The morning light peeked through the hospital blinds, casting long shadows across the room. Isla stirred in her chair, her hand still entwined with Dante’s. She’d barely slept, her mind running wild with questions and fears. Dante’s accident was a jarring reminder of how unpredictable their lives had become.
Dante groaned softly, his head turning toward her. His eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep and pain. “Morning,” he rasped.
“Morning,” Isla said, her voice gentle but edged with worry. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” he said with a weak smirk.
Isla wasn’t amused. “It’s not funny, Dante. Do you have any idea how worried I was? And then Vincent’s name comes up? I deserve to know what’s going on.”
He exhaled heavily, his body tense as if debating how much to share. “I know you do, Isla. I just… I didn’t want to drag you into this.”
“Into what?” she pressed, sitting up straighter. “You’re my husband, Dante. I deserve to know why you were meeting Vincent and how it ended with you in a hospital bed.”
Dante’s gaze softened, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “I went to meet Vincent because he had information about my father. Apparently, my father has been pulling strings behind the scenes, trying to get closer to us-to you and Amara.”
The mention of his father sent a chill down Isla’s spine. She’d felt the man’s dangerous aura during their brief encounter, and the thought of him scheming sent a wave of fear through her.
“What does he want?” she asked quietly.
“To control me. To control us,” Dante said, his jaw tightening. “He’s always been obsessed with power, and he sees Amara as an extension of that.”
Isla’s heart sank, her protective instincts flaring. “He’s not coming anywhere near our daughter.”
“I know,” Dante said firmly. “That’s why I’ve been trying to keep you out of this. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Well, too late for that,” Isla said, her voice shaking. “You can’t keep me in the dark, Dante. Not when it comes to our family.”
Dante reached for her hand, his grip warm despite the chill in the room. “You’re right. I’ll tell you everything from now on. No more secrets.”
Isla studied his face, searching for sincerity. After a long moment, she nodded. “Alright. But you need to keep your promises, Dante.”
“I will,” he said, his voice steady.
—
Later that afternoon, Dante was discharged from the hospital with strict instructions to rest and avoid any strenuous activity. Isla drove them home, her grip tight on the steering wheel as she navigated the streets.
Amara greeted them at the door, her little face lighting up with pure joy. “Papa!” she squealed, rushing to hug Dante’s legs.
Dante winced but bent down to scoop her up, his injury forgotten in the face of his daughter’s happiness. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Were you good for Claudia?”
Amara nodded vigorously. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” Dante said, his voice thick with emotion.
Isla watched the exchange from a few steps away, her heart softening despite the tension that still lingered. Whatever else Dante was, he was a devoted father.
—
That evening, after Amara had been tucked into bed, Isla found Dante in his study, staring out the window with a glass of whiskey in hand. The soft glow of the desk lamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched into his features.
“You should be resting,” she said, stepping into the room.
He turned to her, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Thinking about your father?” she guessed, settling into the chair across from him.
“Among other things,” he admitted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I keep wondering how I’m going to keep you and Amara safe.”
“We’re not fragile, Dante,” Isla said firmly. “We can handle more than you think.”
“I know,” he said, setting his glass down. “But it’s my job to protect you, Isla. And I’ve failed at that too many times.”
“You haven’t failed,” she said, her voice softening. “You’ve made mistakes, sure, but we’re still here. We’re still standing.”
Dante crossed the room to her, his movements slow and deliberate. He crouched down in front of her, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “I don’t deserve you,” he said quietly. “But I’m going to do everything I can to make this right.”
Isla’s breath hitched, the vulnerability in his voice cutting through her defenses. She reached out, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “We’ll figure it out,” she said.
He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes briefly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Isla.”
“You won’t have to find out,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
—
The next few days passed in a tentative peace. Dante kept his promise, sharing updates about his father and Vincent’s involvement. Isla, in turn, found herself softening toward him, her walls slowly crumbling under his steady determination to earn her trust.
One evening, while they were having dinner as a family, Amara’s antics brought laughter to the table. She had taken it upon herself to ‘help’ Dante cut his steak, her little hands wielding the knife with exaggerated concentration.
“Careful, sweetheart,” Dante said, suppressing a laugh. “You’re going to slice the table instead.”
Amara pouted, her brow furrowed in mock seriousness. “I’m helping, Papa!”
“And you’re doing a great job,” Isla said, hiding her smile behind her hand.
Dante met Isla’s gaze across the table, a warmth in his eyes that sent a flutter through her chest. For a moment, the shadows of their past seemed far away, replaced by the light of their shared happiness.
—
That night, after Amara had fallen asleep, Dante found Isla in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book. He sat down beside her, his presence instantly drawing her attention.
“You look tired,” she said, closing her book.
“I’m fine,” he said, though the lines on his face betrayed him. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?” she asked, tilting her head.
“About us,” he said, his voice steady but low. “I know I’ve made a mess of things, Isla. But I want to fix it. I want us to be a family, the way we were always meant to be.”
Isla’s heart ached at his words, the sincerity in his tone stirring emotions she wasn’t sure she was ready to face. “Dante…”
“I know it won’t be easy,” he said quickly, cutting her off. “But I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”
She studied him for a long moment, the weight of their shared history pressing down on her. Finally, she said, “I need you to keep being honest with me. No more secrets, no more lies. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I promise, Isla.”
Her lips curved into a small smile. “Then maybe we have a chance.”
Dante reached for her hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “That’s all I need.”
As they sat together in the quiet of the evening, a sense of hope blossomed between them-a fragile but undeniable promise of better days to come.