Page 77 of The Scandal Behind The Italian’s Wedding

Maximus sighed heavily. “Please don’t make me talk about feelings.”

“Dio. Don’t.”

“You’re forcing it. You’re forcing me to.”

“Can I stop you?”

“Quit being a jackass and go to my sister. Minerva is the kindest and most caring person I know. The kindest and most caring person I have ever known. If she loves you, you’ve done well for yourself, Dante.”

“I never wanted to love another person again,” he said.

“Well, what a tragedy. You found someone to love, who loves you very much in return. Some people would call that an unexpected gift. A lot like trying to rob a man at gunpoint only to get offered a chance at a new life. That was brave of you, to take that.”

“Desperate,” he said. “And I vowed I wouldn’t be desperate again.”

“Well, here you are I guess,” Maximus said, looking around. “In all this glass and chrome. Not desperate at all. But meanwhile, across the country, there is a woman who loves you and a child who needs a father.” He turned to go, then stopped. “And you know, the rest of us are fond of you too. My father reached out to you that day. Maybe it’s time you reached back, brother.”

And without another word, Maximus walked out of his office, as if he hadn’t been there at all. And Dante was left with a burning sensation in his chest.

He loved her.

And she was not dead. She was not gone. And he...he had pushed her away because he had no earthly idea what else to do other than...

Accept it.

The idea filled him with dread. The idea of loving her, loving Isabella.

He looked around his office. His glass and chrome. This tower, surrounded by that wall he’d built for himself.

His security.

And suddenly it all meant nothing.

Suddenly it was not a protection, but a barrier. A barrier between himself and Minerva. Brick after brick, built to keep him safe. Built to keep him separate.

It could not endure.

Not anymore.

He loved her.

And it was a gift to a heart that had given up on loving ever again.

But most of all, she might still love him.

Him, a man from nothing. A man who knew nothing of how to love except getting slapped in the face for it.

She had loved him first. Before he knew how to show it or how to admit to himself that he loved her too.

But he couldn’t stay safe. He couldn’t stay on this side of the wall, not if he wanted her.

Suddenly it all seemed clear.

For love he would.

For Minerva, he had to. His girl, his woman. Who loved books and knew that his home had been patterned after Swiss Family Robinson. Who understood, somehow, these sharp, strange emotions inside himself that not even he understood.

He was done surviving.

He wanted to live.

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