His Greatest Sin

The rain had stopped by morning, but the air in Verona was thick with tension.

I was shaken awake by one of my father’s men. "Miss Rossi, your father wants you at the family headquarters. Immediately."

I glanced at the clock. Six in the morning.

Twenty minutes later, I stood before the heavy oak doors of the Rossi family boardroom. I could hear the low rumble of male voices, thick with the smell of cigar smoke.

"Isabella, come in," my father called.

I pushed the door open and saw them. People who should not have been in this room together. The entire Moretti inner circle, including Dante.

The two Dons sat at opposite ends of a long table, flanked by their most trusted men. A scene that hadn't happened in five years.

"Sit." My father gestured to the empty chair beside him.

Dante sat across from me. He wore a dark grey, impeccably tailored suit, his hair perfectly combed. The wild man on my balcony last night might as well have been a ghost.

Our eyes met for a second before we both looked away.

"Isabella," Marco Moretti, Dante's grandfather and the Moretti Don, spoke first. "What happened yesterday has cost both our families a great deal."

"The markets are already reacting," my father added. "Our joint ventures are on hold. Our partners aregetting nervous."

I looked at the reports and newspaper clippings spread across the table. The headlines were all about the scene at the cathedral.

"I take responsibility for my actions," I said calmly. "But I won't apologize for my decision."

Don Marco's gaze sharpened. "Do you have any idea what that means?"

"It means I chose the truth over a lie."

Dante finally spoke. "Isabella, can we talk? In private?"

"There's nothing to discuss." I turned to the two Dons. "Gentlemen, if this meeting is just to make me change my mind, then it's over."

The air in the room turned to ice.

Don Marco slowly got to his feet and walked over to me. He was in his seventies, but his eyes were still like a hawk's.

"Little girl, do you know how our families ended our feud fifty years ago?"

I said nothing.

"Blood. A lot of it," he said, his voice low. "Your father's brother. My eldest son. Countless others. We kept killing until we both realized hate only breeds more hate."

"So you decided to use my marriage to Dante to keep the peace?" I stood up, meeting his gaze. "To use us as political pawns?"

"No," Dante cut in suddenly, his voice holding a tremor I'd never heard before. "Not pawns. Not for me."

I turned on him. "Then what? A duty? An obligation? Or was it penance for what happened to Clara?"

The room fell silent. Everyone knew that name.

Dante's face went pale. "Isabella, please don't—"

"Don't what? Don't bring up the ghost in your heart?" I sneered. "Five years ago, she wore your custom jacket, my limited-edition Cartier bracelet, and paraded around that street race. 'Dante had this Ducati made just for me,' she’d bragged. 'He says Isa is just a placeholder.'"

Dante shot to his feet. "She never said that!"

"But she wore your jacket. She wore my bracelet. She rode your bike," I shot back, closing the distance between us. "She flaunted your 'special' relationship in my face. And you? You just stood there and watched."

"Because I didn't want to hurt her!" Dante yelled, losing his composure. "She'd just lost her father, I couldn't—"

"But you could hurt me," I said. My voice was a whisper, but every word landed like a blow. "Because I was just your fiancée. But she... she's the girl who saved your life."

Don Marco slammed his hand on the table. "Enough!"

Silence again.

"Now," Marco said, returning to his seat, "we find a solution. Dante, you have one month to fix this mess. If you two are not remarried in one month, all alliance pacts are void."

He paused, his eyes sweeping over the men from both families.

"And the truce is over."

After the meeting, I walked to the parking garage alone. The autumn morning was cool, and I pulled my coat tighter.

"Isabella, wait."

It was Dante's voice.

I didn't turn around. "Is there anything left to say?"

"Give me some time." He came to stand in front of me, his eyes pleading. "One month. Let me handle everything."

"What 'everything'?"

He was quiet for a long time. "Clara. I need... to settle things. For good."

I looked at him, a storm of emotions churning inside me. Anger, disappointment, and a sliver of hope I hated myself for feeling.

"Where is she?"

"New York."

"So you're going to bring her back?"

"I'm going to get closure." He reached out as if to touch my face, but stopped his hand mid-air. "Sending her away five years ago was the right move, but the way I did it hurt you. I'm going to New York to tell her, face to face, that you are the only one for me."

"And then?"

"And then I'll come back and propose to you again. Not for the families, not for duty, but because..." He hesitated. "Because my life has no meaning without you."

I searched his eyes, looking for the truth, for a lie. All I saw was exhaustion and something close to desperation.

"Isabella, please. Give me this chance."

I didn't answer. I just turned and walked away.

Back home, the world started to spin. "Miss, you look pale," our housekeeper, Mrs. Romano, said with concern.

"I'm just tired."

But as I reached the second-floor landing, the room tilted. The last thing I remembered was collapsing on the stairs and Mrs. Romano's terrified scream.

A high fever. I was in and out of consciousness.

In the fog, I heard my father talking to Dr. Martinez.

"Physically, she's fine. It's stress and emotional strain."

"She's always been too sensitive," my father's voice was heavy with guilt. "That business with Clara five years ago... I should have put a stop to it."

"Eduardo, you can't blame Dante. The girl saved his life. It's understandable he feels a certain... obligation to her."

"Understandable? My daughter turned down Harvard Medical School for him. Turned down a London art institute. She stayed home to be a pawn in a family alliance. And for what?"

"It's too late for that. What matters now is what Dante chooses to do."

I wanted to open my eyes, to speak, but my body wouldn't obey.

In the haze, I was back in that hot summer night five years ago.

Clara, standing by her red Ducati, wearing Dante's black leather jacket, my Cartier bracelet glinting under the streetlights.

"Dante had this Ducati custom-made just for me," she told the crowd, her voice dripping with triumph. "He said no one deserved it more."

Then she looked at me, her eyes filled with a sick, taunting excitement.

"Not even his fiancée."

I woke up with a start, my nightgown soaked in cold sweat.

It was the middle of the night. I was alone. On my nightstand was a glass of water, some pills, and a note.

Isabella,

I'm flying to New York tomorrow. Give me one month.

—D

I crumpled the note in my fist.

One month.

Long enough for a woman to see a man's true heart.

And long enough for a man to lose a woman's trust for good.