HELENA’S POV
The city felt strange tonight-unusually quiet, like it knew what had happened. Even as I drove down the winding streets, tears streaking my face and my dress stiff with Dante’s blood, there was a hush that sat heavy in the air. It wasn’t peaceful, though. No, it was eerie, like the city itself mourned the life that had been snuffed out.
Paulo had insisted I leave the hospital, promising me that Matteo would pull through. “Go home, rest,” he had said. “He’s going to be fine, I promise.”
I wanted to believe him. I had to believe him.
But Dante was dead. That fact alone had unraveled me.
The man who had once held my heart so effortlessly and crushed it just as easily was gone. Dead. It didn’t feel real. He was larger than life, impossible to defeat, and yet, I’d seen his body sprawled on the ground. Despite everything he’d done-every cruel, merciless act-I couldn’t stop the ache that pulsed in my chest. A life had been lost, and no amount of hatred could erase the part of me that had once loved him.
Even as I told myself I was free now, it felt hollow.
I reached the intersection leading to Matteo’s house, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. I could see the turn ahead, the safe, logical choice-to return to his house and wait, to let the night slip quietly into the past.
But as if possessed by some unseen force, I turned the wheel sharply at the last second.
I was going home. To Dante’s house.
Or my house.
By the time I walked through the ornate double doors, the silence inside greeted me like a slap to the face. It was thick and cold, suffocating. For the first time, this massive house-always too large for just the two of us-felt like it had truly shrunk in on itself, weighed down by the absence of its master.
I flicked on the lights, my fingers trembling against the switch. The warm glow illuminated the space, casting long shadows over the expensive furniture. I moved aimlessly, my hands sweeping across the surfaces. Everything was still, untouched, yet it felt suffocating. I walked upstairs, my steps echoing in the empty halls until I reached his study.
Memories flooded back, unbidden and sharp.
I could almost see myself there, defying him with my skimpy dance routine, knowing full well what I was provoking. I’d laughed at his anger, right up until he bent me over the desk and punished me in the way only Dante could. A smile, small and nostalgic, tugged at my lips before fading just as quickly.
What was I doing here?
I moved further into the room, my eyes scanning the familiar shelves and furnishings until they landed on something I hadn’t noticed before-a safe, slightly ajar, tucked into the corner.
Curiosity prickled at me as I approached it. Inside, a square box sat alone, inconspicuous yet strangely commanding my attention. I pulled it out and sank into the chair behind Dante’s desk, my heart thudding in my chest as I placed the box on the table.
With trembling hands, I opened it.
Inside was a letter, the envelope crisp and worn at the edges, as if handled many times. My name was scrawled on the front in Dante’s unmistakable handwriting.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight, as I slid the letter out and unfolded it.
The words inside hit me like a hurricane. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. My pulse raced, and my hands shook so violently I almost dropped the paper.
“No,” I whispered, my voice barely audible in the stillness. “No he didn’t ”
He really fucking didn’t.
I didn’t know how long I sat there, clutching the letter, the words seared into my mind. Finally, I folded it carefully and slipped it into my bag. I couldn’t deal with this now.
Not tonight.
I needed a shower, something to scrub the blood off my skin and the weight of this night from my soul.
After a fitful attempt at sleep that only left me more exhausted, I gave up and dressed quickly in jeans and a sweatshirt. Paulo had texted me earlier-Matteo was out of surgery. I had to see him.
The drive to the hospital blurred in my mind, and before I knew it, I was standing at Matteo’s door. Pushing it open quietly, I stepped inside.
He was asleep, his face battered and bruised, a gash splitting his top lip and one eye swollen shut. He looked terrible, but he was alive. Relief washed over me as I sank into the chair beside his bed, taking his hand in mine.
For a while, I just watched him breathe, his chest rising and falling steadily.
“Matteo,” I whispered softly as his eyes fluttered open.
A weak smile tugged at his lips when he saw me. “Helena.”
“I thought you were going to die,” I said, my voice breaking.
He chuckled faintly, though it sounded more like a wheeze. “I’m tougher than that. You know that.”
“Dante is dead,” I said, the words heavy on my tongue.
“I know,” he replied, his tone surprisingly light. “I watched Paulo shoot him. Shocking plot twist, huh? I’m just mad I didn’t get to shoot the bastard myself.”
I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t.
“But we’re free, baby,” Matteo said, his voice filled with an optimism I didn’t share.
I couldn’t hold his gaze. I looked down at his hand in mine, my thumb brushing over his knuckles.
“Helena,” he said after a moment, his tone soft but insistent.
I glanced up, and he was reaching into the pocket of his hospital trousers, pulling out a small box.
My breath hitched as he opened it, revealing a ring.
“Matteo…”
“I was going to wait until everything settled,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “But now… we’re here, and he’s gone, and I don’t want to wait anymore.”
“Matteo, don’t-”
“Helena,” he interrupted, his eyes locking onto mine. “Will you marry me?”
For a moment, all I could hear was the roaring of my own heartbeat.
The memory of Dante’s letter flashed in my mind, the words seared into my consciousness.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears spilling down my cheeks.
Confusion clouded Matteo’s face, followed quickly by hurt.
“I can’t marry you, Matteo,” I said, my voice barely audible.
And as his expression crumbled, so did my heart.