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That's when I realize this room isn't where he hides things. It's where he protects them. Everything that is precious to him. Safe from the outside world and its prying eyes.

I set the necklace down.

I came in here for ammunition against my monster of a husband. But what I found was overwhelming evidence that he has a whole different version of himself that he hides in here.

Away from the world. Away from me.

Because they mean so much to him.

I feel a surge of warmth. No, empathy. But I immediately try to push it away; after all, this man blew my life apart because he could.

Yet, I’ve seen the other side of Dante. Glimpses of emotion and warmth, and now this room with all its precious memories and trinkets from the past.

Dante Di Zaro isn’t quite the person I believed him to be. Oh, he’s a growly monster, but beneath his tough outer shell is a man who feels things deeply.

And I can’t help but be curious about him. He’s capable of love; I can see that in this room. But what about outside of here? And what does that mean for me?

Tired, I yawn and drape the throw blanket resting on the armrest across my legs, taking a moment to process everything I’ve seen and how it reconciles with the man who made me marry him. But it just doesn’t.

My eyelids grow heavy, and I let them close for a moment.

Just for a minute.

Just until I work out what I'm going to say to Dante when he comes home tonight.

But then I fall asleep.

Deeply.

36

DANTE

She's in the one room I specifically told her not to enter.

And now she's asleep in the armchair where I like to read and force the noise of my life to stop for the precious free time I get in here.

Standing in the doorway, I watch her sleeping. The lock on the door is picked. I can see the scratch marks on the brass and the bobby pins still sticking out of it.

My little lock cracker.

I should be furious. I am furious. Because this room is the only space in this penthouse that belongs to the man and not the don.

And she broke into it with goddamn bobby pins.

But it's hard to be furious at her when I also admire her tenacity.

I lean against the doorframe, cross my arms, and continue watching her.

She's sound asleep with her hair spilling over the armrest in loose waves. Her lips are parted and slightly quiver with every soft inhale of her breath.

I clear my throat.

Startled, her eyes fly open, and she looks dazed and confused as she tries to get her bearings.

Then she remembers where she is. And who I am. And what she did to get in here.

"Dante," she breathes my name, and it really shouldn't sound as good to me as it does.