s dark lashes, burning down his sharp, aristocratic cheekbones.
Sophia walked over to the armchair, picked up a small silk ribbon resting on the cushion, and handed it up to Dante.
"See?" Sophia said warmly, wrapping her arms around his leg. "She left you a ribbon."
Dante dropped to his knees right there on the rug, clutching the silk ribbon against his chest, his broad shoulders heaving as he let out a quiet, heartbreaking sob—a sound that shattered eighteen months of cold, unyielding silence.
I walked softly into the room, dropping to my knees beside him, setting my hand gently over his broad shoulder.
"She loved you, Mr. Falcone," I whispered softly, tears welling in my own eyes. "She wouldn't want you to walk in the dark forever."
Dante raised his head slowly, looking at me through his tears—taking in my calm, protective posture, my daughter’s warm smile, and the sudden, weightless peace that had descended over the room.
"Her name was Carmela," Dante rasped out, his voice rough and genuine. "She used to tell me that the house was too big... that it needed the sound of children running through the halls."
He looked at Sophia, who was currently inspecting a silver music box on the side table, and for the second time that afternoon, a faint, genuine smile touched the corners of his lips.
"She was right," Dante murmured softly.
The moment of peace was broken abruptly by the sharp, metallic click of a radio downstairs.
Dante’s head of security, Marco, stepped into the doorway, his face pale, his tone grim.
"Boss," Marco reported quietly. "Victor Vance’s vehicles just pulled through the lower iron gate. He’s demanding an immediate meeting regarding the North Side shipping routes."
Dante’s expression instantly cleared of grief, his dark gray eyes turning back into cold, razor-sharp steel. He stood up smoothly, placing Carmela’s silk ribbon carefully inside his breast pocket, close to his heart.
He looked down at me, his baritone dropping into a quiet, absolute command.
"Rosa," Dante said.
"Yes, Mr. Falcone?"
"You and Sophia are moving into the primary family wing on the second floor starting today," he declared. "My security team will guard your quarters twenty-four hours a day."
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I gasped, backing away slightly. "Mr. Falcone... no. I am just a housekeeper. We live in a small apartment in South Side—"
"You were a housekeeper, Rosa," Dante corrected cleanly, looking straight into my eyes. "Now, you are the mother of the only person in this city who brought my soul back from the dead. And nobody touches my family."
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