The night was the longest of Valentina's life. She paced the glass house, now feeling like a fishbowl under siege. Leo and his men were ghosts in the shadows, their tension a live wire in the air. News came in fragments over Leo's encrypted radio.
"Strike team at the Moretti accounting office… clear."
"Warehouse on the docks… resistance neutralized."
"The club is surrounded…"
Dante was moving with surgical, brutal precision. He wasn't just fighting a war; he was executing a hostile takeover. Using the information from the ledger, he had city officials freezing Moretti assets, police raiding his fronts on unrelated charges, and his own soldiers hitting key locations with overwhelming force. It was a decapitation strike.
The final confrontation was at the elder Moretti's estate on Long Island. Dante went there himself. The radio went silent for an hour—an eternity of crushing silence. Valentina stood at the window, seeing nothing but her own pale, terrified reflection.
Finally, Leo's radio crackled. A voice, not Dante's, but one of his captains: "It's done. The Don is secure. Moretti has accepted terms."
Terms. Not death. Terms. The relief that flooded her was so profound her knees buckled. Leo caught her with a grunt, easing her into a chair.
"What terms?" she asked, her voice weak.
Leo's face was grim. "Exile. For the entire family. They have 24 hours to leave the country. All their territory, their businesses, their political chips… they forfeit it all to Conti. In exchange for their lives, and for the ledger not going public."
It was a masterstroke. More brutal than killing them would have been. They were stripped of everything, made penniless ghosts. And Dante had consolidated more power in one night than his father had in a lifetime.
It was nearly dawn when Dante returned. He walked through the front door alone, still wearing the same clothes, now stained and reeking of smoke and blood that was not his own. He looked exhausted to his soul, but his silver eyes burned with a fierce, clean light.
He saw Valentina waiting in the hallway and stopped. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the gulf of the night's violence between them.
She didn't care. She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He caught her, burying his face in her hair, his whole body shuddering as he held her. He was solid. He was alive. He was hers.
"It's over," he murmured into her skin. "He's gone. The ledger is mine. The debt… it's paid."
He carried her upstairs, not to the bedroom, but to the large soaking tub in her bathroom. He undressed them both with a weary tenderness and sank into the hot, steaming water with her, pulling her back against his chest. He rested his chin on her head, his arms around her.
In the quiet, he told her. Not the tactical details, but the human cost. "I looked old Moretti in the eye as he signed the papers. He was broken. A king without a crown. I thought I would feel triumph. I only felt tired." His arms tightened. "I did it for her. For my mother. And I did it for you. So our children would not have to live in this shadow."
Our children. The words sent a thrill through her, a promise of a future she'd never dared imagine.
"And now?" she asked softly.
"Now," he said, turning her in the water to face him. His wet hair was slicked back, his beautiful, scarred face earnest. "Now I build that legitimate empire. With you by my side. Not in the shadows, but in the light." He kissed her, a slow, sweet promise. "Marry me, Valentina. Be my wife. Be my partner. Let me spend the rest of my life earning the love you've given me."
Tears mixed with the bathwater on her face. This was not a demand from a Don. It was a plea from a man. A man who had fought his way out of hell to find her.
"Yes," she breathed against his lips. "A thousand times, yes."
In the warm, cleansing water, surrounded by the fading ghosts of the past, they sealed their future. The war was over. The real work of peace was about to begin.