Chapter 7 - The Sound of Home
Six months later, Blackwood Manor hosted its first real celebration in almost a decade.
Not a business dinner.
Not a funeral.
Not a political fundraiser.
A wedding.
Margaret cried before the ceremony even started.
Dante looked at her.
“Stop.”
“I’m happy.”
“You’re making everyone uncomfortable.”
“You run a criminal empire.”
“Allegedly.”
“And somehow tears make you nervous.”
Dante adjusted his tie.
Across the garden, Nora stood beneath an arch covered in white roses.
She wore a simple ivory dress.
No jewels except one small necklace that had belonged to her mother.
Dante stopped breathing.
Luca’s old metronome sat on a small table beside the ceremony.
Not hidden.
Not locked away.
Just present.
Nora noticed Dante looking at it.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
He smiled.
“I’m learning.”
The ceremony was small.
Margaret.
Nora’s daughter, Emily.
Dante’s closest men.
A few people who had survived enough years beside him to become something like family.
When the officiant asked Dante for his vows, he looked at Nora.
Everyone expected something formal.
Instead, he said—
“You annoyed me within four minutes of meeting me.”
Nora nodded.
“Sounds accurate.”
“You moved my furniture.”
“It was ugly.”
“You ignored security instructions.”
“They were dramatic.”
“You danced on my table.”
“That table needed joy.”
People laughed.
Dante’s expression softened.
“You walked into a house where everyone had learned to be quiet around me.”
Nora stopped joking.
“And you refused.”
Dante took her hands.
“I thought grief was loyalty.”
Nora squeezed his fingers.
“I thought smiling meant I was leaving Luca behind.”
He looked toward the metronome.
“But you made me understand something.”
“What?”
Dante looked at her.
“That loving the dead does not require joining them.”
Nora’s eyes filled.
Dante continued before she could cry.
“So I choose you.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
A few people laughed.
Nora took a breath.
“My turn.”
Dante nodded.
“When I came here, I wanted answers about Sam.”
Dante’s expression softened.
“I found them.”
She glanced toward her daughter.
“I thought that would be enough.”
Then she looked back at Dante.
“But somewhere between the terrible coffee, threatening house rules, secret rooms and your deeply concerning hatred of tomatoes…”
Dante frowned.
“Margaret told you?”
“Everyone knows.”
More laughter.
Nora smiled.
“I found something I stopped expecting.”
Dante waited.
“A future.”
Silence.
Then Dante kissed her.
The garden erupted in applause.
That evening, after everyone had gone inside, Dante remained outside alone for a moment.
His watch read 10:16.
He walked into the study.
The metronome waited on the mantel.
10:17.
For nine years, he would have started it.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tonight, he didn’t.
Instead, he opened the drawer beneath it.
Inside was the photograph of himself, Luca and Vincent.
Dante removed Vincent’s picture from the frame.
Not angrily.
Not violently.
Simply finally.
Then he placed a new photograph beside it.
Nora dancing barefoot on his dining table.
Wooden spoons raised.
Dante laughing below her.
Luca’s photograph remained beside it.
Past and present.
Neither erasing the other.
Nora appeared in the doorway.
“You disappeared from your own wedding.”
“I needed a minute.”
“You okay?”
Dante looked at the clock.
10:18.
Then at the metronome.
Silent.
“Yes.”
Nora stepped closer.
“Dance with me.”
“There’s no music.”
She smiled.
“There wasn’t any music the first time you learned to live again either.”
“That is completely inaccurate.”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
Dante laughed.
Nora took his hand.
They walked into the hallway together.
From the ballroom came voices.
Margaret yelling at someone to stop touching the cake.
Emily laughing.
Music playing.
Glasses clinking.
Life.
Dante paused at the doorway.
For years, Blackwood Manor had been famous for one thing.
Silence.
Now it sounded like home.
Nora leaned closer.
“What are you thinking?”
Dante looked at her.
“That Luca would’ve liked you.”
“Of course he would.”
“That confidence is concerning.”
“I’m delightful.”
“You hit Vincent with a guitar.”
“He deserved it.”
Dante laughed again.
This time, nobody stared.
Nobody dropped anything.
Nobody acted like they had witnessed a miracle.
Because Dante Moretti laughing was no longer a miracle.
It was simply part of the house.
And for the first time in nine years—
May you like
10:17 was just another minute on the clock.
THE END
