Chapter 15 - THE NEW MISTRESS OF THE ESTATE AND A TABLE SET FOR TWOSix months later.
Spring had arrived on the Long Island coast, painting the estate’s rolling lawns in vibrant shades of emerald green and blooming dogwood. The dark, cold fortress that had once felt like an armed prison had transformed into a warm, sunlit sanctuary filled with the sounds of laughter and ocean breezes.
Down in the great courtyard garden, where Maria Caruso’s ancient rosemary bushes grew thick and fragrant, my sister Lily was walking completely unaided, her laughter ringing out across the stone fountain as Marco Vane taught her how to groom the estate’s retired champion horses.
Inside the compound’s private family kitchen—a bright, airy room with open French doors leading onto the terrace—the air was thick with the intoxicating aroma of yeast, warm honey, and crushed rosemary.
I stood at the wide butcher-block island, my hands dusted in white flour, pulling a golden, perfectly baked loaf of rustic bread from the stone hearth oven. The crust was blistered and crunchy, drizzled with golden honey and sprinkled with coarse sea salt, exactly as Giuseppe’s handwritten recipe had instructed.
A pair of strong, warm arms wrapped gently around my waist from behind.
Dante rested his chin against the curve of my shoulder, inhaling deeply. He wore a soft cashmere sweater, his hair slightly rumpled by the sea breeze, completely relaxed and at peace.
“That smells like home,” Dante murmured, pressing a warm kiss against the sensitive hollow of my neck.
“It’s Giuseppe’s recipe,” I replied with a soft smile, leaning back against his broad, solid chest. “I think he’d approve of the crust this time.”
“Nonno would have demanded you open a bakery in Manhattan,” Dante chuckled softly, his fingers intertwining with mine, the platinum sapphire band catching the bright morning sunlight.
Dante gently turned me around in his arms, looking down at me with so much love and reverence that it still took my breath away every single morning.
“Are you happy, Clara?” he asked softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
I looked out the open French doors at my sister walking freely in the sunshine, at the staff who were now paid fair living wages and treated with dignity, and at the man who had given up the cruelty of the underworld to build an empire founded on honor and love.
“I have never been happier, Dante,” I answered truthfully, resting my hands against his chest. “We built something good out of the ruins.”
“You built it, my love,” Dante whispered, leaning down and capturing my lips in a deep, gentle, and everlasting kiss.
He took the warm loaf of rosemary-honey bread, placed it on a simple wooden cutting board, and carried it out to the terrace table. There were no forty armed captains, no bodyguards, and no emerald-clad heiresses plotting in the dark.
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There were only two chairs beneath the warm spring sun, set for two people who had learned that true royalty isn't found in a crown, but in the honor of the hands that break the bread.
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