Chapter 17
Neither did Lucia.
Neither did I.
And years later, when our daughter asked why there was an old photograph locked inside the family archive—a photograph from our wedding with a red circle around my face—I told her the truth.
“That photograph brought your grandmother home.”
She was seven.
Naturally, that explanation was not enough.
“But why was Grandma gone?”
Dante looked up from his desk.
I looked at him.
He came over and crouched beside our daughter.
“Because people made a terrible mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“They decided what was true before they listened to someone they loved.”
She frowned seriously.
“That’s stupid.”
I covered my mouth.
Dante stared at her.
Then nodded.
“Extremely.”
She pointed toward the sapphire necklace in the display case.
“And what about that?”
Dante groaned.
“Your mother stole it.”
I smacked his shoulder.
Our daughter gasped.
“I did not.”
Dante grinned.
“She stole my heart, my house, half my closet—”
“Dante.”
“—and my ability to make independent decisions.”
Our daughter started laughing.
I shook my head.
This man.
This impossible man.
Years earlier, I had left his engagement ring beside that necklace because I refused to marry someone who needed proof of my innocence before he could offer me his trust.
I had thought that night was the end of us.
Instead, it became the night that ended something much older.
A family tradition of silence.
Of suspicion.
Of men protecting pride while women paid the price.
Carlo lost everything because he believed the Moretti name would protect him.
Lucia got her name back because someone finally looked beneath the evidence used against her.
Sophia learned that family loyalty without truth was merely another kind of cowardice.
And Dante learned something his father never had.
Power could make people obey you.
Fear could make people remain silent.
Money could make evidence disappear.
But none of those things could make someone trust you.
Trust had to be earned.
Sometimes twice.
Our daughter ran toward Lucia when she entered the room carrying cookies.
“Grandma!”
Lucia caught her.
Dante slipped his arm around my waist.
I leaned against him.
His eyes moved toward the necklace behind the glass.
“Still hate that thing,” he murmured.
I smiled.
“I know.”
“Can we sell it?”
“No.”
“Throw it in the ocean?”
“No.”
“Hide it?”
“Absolutely not.”
He sighed.
“You’re very controlling.”
“You married me twice.”
“Technically only once.”
“You proposed twice.”
“That was because you returned the first ring.”