Chapter 7 - The Dramatic Version
Years passed.
Dante and Elena became family slowly.
Not through grand speeches.
Through ordinary proof.
He came when she called.
He left when she asked.
He asked before hugging her.
He celebrated Rosa’s birthday with her every year by cooking the beans Rosa used to make badly, because Elena insisted the recipe remain imperfect.
He visited Tomas’s grave and thanked him out loud.
Elena pretended not to cry.
Dante pretended not to notice.
On Elena’s thirty-third birthday, Dante gave her a small envelope.
Inside was a restored photograph.
The one from the locket.
Sofia.
Young Dante.
Little Elena on his hip.
The restoration was gentle.
Not too clean.
Not fake.
The cracks remained faintly visible.
Elena stared at it for a long time.
“You kept the cracks.”
Dante nodded.
“I thought you’d want the truth left in.”
She looked up.
“That’s the first time someone restored something from my past without trying to make it prettier than it was.”
He swallowed.
“Happy birthday.”
She stood and hugged him first.
It lasted three seconds.
Then five.
Then long enough for twenty years to press against them without knocking either one down.
Years later, people still told the dramatic version.
The luxury restaurant ballroom.
The chandeliers.
The marble floor.
The white tablecloths.
Victoria Vale with one fist twisted in a waitress’s collar.
The violent rip.
The red uniform tearing open.
You’re nothing but a servant!
Elena stumbling backward, one hand over her chest.
The silver locket swinging free.
Dante Moretti rising so fast his chair scraped across the floor.
Elena…?
The room going dead silent.
Dante moving through the crowd.
The locket catching the chandelier light.
I’ve searched for you for twenty years.
Victoria stepping back.
Nathan freezing because his old crime had just walked into his own gala wearing a name tag that wasn’t hers.
Elena opening the locket.
The photograph inside.
The words engraved in silver.
For Elena. Come home.
May you like
It sounded like revenge.
And yes, part of it was.
