Chapter 106: Back deals(2)
"...What if he just leaves the both of us instead?" she asked, hating the slight tone of hope she could hear in her own voice as she spoke. The words slipped out before she could stop them, betraying something fragile she didn’t want to acknowledge.
"There’s nothing that stops him from leaving," Elder Bellini pointed out calmly. As he spoke, she saw his expression shift, taking on a more sly, calculated look. He pointed at the papers she had placed on the stool beside her—specifically toward the other pages that explained the agreement in more technical, legal terms.
"Hidden in those lines is a clause," he continued, tapping the document lightly, "that for me to continue holding on to the shares, he has to live with his child and for no reason let the child go until he or she is an adult."
A sly smile spread across his face as he finished speaking.
That smile, however, slowly wrenched into one of discomfort. He pulled out his handkerchief and coughed heavily into it, his shoulders shaking slightly with the force. He moved to stash it back into his pocket, but not before Dora noticed faint red spots blooming against the white fabric.
Her breath caught.
"Are you okay?" she asked quietly, worry immediately coloring her voice as she settled her gaze on him.
She noticed how quickly he waved his hand dismissively and shook his head, clearly trying to show how little the cough mattered. Still, Dora couldn’t help but feel that it mattered far more than he was letting on.
"It’s nothing," he said lightly. "Nothing a few drugs can’t fix."
Dora nodded, though unease lingered in her chest. At that moment, however, his cough didn’t matter more than the fact that her entire contract with Dante hung precariously on the line.
If I piss Dante off enough, she thought grimly, he could send us right back to the streets—right back to where Tiberio is waiting.
Especially me in particular, she added silently, painfully aware that compared to Elisa and Maria, her stepmother, she had gotten off far too easily.
"...So all you want me to do is stay and fight?" she asked carefully.
She was surprised when the old man instantly shook his head, his expression turning severe as he responded.
"No," he said firmly. "I need you to never divorce him."
The words landed heavily.
"...Unless Dante divorces you," he continued, locking eyes with her, "I need you to never divorce him, no matter what he does."
For the first time in what felt like forever, Dora suddenly saw the faint outline of the light at the end of the tunnel she had been searching for.
That was exactly what she wanted.
She had already given up on love, long ago realizing that stability mattered far more than affection or promises. Still, Elder Bellini wasn’t finished.
"I’ll give you four hundred million," he added evenly. "In exchange, I need you to swear to me that you’ll do as agreed."
He wasn’t asking for a written agreement. Just her word.
Dora was slow to process his words. When it finally sank in—when she fully understood that what was being asked of her aligned perfectly with what she herself wanted—she nodded vigorously.
"Okay," she said quickly. "I’ll do that. But if he divorces me..." she added, needing to be certain he understood what Dante was capable of.
"...You’ll fight for custody," Elder Bellini finished for her, "and I can assure you that you’ll always win."
He paused briefly before adding, "My connections are older and stronger than his."
Dora slowly nodded, signaling that she understood exactly what was being asked of her—and what was being offered in return.
After that, they both settled into silence.
Neither spoke. Neither moved.
It was as though they were each lost in their own thoughts, the weight of what had just been agreed upon settling quietly but heavily between them.
The silence stretched on. Long enough that Dora began to worry the older man might drift into sleep if she allowed it to continue.
"How long have you known?" she finally asked, breaking the stillness.
She wondered if knowing the answer would change the way she saw him—or the way they interacted going forward. It almost felt like he could already tell what was going through her mind.
"I suspected from the very beginning," he said calmly. "Especially when Dante did all he could to stop me from finding out. That’s when it became even more obvious."
He said it as if it were the most natural conclusion in the world.
"I didn’t get where I am in life by not paying attention," he added with a small smile, "even to the things that don’t seem to need attention."
The smile softened his face, returning him briefly to his more jovial demeanor. Dora nodded in response, showing that she understood.
She relaxed back into her chair, realizing that she felt lighter now—more relieved—knowing that the old man was aware of the truth. It no longer felt like she was completely alone, carrying a secret that threatened to crush her.
But barely had she shifted her gaze back from watching the garden outside when she heard him speak again.
This time, his voice had returned to the severe tone she now recognized as a warning.
"You need to be extremely careful going forward," he said, not meeting her eyes. His voice was lower, more deliberate.
"My children won’t want that child to survive," he continued bluntly. "The only reason they haven’t done something drastic yet is because of me—and because of how Dante might react."
Dora stiffened. She hadn’t expected him to say it so plainly—to openly acknowledge that his own children were dangerous.
"...They have nothing to gain," she pointed out weakly. "The child would be too young to have anything to do with the company."
"They have nothing to lose either," he responded with a heavy sigh, one that sounded as though it came from deep within his bones.
"They take after their mother far more than I ever would have liked," he said quietly.
That was the last thing he spoke.
After that, he fell into a silence so thick and final that Dora didn’t dare disturb it. Something in his posture, in the distant look on his face, told her he was remembering something he didn’t want to forget.
Something painful.
Something she instinctively knew she wasn’t allowed to ask about.
