Chapter 4 - The Ring in the Pocket
The silence in the restaurant restroom stretched between us, thick and suffocating, broken only by the hum of the overhead ventilation. Elena stood pinned against the tile wall, her breathing shallow, her hazel eyes locked onto mine. She could feel the shift in the air just as clearly as I could. The past six years of distance, anger, and carefully constructed walls were crumbling down to dust.
"You're engaged, Dominic," she whispered bitterly, her gaze dropping meaningfully to the bulge in my navy jacket where the velvet box rested. "Don't insult my intelligence. The Boston Globe ran a three-page spread last Sunday about the upcoming Moretti-Barrett union. Sloane Barrett is probably standing under that glass conservatory right now, waiting for her precious prince to show up with a six-carat diamond."
I cursed under my breath. The media in Boston loved our family almost as much as they feared us. Every move we made was public fodder.
"Sloane is a business arrangement," I said flatly, taking a half-step closer, trapping her between my arms. "A merger of assets. A political necessity dictated by my uncles to stabilize our shipping ports. I don't love her, Elena. I never have."
"That doesn't change the fact that you're about to put a ring on her finger in less than an hour," Elena shot back, her voice laced with sharp sarcasm. "What's the matter, Dominic? Did the great and powerful mob boss run out of tactical chess pieces, so he had to sell his heart to the highest bidder?"
Her words stung because they were entirely true. I had spent my entire adult life believing that emotion was a liability, that love was a weakness my enemies could exploit. I had accepted the engagement to Sloane because it made sense on paper.
But that was before four six-year-old copies of myself walked into a bathroom and blew my entire world to smithereens.
"My heart was never up for sale, Elena," I murmured, my voice dropping to a low, raw register that made her breath hitch. "You took it with you when you walked out of my apartment six years ago. I spent every single day since then looking for you in every crowd, wondering if you were safe, wondering if you hated me."
Elena’s expression faltered for a fraction of a second, the hard armor cracking just enough for me to see the deep, enduring love she had tried so hard to bury. But pride—the stubborn, unyielding pride that we both shared in spades—quickly rushed back to fill the gap.
"You didn't look hard enough," she whispered, looking away.
"I looked everywhere the Moretti network could reach," I corrected gently. "You hid well. You used cash, stayed off the grid, and raised four incredible boys."
I reached inside my jacket. Elena stiffened, her eyes widening as my hand emerged. But I didn't pull out a weapon, and I didn't pull out Sloane’s engagement ring.
Instead, I pulled out my heavy, solid-gold signet ring—the one bearing the Moretti family crest that my grandfather had placed on my finger the day I took over the syndicate. It was heavy, cold, and dripping with ancestral power.
Before she could protest, I grabbed her left hand, sliding the heavy gold band past her knuckles until it settled securely on her ring finger. It was too big, resting loosely against her skin, but the symbolism was deafening.
"What are you doing?" she gasped, trying to pull her hand back, though she wasn't pulling very hard.
"Reclaiming what’s mine," I said, my voice absolute. "Sloane Barrett can keep her conservatory. My family can keep their shipping ports. I am done playing corporate chess with my life, Elena. I have four sons out there who need their father, and a woman I refuse to lose a second time."
"Dominic, you can't just blow up a multi-million-dollar alliance like it's nothing!" she protested, though a breathless, disbelieving smile was starting to tug at the corner of her lips. "Your uncles will go to war!"
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"Let them," I replied, a dark, dangerous thrill coursing through my veins. Let the council scream. Let the newspapers have a field day. For the first time in my life, Dominic Moretti was choosing happiness over obligation.
"Now," I added, stepping back and offering her a crooked, confident grin that mirrored the one our sons wore outside. "Let's go collect our boys. We have a very important phone call to make to a certain Miss Sloane Barrett."
