Two weeks after Victor's death, I woke up to the unfamiliar sensation of peace. Dante was still asleep beside me, his face relaxed, his breathing even. There were no enemies hunting us, no blood to wash away, no imminent threat hanging over our heads. It was just… normal. And the normality of it was the strangest feeling of all.
I went downstairs and found my purpose in the pediatric ward of the city hospital. My first day as a volunteer, I felt like my old self again—the teacher, the caregiver, not just the mafia wife. Dante insisted on a driver. "It's a public place," he'd said at breakfast, his tone non-negotiable. "Victor may be dead, but his allies aren't." It was a small compromise, a reminder of the world that still existed outside our bubble of peace. Marco drove me, waiting discreetly outside while I stepped back into a world I had desperately missed.
The children's ward was a place of heartbreaking contrasts—bright, colorful murals on the walls and the quiet, persistent beeping of machines. I spent the day reading stories, playing board games, and coloring with children whose small bodies were fighting battles no one should ever have to face. My first patient was a seven-year-old boy named Tommy, his small frame thin and pale from his fight with leukemia. When I sat beside him and asked if he wanted a story, he just nodded shyly. But as I read, I saw a flicker of light in his big, tired eyes. I had forgotten how much I missed this, the simple, profound act of bringing a moment of joy to a child.
I called Dante on my lunch break, my voice bubbling with an excitement I hadn't felt in months. "It's perfect," I told him. "I forgot how much I loved this."
"I'm glad," he said, and I could hear the genuine smile in his voice. "You sound happy, Ella."
"I am," I said. "Thank you for understanding."
"Always," he promised.
His day was the polar opposite of mine. While I was dealing with crayons and storybooks, he was in his downtown office, dealing with the lingering darkness of his past. His old associates, men like Antonio, were resisting his move toward legitimacy.
"You're walking away from millions, Dante," Antonio had argued in a tense meeting. "From power."
"I'm shifting my focus," Dante had corrected, his voice cold.
"Because of the wife?" another man had sneered.
Dante's eyes had flashed with a warning that silenced the room. "Watch yourself." The meeting ended poorly. These men, relics of a world he was trying to leave behind, didn't like change. They didn't like losing the ruthlessness that had made them all so rich. "They're not happy," Marco had told him afterward. "They might push back."
"Let them try," Dante had said.
When I returned home that evening, exhausted but glowing, he was waiting for me. I collapsed on the couch and told him all about my day—about Tommy, and a little girl named Maria with a spinal injury, and a toddler named Carlos who just wanted his mom. He listened intently, his gaze soft as he watched me light up from within.
"You're incredible, you know that?" he said when I finished.
"I'm just reading stories."
"You're giving them hope," he corrected. "That's not 'just' anything."
Over dinner, I could see the tension he was carrying. He tried to brush it off, but I pressed him. "Old business partners," he finally admitted. "They're resisting the changes I'm making. They have… leverage. Knowledge of things I've done in the past. If they talk, I could face charges."
My stomach dropped. "Prison?"
"Possibly," he said, though he tried to reassure me. "It's just… complicated."
"Then we'll figure it out," I said, taking his hand. "Together."
That night, I could feel his restlessness as we lay in bed. He was staring at the ceiling, the weight of his past a heavy presence in the room. "I'm worried I can't give you the life you deserve," he confessed into the darkness. "Not while I'm still tied to these men. Not while there's always a threat."
"Then cut the ties," I urged. "Whatever the consequences are, we'll face them. I'm not going anywhere, Dante. I chose you. All of you. Your past, your present, and your future." I kissed him, a promise and a vow. "Even if the past catches up."
The next day at the hospital, I met another volunteer, an older woman named Grace who had been working there for years. "First week?" she asked with a knowing smile. "You still cry. Eventually, you learn to hold it in. But never stop caring. That's when you have to quit." We became fast friends, our conversations over lunch a slice of normalcy I hadn't realized how much I craved. I was building a life, a purpose, outside of Dante's world.
But his world had a way of intruding. While I was making friends, Dante was being summoned to an emergency meeting. Federal agents were asking questions about old operations. Someone was talking. The pushback Marco had warned him about had begun. Dante came home that night and didn't say a word about it. He listened to my stories about Tommy and Grace, his face a mask of calm interest, hiding the new storm that was gathering on the horizon.
That weekend, he planned a date night, a desperate attempt to cling to the peace we had so recently found. At a fancy restaurant, over champagne and candlelight, I decided to push for the future I wanted, the one we had both been too afraid to fully embrace.
"I've been thinking," I said, my heart pounding. "About your six-month promise. About trying for kids."
"We still have four months," he said, his voice cautious.
"I know. But… what if we didn't wait? What if we just… let it happen? Stop preventing it and see what happens."
He stared at me, his eyes wide. "Ella… I want to give you safety."
"You already give me everything," I insisted. "And when will it ever be perfectly safe? Victor taught us that. Tomorrow isn't guaranteed." I saw the truth of my words hit him. He knew I was right. "So why wait?"
He was quiet for a long time, the war between his fear and his desire playing out on his face. "You're sure?" he finally asked, his voice rough.
"I'm sure," I said, my own voice filled with a certainty that surprised me. "I want to build our family. I want to start our life. Not in four months. Now."
His resolve crumbled. I saw it in the way his shoulders relaxed, the way the tension left his jaw. He wanted it too. He wanted the noise and chaos of children to fill the empty rooms of his mansion. He wanted the future we had both been dreaming of.
"Okay," he breathed.
"Okay?"
"Okay," he confirmed, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Let's try. Let's start our family."
We made love that night with a new, breathtaking intention. Every touch, every kiss, was filled with the hope and possibility of creating a new life. Afterward, we lay tangled together, his hand resting protectively on my stomach.
"Maybe?" he whispered into the darkness.
"Maybe," I whispered back. "Or maybe next month. We have time."
"I'll probably be terrible at it," he confessed, his voice filled with a vulnerability that made my heart ache. "I'll be so terrified of failing."
"You'll be perfect," I said, kissing him. "You were perfect with Mia."
"That was different."
"Not that different," I assured him.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand—a message from Marco. He ignored it. Tonight was about us. Tonight was about hope, not fear.
"Thank you," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "For saying yes. For wanting this with me."
"Thank you for seeing past the monster," he murmured against my hair.
"There is no monster," I whispered. "Just the man I love."
We decided to create life in a world that had been defined by death. To bring innocence into his darkness. Maybe it was naive. Maybe it was reckless. But as I fell asleep with his hand on my belly, imagining our child, a tiny spark of hope growing there, I didn't care. We had survived everything else. We would survive this too. Together.