The Mafia Boss Signed the Divorce Papers Until He Heard His Wife Tell Her Mother Why She Had Spent Three Years Pretending to Hate Him

Evelyn Whitaker collapsed onto the velvet settee as if her legs had been sliced from beneath her. Her face was as pale as chalk, her hands trembling violently as she dropped her leather handbag onto the carpet.

Dante didn't give her another glance.

He turned back to Elena.

The room was completely silent save for the rain drumming against the glass and the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corridor.

11:42 p.m.

Dante took three slow steps forward until he was standing directly in front of his wife.

Elena looked up at him, her chest rising and falling in rapid, terrified gasps. She looked like a woman standing before a firing squad, waiting for the fatal command.

"Dante," she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound. "Please... you have to go. The private elevator... they're coming. My father—"

"I know," Dante said softly.

Elena blinked, her dark eyes widening in confusion. "What?"

Dante reached into his vest pocket. He pulled out the cream-colored envelope he had carried for three years in his mind, and held it up between them.

Elena’s eyes dropped to the paper. She recognized the red wax seal of his personal attorney.

"These are divorce papers," Dante said quietly, his voice steady. "I signed them twenty minutes ago. I was bringing them to your room."

Elena felt as though all the air had been kicked from her lungs. She stumbled back a half-step, her back touching the cold glass of the window.

"You... you signed them?" she choked out, tears instantly blinding her vision. "You're... letting me go?"

"I was going to," Dante said.

He took the envelope in both hands. With a single, deliberate movement, he tore the heavy paper down the middle. He folded it once, tore it again, and let the white fragments fall from his fingers, scattering across the carpet like winter snow.

Elena stared at the torn papers on the floor, then raised her eyes to his, utterly lost.

"Why... why did you do that?" she whispered.

Dante raised his right hand.

For three years, whenever he had reached for her, she had flinched. She had pulled away. She had locked herself behind doors.

This time, as his large, calloused fingers brushed against her cheek, Elena didn't move. She let out a ragged sob and leaned her face directly into his palm, closing her eyes as his thumb gently wiped away a tear.

"Because I stood in the hallway for fifteen minutes," Dante murmured, his voice rich with an emotion she had never heard from him before. "And I heard every single word you said to your mother."

Elena’s eyes snapped open. Her breath caught in her throat.

"You... you heard?" she gasped, her face flushing crimson.

"I heard that you overheard your father before our wedding," Dante said softly, his thumb continuing to trace her cheekbone with infinite gentleness. "I heard that you knew about Raymond Cole. I heard that you locked your bedroom door every night... not because you hated me..."

He leaned down until his forehead rested lightly against hers.

"...but because you were trying to keep me alive."

A broken, violent sob escaped Elena’s chest. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, holding his hand against her face as if afraid he would vanish if she let go.

"Dante..." she wept, her body shaking against his. "I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry for every cold look... every time I pulled away... I wanted to tell you... God, I wanted to tell you every single day..."

"Shh," Dante whispered, wrapping his other arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest for the first time in three years.

She felt solid in his arms. She felt warm. The cold, distant statue was gone, replaced by the living, breathing woman he had fallen in love with in a hospital service kitchen four years ago.

"You protected me," Dante murmured against her hair, burying his face in her dark waves. "You bore three years of hell alone in this house to save my life. You have nothing to apologize for, Elena. Nothing."

Evelyn watched them from the settee, her mouth slightly open, her eyes darting nervously toward the sunroom entrance.

"This is touching," Evelyn hissed, her voice cracking with panic. "But it doesn't change anything! They're on the floor, Dante! Raymond Cole’s men are out there right now! You can't fight them alone!"

Click.

The lights in the sunroom suddenly flickered and went out.

The penthouse was plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the pale amber glow of the city lights reflecting through the torrential rain outside the windows.

The clock in the corridor struck eleven forty-five.

The heavy steel doors of the private service elevator at the end of the long gallery hissed open.

Dante didn't jump. He didn't flinch.

He held Elena tightly against his chest for one more second, feeling the rapid, terrified beat of her heart against his ribs.

"Dante," Elena whispered into the dark, her fingers tightening on his shirt.

"Stay behind me," Dante commanded softly, disengaging from her embrace and stepping in front of her, shielding her completely with his body. He drew his Sig Sauer from his holster, the cold steel clicking into place.

"Dante, please—"