Chapter Forty-Six

Adele

Two weeks later, we're seated in one of the smaller dining rooms in the Vitelli Fortress. Crystal light dances off polished silverware, casting a warm glow over the faces of my newfound family. Vito and Antonella sit at one end of the table, with Kira beside them, engaged in what seems to be a friendly argument. Nico and Sophie occupy the other end, completing our intimate gathering. This is exactly what I needed after everything that's happened.

Dante's hand slides over mine under the table, his finger lingering on the large-cut ruby and diamond ring nestled there. "Relax, amore ," he murmurs.

I try to steady my nerves, but my eyes dart to the clock for the hundredth time. "He's late," I mutter.

"Orlando wouldn't miss this for the world. He's probably as nervous as you are."

Despite the unsolved puzzle of who wants me dead, Dante and I can no longer stand to be apart. After we got back from Philly, Dante took me straight to his beach house, where we've been cocooned ever since.

It's been the best two weeks of my life, recovering from my shoulder injury and enjoying life with Dante. We can't keep our hands off each other, but what surprises me more is how much we can't stop talking. Back in college, it was I who did most of the talking while he listened. Now, he speaks to me like a partner—someone he trusts.

My mind drifts back to yesterday morning. I'd woken up to find the ring on my finger, while Dante had been sitting in the chair opposite the bed, waiting for me to wake up—to discover it—and tell him how I felt about it.

And I did. In so many ways.

It was Vito and Antonella who finally coaxed us out for this family dinner and a formal engagement celebration. Feeling ready to meet my real father, I'd asked Vito to invite Orlando too.

"The last time Orlando saw me, Dante, I'd just killed my husband and was covered in his blood," I say, the memory still as fresh as if it happened yesterday.

" Tesoro, " Dante murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "Your father worships the ground you walk on. First, for existing, and second, for surviving against every odd. You really are your father's daughter."

His words trigger a pang of grief, reminding me of my former dad. Benjamin O'Shea's lifeless face flashes through my mind. He hurt and betrayed me beyond words, but he was still my father for eighteen years. Watching him get shot right in front of me is something I'll never forget.

I shake myself out of these thoughts, focusing instead on Dante's warm presence beside me. "I thought that was your thing."

"What's my thing?"

"Worshipping me," I whisper. Too late. The moment the words leave my mouth and I feel him tense beside me, I realize what I just did. Dante is almost never not turned on around me, but I've just pushed a particular button of his.

Proving me right, his hand inches higher on my thigh, his voice dropping an octave. "Oh, that? I'm so fucked, I'm actually starting to think I've been placed under a spell."

"What spell?" I murmur innocently, deliberately. I want to get burned.

Dante looks up to answer a question from Vito, then bends to my ear. "Since you're completely clueless, why don't I just demonstrate for better understanding?" His fingers reach the juncture of my thighs, his index finger tracing the seam of my labia.

"Dante!" I hiss, heat flooding my cheeks as I swat his arm.

"Stay still, De Luca."

I love the way he's been calling me by my surname the last couple of weeks. Every single time he does it, it feels like another anchor holding me firm in my identity.

"Dante. We have . . . company."

"This old lot? You think they'll stop me from making you come?"

"You wouldn't dare," I challenge.

His response is to move the crotch of my panties aside, and I instantly feel the cool air hit my wet folds.

"Dante," I warn, maintaining the smile on my face for everyone while my heart starts to race.

"Wrong word." His palm rests against my straining clit, not moving, not stroking—just there, driving me insane with every second that passes.

My hand tightens on my fork. ‘Red Wine', and everything stops. But do I use the safe word? Of course not. The need to orgasm right here, in front of all these people, claws at me.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I find this so fucking hot?

Still, he waits, finger poised at my entrance.

I glance around the table to see if anyone has any idea what's happening. What's about to happen. Nico sits at the head of the table, eating one-handed and somewhat clumsily with his right hand because his dominant hand is at the back of Sophie's neck, subtly massaging. She's almost eight months along, and the twins could make an appearance any time now.

Vito sits at the foot of the table with Antonella and Kira flanking him. They're still arguing over something, most likely her refusal to move back to Chicago. It's been a sore spot, with Vito wanting Kira closer to home for her safety, and Kira insisting on maintaining her anonymity and distance from the family.

Although Aydin has been fired and banned from the mansion, she and Kira are grateful. At first, I thought that was harsh, but after Dante explained the usual consequences of what she'd done, I realized how generous they'd been.

The memory of that conversation floods back to me, momentarily distracting me from Dante's teasing touch. "Sangue dentro, sangue fuori , tesoro, " he'd said. "The blood vows we take are irrevocable. You're trusted without question, but the price of betrayal is blood. Aydin was sworn to protect, with her life if necessary, and she broke those vows because she didn't trust that we'd have her back and save her daughter."

I'd been shocked by his vehemence but also endeared by the steely determination behind his words. If ever there was a moral code among criminals. "I thought only fighting men could take such vows?"

Dante had only smiled. "What would be the fun in that?"

"Does that mean I could be required to do it too at some point?"

"You've already taken those vows." He'd then placed my hand on his heart while his rested on my lower belly, and something had clenched deep inside me. I realized he was telling the truth. Something had shifted in the last two months since the night Pietro died, and I knew I'd lay down my life—and take others'—to protect not just Dante but Nico, Sophie, Vito, and Antonella. My family.

Dante's wicked finger teases my entrance, bringing me back to the table. "What do you say?" he asks lazily.

I steal a glance at him, sucking my lower lip between my teeth. Taking a steadying breath, I spread my legs wider then grab my glass, ready to hide my reactions behind it.

"Do it," I whisper, then take a casual sip of my water.

And promptly choke on it the moment Dante plunges a long finger inside me, drawing a concerned glance from Nico and Sophie.

"I'm okay," I sputter, nodding repeatedly like a marionette on strings.

Dante curves his finger inside me, his palm sliding against my clit, and I bite my lip to suppress a moan. He carries on conversing with Nico and Sophie while my vision grows more and more blurry. Every second, every stroke feels like I'm being inched closer to the edge of a cliff.

He's not even jostling the tablecloth, he's fingering me that slowly. But perhaps because he's that good at it, or because of how wrong it is, I'm so close to coming, he might as well have me bent over the table and pounding me into a screaming mess.

Dante presses firmly against my G-spot and I go rigid, feeling my pleasure start to crest.

Oh, fuck. I choke back a moan as my legs start to tremble. This was such a bad idea. I'll never live this engagement dinner orgasm down. I shove a forkful of creamed broccoli into my mouth and moan loudly around it. "Ah, it tastes . . . Oh my God . . . it's so fucking good."

"I know, right?" Sophie gushes, while Nico only snorts. I suspect he already knows, not that I have any more working brain neurons to care at this point.

Just as my fist connects with the table and the first ripples of orgasm gather into a riptide, I hear the crunch of gravel outside, saving me from needing to explain my meltdown.

"Yes! Yes! He's here!" I shout, bouncing in my seat like a jack-in-the-box. Everyone stares in puzzlement at my sudden outburst.

I swallow, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. "There's um . . . a car. Tires," I add inanely.

Dante chuckles. "It sounds like Orlando's arrived. Addy has been looking forward to meeting him. She's very excited as you can tell," he says to the room while I try to calm my roaring pulse.

"Come on, Addy, let's go." Dante's eyes meet mine, glinting with mischief. "Let's go greet your Daddy."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself against the lingering twitches of lust as he withdraws his finger from me.

Dante stands, offering me his hand. I straighten my skater dress, hoping I don't look as flushed as I feel.

As we turn away from the table, I whisper, "We're never doing that again."

"Sure."

"I mean it."

"Uh-huh," Dante grunts, leading me out of the room.

Pleasure recedes, giving way to anxiety the closer we get to the door. And then we're there. I hesitate, a wave of unease washing over me. This is it. The moment I've both dreaded and longed for. What if he's disappointed in getting to know me? What if I am?

Dante pulls me close and murmurs against my temple. "Remember, Addy, no matter what Orlando says or does, two things will never change. First, you're strong, incredible, and beautiful. And second, you're mine. Forever."

I raise my arms and lace my fingers at his nape, ignoring the slight twinge in my healing right shoulder. "I love you, Dante," I whisper, the words carrying all the gratitude and affection I feel.

He takes my mouth in a quick kiss, then pulls the door open.

Orlando De Luca steps into the hallway, and the air seems to thicken as he enters, with Bianca in tow. He's dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that accentuates his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt underneath. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly combed back, and a gold watch glints on his wrist. Bianca, elegant in a navy blue dress, stands slightly behind him.

I feel Dante's reassuring hand on the small of my back as we greet them. Orlando's eyes instantly lock onto mine, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. For a moment, neither of us moves.

"Adele," Orlando breathes, breaking the silence. His voice is rough with emotion.

"Orlando," I reply, surprised by the steadiness in my own voice. "I'm glad you could make it."

He takes a hesitant step forward, then another, until he's standing right in front of me. There's an eternity where we both just stand and stare at each other. It's insane, but there's something so vaguely familiar about the set of his jaw, about the port wine stain on the side of his neck, barely visible around his tattoos. It plays at the edge of my mind, yet I can't work out the details. I only know that I know this man on a profound level.

"Figlia mia," he breaks the silence, his voice thick with unshed tears. "La mia forte, bellissima figlia."

I don't need to understand Italian to know that what he just said to me is the heartfelt declaration I never heard in the last eighteen years. Ms. Ida came close once or twice, but never quite like this.

I catch sight of Bianca beside us, her face pale as she shuffles uncomfortably, her expression pinched.

Dante smoothly steps in, extending his hand to her. "Bianca, it's good to see you again. Thank you for coming."

Dante leads the way to the dining room. The tension at the table spikes as we take our seats, momentarily broken by the waiting staff serving the new arrivals and Antonella pulling them into the ongoing small talk, toasts, and clinking glasses.

The stilted conversation eventually dies down, giving way to the relentless tension. By now, everyone has noticed that Orlando hasn't eaten a bite of food. Instead, his gaze is fixed on me with an intensity that's both touching and unnerving.

I'm starting to question the wisdom of inviting him to this engagement dinner when finally, unable to contain himself any longer, Orlando blurts out, "You look so much like her."

"Naomi?" I ask, my heartbeat becoming like clanging gongs in my ears.

At the mention of my mother, Orlando's composure cracks. A tear slips down his cheek, and he doesn't bother to wipe it away. "So much like Naomi."

Just when I think I'm about to start blubbering, Dante's voice booms, drawing everyone's attention. "Let's give Addy and Orlando some time to talk privately, shall we?"

Like kids in a classroom when the recess bell rings, everyone clears out of the room. Everyone except Bianca, that is. She doesn't move a muscle, leaning back in her chair as if settling in for a long wait.

Dante makes to stand, but I tighten my hand over his thigh. "Stay?"

"Baby, I'll be in the next room." He cocks his head toward the adjoining room, a door with a glass panel in the top half of it.

Knowing he'll be close and watching gives me the layer of comfort I need, so I nod.

Dante presses a lingering kiss to my temple then stands. "Shall we go, Bianca?" he says in a tone that brooks no argument, then goes round the table to help her out of her seat.

Bianca's head snaps up, her eyes flickering between Orlando and me. "I thought—"

"Give me a minute, Bi," Orlando interrupts her, his voice like cold steel, his eyes never leaving my face.

For a moment, I see a flash of . . . something in her eyes. Pain? Annoyance? It's gone before I can fully decipher it. Still, her jaw clenches as if ready to argue, as though she wants to hear the story too.

As I continue to study her face, I realize she looks more than just annoyed—she looks shaken.

Could it be that she didn't know about me? That she wasn't aware of her husband's affair with Naomi Ritter all this time?

If that's the case, she's taking this remarkably well.

Bianca hesitates for a moment longer, then stands and takes Dante's arm. "Of course," she says, her voice carefully controlled. "I'll be in the garden if you need anything."

As Dante and Bianca leave the room, I feel a momentary panic. Dante's presence has been my anchor since this whole ordeal began, and now I'm alone with a man who is both a stranger and my father.

I hear the door close with a soft click, and silence falls over the room. Orlando leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself.

"Your mother," he begins, his voice rough with emotion, "was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Not just physically, though she was stunning. Her soul . . . it shone through her eyes."

I lean in, hungry for every detail. "How did you meet?"

A small, sad smile plays on Orlando's lips. "Naomi was running from her past, just like I was running from my future. She came to Chicago and started going by the name Ritter. She rented a small shop in my part of town—Brackendown Street—and turned it into a bookstore. Then she rented the apartment on top of the store and lived there. She opened early and closed late. She didn't make a lot of money, but she didn't seem to care. She loved books.

At first, I watched her from afar. Every day for a whole year, I had a ritual. I had to get a glimpse of her. It was easy because she was always there. And then it wasn't enough anymore."

He pauses, lost in the memory. "One night, I went in disguised. The moment our eyes met . . . it was like being struck by lightning. I knew, in that instant, that I was in love with her."

"What happened?" I prompt softly when he falls silent.

Orlando's eyes refocus on me, and the love and pain I see there make my heart ache. "I confessed who I was that very night. And to my surprise, she admitted who she really was too. We were in impossible situations, both of us. But we couldn't stay away from each other."

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it startles me. I do the same thing when I'm stressed or emotional.

"We loved in secret," he continues. "It was hard, and I didn't get to see her as often as I wanted. But our connection . . . it never faded. We'd meet out of the country once a month, steal a few days together. Back in Chicago, we pretended we didn't know each other existed."

I nod, trying to imagine the strain of such a relationship. "And then . . .?"

Orlando's face crumples, the weight of his past bearing down on him. "I made a choice that will haunt me for as long as I live. I had to choose between love and survival. I chose survival."

"Bianca?" I state, the name slipping from my lips before I can stop it.

He nods, his voice heavy with regret. "You think that as a man in this world, you can handle anything, survive anything. I saw Vito as weak for choosing love. I resented him for it. I thought he wasn't fit to lead and that the Outfit would collapse if we didn't take the Rinaldi deal." He shakes his head, pain etched into the lines of his face. "How blind and stupid I was."

Fresh tears sting my eyes. "You couldn't have known." Dante told me Orlando grew up homeless on the streets, without love or a family. He wouldn't have fully understood what he was giving up.

"It wasn't even a year before I slumped into depression. I couldn't function—at home or at work. People were dying because of me. I knew I had to go back to Naomi. It was hard for her to let me back in, but I fought for us. And then unexpectedly . . . she got pregnant."

He pauses, his voice trembling with emotion. "I thought I understood everything about love, about wanting to protect someone, about giving everything to them. And then I saw all eight pounds of you, red-haired, red-faced, and screaming at the top of your lungs. And it was that lightning bolt all over again."

His words wash over me and tears blur my vision as a knot tightens in my chest.

He reaches out, hesitates, then gently takes my hand. "The last time I saw you both was on your fifth birthday. We were in Hawaii. You were so happy, building sandcastles on the beach."

I have a vague memory of warm sand, blue water, and laughter. Was that Hawaii? Was that my last day with both my parents?

"When I heard you and Naomi had been killed," Orlando's voice breaks, "it completely destroyed me. And then the war began. Those Irish bastards were crying out for blood—my blood."

He takes a shuddering breath. "It wasn't until two years ago, when Benjamin O'Shea came to negotiate peace that we realized you were alive. I wanted to reach out, to meet you, but . . ."

"But what?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Orlando's eyes meet mine. "But you were his hostage. The moment he revealed you were alive, you became his willing hostage, and attempting to extract you could be seen as a hostile move. You could've been hurt or used as a pawn. So I bided my time and waited."

I sit back, overwhelmed by the flood of information, the weight of eighteen years of secrets and longing.

"Is that why someone tried to kill me at the club?" I ask, the question trembling on my lips. "Because they thought you were trying to take me back?"

Orlando shrugs heavily. "That could be one of the many reasons. But whoever was behind that bomb knows who you really are. The weight of that remains a dark cloud over us. We have no clue who sent the Novaks after you."

He pauses, his expression shifting from concern to deep regret. His voice drops to an agonized whisper. "I'm so sorry, Adele. I know I made mistakes, and it may be too late, but I want you to know . . . I've loved you every single day of your life. You and your mother . . . you were everything to me."

His words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable. Despite the crushing weight of the past, there's a small spark of warmth that begins to grow within me, knowing that I was never forgotten. Never unloved.

"Did Bianca know?" I ask, the question burning in the back of my mind.

Orlando shakes his head. "Not until recently."

Eighteen years of being in the dark, married to a man who was desperately in love with someone else. I feel a pang of sympathy for Bianca. On the other side of the coin, there's a woman who must need some closure too.

There's so much to process, so many emotions swirling inside me. But as I look at Orlando, I feel an undeniable pull, a connection that transcends the years of separation. This is my father.

"Orlando," I begin hesitantly, "is . . . is Adele my real name?"

Orlando takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving mine. There's a moment of heavy silence before he slowly shakes his head. "No, cara mia . Your name is Valentina. Valentina De Luca."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with revelation. The weight of his words finally hits me, and I feel the room spin slightly. I stand abruptly, turning my back to Orlando as tears begin to fall.

Valentina. Not Adele.

Dear God. As if I needed final proof that everything I thought I knew about myself has been a carefully crafted facade.

I hear Orlando shift behind me, and after a moment, I feel his hesitant hand on my back. The gentle touch breaks something inside me. I turn and, surprising us both, throw my arms around him.

Orlando stiffens for a split second before his arms wrap around me, holding me tight. His body shakes with sobs that match my own. The embrace feels right in a way hugging Benjamin O'Shea never did.

It's Val . . . not Addy.

The name resonates within me, filling a void I never knew existed.

As we hold each other, years of longing and loss pouring out in our tears, I feel a sense of homecoming.

And for the first time in my life, I know exactly who I am.