THE WEIGHT OF THE RING

The waiting room of Evanston General’s ICU was a sterile purgatory.

It had been four days since the siege.

Claudia Moretti was in federal custody, denied bail. Vivian Ross had been apprehended trying to board a flight to Zurich, the offshore ledgers in her possession directly tying both women to the Navarro cartel. The Moretti logistics empire was currently being dismantled by federal regulators, its clean assets transferred to a trust in Lucia’s name, just as Dante had ordered.

Everything Dante had built was gone.

And for four days, Dante had remained in a medically induced coma.

Lucia sat in the hard plastic chair, staring at the double doors of the ICU. She wore a soft gray sweater, her own surgical pain managed by medication, but her heart feeling completely shattered.

Silas walked into the waiting room holding two cups of bad hospital coffee. He handed one to Lucia and sat heavily beside her.

“How is my granddaughter today?” Silas asked softly.

“Extubated,” Lucia managed a small smile, tears pricking her eyes. “She’s breathing on her own. The doctors say she’s a fighter. She gained two ounces.”

“She takes after her mother,” Silas noted, sipping his coffee. He glanced at the ICU doors. “And her father.”

Lucia looked down at her hands. The gold wedding ring was back on her finger. She had asked Michael to retrieve it from the evidence bag at Mercy Ridge.

“He signed the divorce papers, Silas,” Lucia whispered. “He gave up everything. He thought he had to destroy himself to prove he loved us.”

“Men like Dante and me,” Silas said, his voice taking on a heavy, reflective tone, “we are taught that love is a fortress. We build high walls, we hoard weapons, we fight wars to keep the people inside safe. But we forget that living in a fortress is just another way of being in a prison.”

He looked at his daughter. “He broke down his walls for you, Lucia. He let the empire burn so you could walk free.”

A doctor in blue scrubs pushed through the ICU doors.

Lucia stood up so fast the coffee sloshed over her hand. “Is he...?”

“He’s awake, Mrs. Moretti,” the doctor smiled gently. “He’s weak, and he has a long road of physical therapy ahead of him. But he’s asking for you.”

Lucia didn't wait. she pushed past the doctor, hurrying down the corridor to room 14.

She paused in the doorway.

Dante looked fragile. The man who used to command boardrooms with a single look was pale, hooked to a dozen monitors, tubes running into his arms. But when he turned his head and saw her, his dark eyes lit up with a warmth she hadn't seen in years.

“Lucia,” he rasped, his voice raw from the breathing tube they had just removed.

She walked over to the bed and carefully sat on the edge, mindful of his injuries and her own. She took his large, calloused hand in hers.

“You’re an idiot,” she sobbed, bringing his hand to her lips.

Dante offered a weak, self-deprecating smile. “I’ve been told worse.” He looked at her left hand, his eyes widening slightly as he saw the gold band resting on her ring finger.

He swallowed hard. “The papers... I signed them.”

“I know,” Lucia said, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out the folded, blood-stained divorce petition.

Right in front of his eyes, she tore the papers in half. Then in quarters. She let the pieces fall into the trash can beside the bed.

“I didn't want a divorce, Dante,” she said, her voice fiercely steady. “I wanted my husband to wake up. I wanted the man I married to realize that he didn't need to conquer the world to be worthy of my love.”

Dante squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear escaping and rolling down into his dark hairline. “I have nothing left, Lucia. The company is gone. The money is tied up in trusts. I am just a man.”

“Good,” Lucia whispered, leaning down and pressing her forehead against his. “Because a man is all I ever wanted.”

Dante let out a shaky breath, wrapping his good arm around her waist, holding her as tightly as his broken body would allow.