PART 3: HER EX-HUSBAND HUMILIATED HER IN PUBLIC—UNTIL THE TATTOOED MAFIA BOSS SAW EVERYTHING

PART 3 — THE WOMAN WHO WAS SAVED HAD TO DECIDE IF SHE WOULD STAY BY CHOICE

I did not sleep.

How could I? In a bed that felt like sleeping on clouds, in sheets that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, in a silence so complete it felt alien after years of waiting for Derek’s heavy footsteps, angry breathing, and unpredictable violence.

I lay awake watching the city lights paint patterns on the ceiling, my mind replaying the past twelve hours on an endless loop.

Derek’s threats.

Dante’s intervention.

That kiss.

God, that kiss.

I touched my lips, still able to feel the ghost of his mouth on mine, the way he had held me like I was something precious and fragile and worth protecting. No one had ever touched me like that. Like I mattered.

When dawn finally broke, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, I gave up on sleep and padded to the massive windows. From up here, the city looked peaceful, almost innocent.

I could see the park where I had sometimes escaped when Derek’s rages grew too bad, the diner where I had worked myself to exhaustion, the grocery store where my life had irrevocably changed.

A soft chime made me jump.

The elevator.

My heart rate spiked as I watched the doors slide open, but it was not Dante who emerged. It was a woman in her mid-forties, impeccably dressed in a gray pantsuit, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. She carried several large shopping bags and wore an expression of professional efficiency.

“Miss Ava?” Her accent was faintly European, her smile polite but not warm. “I’m Sophia. Mr. Salvatore sent me to assist you this morning.”

I pulled my borrowed sweater, the one I had slept in, tighter around myself.

“Assist me with what?”

“Everything.”

She set the bags down on the pristine white sofa.

“Clothing, toiletries,

anything you might need. Mr. Salvatore was quite specific about ensuring your comfort.”

She gestured to the bags.

“These are just temporary, of course. This afternoon, we have appointments at several boutiques for proper fittings.”

“That’s not necessary,” I started.

Sophia’s raised eyebrow stopped me.

“Mr. Salvatore was very clear about his expectations.”

She began unpacking the bags with brisk efficiency. Designer jeans, cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, undergarments that probably cost more than I made in a week.

“He wants you to have everything you need.”

“And what does he expect in return?”

The question came out sharper than intended. Sophia paused, meeting my eyes with something that might have been sympathy.

“That, Miss Ava, you would need to ask him yourself. I’m simply here to help you settle in.”

She pulled out a phone, sleek, expensive, clearly new.

“He also asked me to give you this. His number is

already programmed. He said to call if you need anything. Anything at all.”

I took the phone like it might bite. The screen lit up at my touch, revealing a single contact.

Dante.

“There’s food in the kitchen,” Sophia continued, moving toward the hallway. “I’ll put these clothes away in your closet. Please, eat something. You’re far too thin.”

She disappeared into the bedroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a phone that felt like a tether to a man I barely knew but could not stop thinking about.

I made coffee. Real coffee, from beans that probably cost more than my hourly wage, using a machine that looked like it belonged in a professional café. The first sip was a revelation. Rich. Smooth. Perfect.

I stood at the counter drinking it, staring at Dante’s name on the phone screen.

Call if you need anything.

What did I need?

Safety? Yes. Dante had given me that. A place to stay, clothes, food, all provided.

But what about answers? What about understanding what I was doing there, what he expected, and what happened next?

My thumb hovered over his name for a full minute before I pressed it.

He answered on the first ring.

“Ava.”

His voice was rough, like he had just woken up, and the intimacy of hearing it made my stomach flip.

“Are you all right? Did something happen?”

“No, I’m fine. I just—”

I paused, unsure how to articulate the chaos in my head.

“Sophia is here, with clothes and a phone and talk of boutiques, and I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“You needed clothes. I provided them.”

Simple. Matter-of-fact.

“Is there a problem?”

“Dante, this is too much. All of this. I can’t accept all this from you when I don’t even know what you want from me.”

A pause. I could hear movement on his end. Footsteps. A door closing.

“I told you what I want. Your company. Your time. The opportunity to know you.”

“And the clothes, the apartment, the phone? What are those?”

“Necessities.” His voice held an edge of impatience. “You left your husband’s house with nothing but what you were wearing. Did you expect me to let you go without?”

“I’m not a charity case,” I said, hating how my voice wavered. “I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?”

The question was gentle but pointed.

“When was the last time you had money of your own? Resources that weren’t controlled by someone else? Choices that were truly yours to make?”

I had no answer.

He was right, and we both knew it.

“Accept the help, Ava,” he said, softer now. “Not because you’re weak or because I’m trying to control you, but because you deserve it. Because three years of surviving doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get to live.”

Tears pricked at my eyes.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Neither do I.”

I heard him exhale slowly.

“I’ve never—this isn’t something I do. But I’m trying. We’ll figure it out together.”

A pause.

“Let Sophia help you today. Get clothes that fit, that make you feel like yourself. And tonight, have dinner with me. Here at the apartment if you’re comfortable, or somewhere public if you prefer. Just give me a chance to do this right.”

“Do what right?”

“Everything.”

The word held weight, promise, danger.

“I’ll see you at seven. Marco will be outside if you need anything before then.”

He hung up before I could respond.

I stood there holding the phone, feeling like I had just agreed to something momentous without fully understanding the terms.

Sophia emerged from the bedroom, her expression professionally neutral.

“Everything is put away. Shall we have breakfast before the appointments?”

The day passed in a blur of luxury I had never experienced. Sophia drove me in another black SUV with another silent, watchful driver to boutiques where salespeople treated me like royalty, bringing champagne and chocolates while I tried on clothes that fit as if they had been made for my body, which, according to Sophia, they would be once the tailors took my measurements.

“Mr. Salvatore has excellent taste,” one boutique owner murmured, running her hands over a deep blue dress that made my eyes look luminous. “This color is perfect for you.”

Blue.

He had remembered my favorite color.

By the time we returned to the apartment, the sun was setting and I was exhausted, overwhelmed by shopping bags and tissue paper and the sheer magnitude of what had been spent on me. Sophia helped carry everything upstairs, organized it all with military precision, then departed with instructions to call if I needed anything.

Alone again, I stood in front of my new closet, filled with clothes I had never dreamed of owning, and tried to process the surreal turn my life had taken.

The elevator chimed at precisely seven.

My heart stuttered as Dante stepped out, and I had to remind myself to breathe.

He wore dark jeans and a black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal surprisingly muscular forearms. More casual than the suit, but no less devastating. His tattoos curled down his forearms, beautiful and dangerous, a language written in black ink across skin and muscle. His hair was slightly damp, as if he had recently showered, and the scent of him, cedar and smoke, filled the space immediately.

“You look beautiful.”

His eyes moved over the blue dress I had chosen, the one the boutique owner had insisted on.

“Sophia has good instincts.”

“You told her my favorite color.”

It was not a question.

“I pay attention.”

He moved farther into the apartment, carrying a bag that smelled incredible.

“I brought dinner. I thought you might prefer to eat here tonight.”

More private, he meant. More intimate. No waiters, no other diners. Just us.

“What did you bring?” I asked, needing to focus on something normal, something safe.

“Italian. Homemade by my mother’s cook.”

He unpacked containers onto the counter, each releasing aromas that made my mouth water.

“Pasta carbonara, saltimbocca, tiramisu for dessert. Nothing fancy. Just comfort food.”

The domesticity of it, Dante Salvatore, mafia boss, unpacking takeout containers in my kitchen, would have been funny if it were not so disarming.

We ate at the dining table, city lights behind us, and conversation flowed easier than I had expected. He asked about my day and listened with genuine interest as I described the overwhelming experience of the boutiques. I asked about his, carefully avoiding the obvious question of what exactly his business entailed, and he told me about meetings, property investments, and family obligations.

“You’re close to your mother?” I asked, remembering what he had said about her.

“She’s everything.” His expression softened. “After my father died, she could have fallen apart. Instead, she became stronger. Built her own life, her own power. She taught me that protecting family isn’t just about violence. It’s about creating safety, building something that lasts.”

“Does she know about me?”

He smiled.

“She knows I met someone interesting. She’s curious.”

The idea of meeting Dante’s mother terrified me more than anything else about the situation.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth. That I saw a woman being hurt and decided to intervene. That I can’t stop thinking about her. That I’m in over my head and have no idea what I’m doing.”

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine.

“She said that’s how you know it matters. When you lose control. When you can’t follow the script you’ve always followed.”

“What script is that?”

“The one where I keep everyone at arm’s length. Where I don’t let anyone close enough to become a weakness.”

His thumb traced circles on my palm.

“You’ve already broken that script, Ava. From the moment I saw you.”

My breath caught.

“You barely know me.”

“Then help me know you better.”

He stood, pulled me up with him, and led me to the sofa facing the windows. We sat close but not touching, the city sprawling before us like a universe of possibilities.

“Tell me about your family. Your life before Derek.”

So I did.

Talking came easier in the semidarkness, with his presence beside me solid and reassuring. I told him about my parents, killed in a car accident when I was nineteen, leaving me alone and grieving. I told him about meeting Derek six months later, how he had seemed like salvation, someone steady and strong who could protect me. I told him about the slow erosion of self that happened so gradually I had not noticed until it was too late.

“He isolated you,” Dante said, his jaw tight. “Classic pattern. Cut you off from friends, from your education, from anything that might give you independence.”

“I let him,” I whispered. “I was so desperate not to be alone that I let him—”

“No.”

Dante turned to face me fully, his hands cupping my face with that same careful gentleness.

“You survived. You did what you had to do to stay alive. That’s not weakness, Ava. That’s strength.”

Tears spilled over despite my best efforts to contain them.

“I don’t feel strong.”

“You left. When I gave you the opportunity, you didn’t go back to him. You didn’t make excuses, didn’t try to salvage something that was destroying you. You chose yourself.”

His thumbs wiped away my tears.

“That’s the strongest thing you could do.”

“With your help,” I pointed out. “I didn’t leave on my own. You orchestrated it.”

“I opened the door. You walked through it.”

He leaned closer, his forehead resting against mine.

“And you’re still here. Even though everything about this situation should terrify you. Even though you have every reason not to trust me. Not to trust any man. You’re here because you chose to be.”

“I don’t know why I did,” I admitted. “You’re dangerous. You threatened to kill my husband. You probably have killed people. Everything about you screams danger, and I should run as far as possible.”

“But you won’t.”

Not a question. A certainty.

“No,” I breathed. “I won’t.”

He kissed me then, slow and deep and claiming. His hand slid into my hair, angling my head for better access, and I melted into him, into a moment of surrender that felt nothing like the surrenders Derek had demanded.

This felt like choice.

Like power.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Dante rested his forehead against mine again.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured. “Not sex. Just stay. Let me hold you. Let me prove that touch doesn’t have to hurt.”

Every rational thought screamed that this was too fast, too much, too dangerous. But my heart, my battered, bruised heart that had forgotten what safety felt like, wanted this.

Wanted him.

“Okay,” I whispered.

He stood, pulling me up with him.

The massive bed looked even bigger in the dim light, intimidating in its implications. But Dante simply pulled back the covers, kicked off his shoes, and settled against the headboard, arms open in invitation.

I climbed in beside him, and he pulled me against his chest, my head tucked under his chin. His arms wrapped around me like a fortress. His heartbeat was steady beneath my ear, his warmth seeping into my bones.

“Sleep,” he murmured into my hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

And impossibly, incredibly, I believed him.

I drifted off to the rhythm of his breathing, to the security of his arms, to the strange new reality where the most dangerous man I had ever met felt like the safest place I had ever been.

I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the disconcerting realization that I was alone. The bed beside me was cold, the impression of Dante’s body long faded from the sheets. Panic fluttered in my chest, irrational and immediate, until I heard sounds from the kitchen.

Water running.

The clink of dishes.

I found him standing at the espresso machine, still wearing yesterday’s jeans but shirtless, his back a canvas of muscle and ink. Tattoos covered his shoulder blades, intricate designs that looked like they told a story I could not yet read. A scar ran along his ribs, pale against tanned skin.

He turned as I entered, and that devastating smile transformed his face.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

I accepted the cup he offered, trying not to stare at the way morning light painted gold across his chest.

“You stayed all night.”

“I said I would.”

He leaned against the counter, watching me over the rim of his own cup.

“How did you sleep?”

“Better than I have in years.”

The admission felt vulnerable. Dangerous.

“You didn’t have to stay.”

“Yes, I did.”

His expression turned serious.

“Ava, I need to tell you something about Derek.”

Ice water flooded my veins.

“What about him?”

“He tried to come back last night, around two a.m., drunk and making threats.” Dante’s voice was calm, controlled, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. “Marco stopped him before he reached the building. Derek is currently in a holding cell, charged with violating the restraining order that was filed yesterday.”

“Restraining order? I didn’t—”

“I had my lawyers file it, along with several other documents.”

He set down his coffee.

“Your divorce will be finalized in four weeks instead of six. Derek signed the papers last night in exchange for reduced charges. He gets nothing. No alimony, no shared assets. You walk away clean.”

I should have felt relieved. Instead, I felt dizzy, overwhelmed by how quickly Dante had dismantled my entire previous life.

“You can’t just—How did you—”

“Money. Influence. The right pressure applied to the right people.”

He moved closer, his hands settling on my shoulders.

“He’s out of your life, Ava. Permanently. If he tries to contact you, he violates the order and goes to prison. It’s done.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

His thumbs rubbed small circles against my collarbone.

“I told you I would protect you. I meant it.”

The enormity of it hit me all at once.

Freedom.

Real freedom after three years of captivity.

I set down my coffee cup with shaking hands and pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to overwhelm me.

Dante pulled me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me with that now familiar combination of strength and gentleness.

“Let it out,” he murmured against my hair. “You’re allowed to feel everything.”

So I did.

I cried for the girl I had been before Derek, for the three years I had lost, for the fear I had carried like a second skin. I cried for the relief of it being over and for the terror of what came next. Dante held me through all of it, one hand stroking my back, the other cradled against my head, murmuring words in Italian that I could not understand but felt in my bones.

When the tears finally subsided, I pulled back enough to look up at him.

“What happens now?”

“Whatever you want.”

He brushed a strand of hair from my face.

“You can stay here, start over, go back to school if you want. I’ll handle the tuition. Or travel, work, anything. The world is open to you now.”

“And you?”

The question felt loaded with meaning.

“Where do you fit in all this?”

“Wherever you’ll have me.”

His honesty was devastating.

“I know this is fast. I know I’ve upended your life in ways that probably terrify you. But Ava, I meant what I said. I want to know you. Really know you. Not just rescue you and disappear.”

“Why?”

I needed to understand the obsession, the intensity that had focused on me with such singular purpose.

He was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine.

“My father used to tell me that some people are born to build empires, and some are born to remind us why empires matter. You’re the second kind, Ava. You remind me that all the power, all the control, all the violence I’m capable of only means something if I use it to protect people who deserve protecting.”

He cupped my face in his hands.

“You walked into that grocery store invisible, trying not to exist, and something in me demanded that I make you seen, make you safe, make you mine.”

“I’m not a possession,” I said, but the words lacked heat.

“No. You’re a choice.”

His thumb traced my lower lip.

“My choice. And I’m hoping eventually I’ll be yours, too.”

The next three weeks passed in a blur of transformation. True to his word, Dante gave me space to breathe, to heal, and to figure out who I was without fear as my constant companion.

He appeared every evening for dinner, sometimes at the apartment, sometimes at restaurants where he had reserved private rooms, and once at his mother’s house, where I met the elegant, sharp-eyed woman who had raised him.

Isabella Salvatore looked at me with the same intensity as her son, assessing and measuring. Then she smiled and pulled me into an embrace that smelled of expensive perfume and maternal warmth.

“So, you’re the one who has made my son forget how to sleep,” she said in accented English, her eyes twinkling. “Good. He needs someone who disrupts him.”

I enrolled in online classes to finish my degree. Dante had offered to pay for traditional university, but I was not ready for that kind of exposure yet. Baby steps.

I started seeing a therapist, Dr. N. Chen, a calm woman who specialized in domestic violence survivors and did not blink when I mentioned Dante’s involvement in my escape.

“What matters,” she said during our third session, “is that you’re choosing your path forward. Whether that path includes him or not, the choice is yours.”

And slowly, carefully, I started choosing him.

Not because he had rescued me, though he had. Not because he was powerful and protective and willing to use both things on my behalf, though he was. But because beneath all that danger, beneath the casual violence and the empire built on fear, I had found something unexpected.

Kindness.

Patience.

A man who listened when I talked about books. Who remembered that I took my coffee with cream and sugar. Who never pushed for more than I was ready to give. Who held me through nightmares about Derek and never once made me feel weak for having them.

Four weeks after that night in the grocery store, the divorce papers arrived.

Final.

Official.

Legal proof that I was no longer Mrs. Derek Morrison.

I was just Ava.

Just myself.

Dante took me to dinner to celebrate. Not one of his usual exclusive restaurants, but a small Italian place his mother had recommended, family-owned and warm. We sat in a corner booth, wine flowing freely, and for the first time since I had met him, I felt something shift between us.

The fear was gone.

The uncertainty had faded.

What remained was choice, clear and uncomplicated.

“I want to stay,” I said suddenly, interrupting his story about some business negotiation. “In the apartment, with you, if you’ll have me. Not because I’m afraid, or because I have nowhere else to go, but because I choose you.”

Dante went very still, his wine glass suspended halfway to his lips.

“Ava.”

“I know what you are,” I continued, needing to say it while I had courage. “I know the things you do, the world you operate in. I’m not naive enough to think it’s all legitimate business and charitable donations. But I also know who you are with me. Patient. Protective. So careful with my heart it makes me want to cry sometimes. I know you’ve killed people, and I know you’d kill for me without hesitation. And somehow that doesn’t terrify me the way it should.”

“It should,” he said roughly. “Everything about this should terrify you.”

“But it doesn’t.”

I reached across the table and took his hand.

“You terrify me in good ways. You make me want to be brave enough to match your intensity, to be someone worthy of the way you look at me.”

“You’re already worthy.” He turned his hand to lace our fingers together. “You’ve always been worthy. I just made you see it.”

“Then let me stay. Let me choose this life with you, knowing exactly what it means.”

He stood abruptly, pulled me up with him, and kissed me right there in the middle of the restaurant with an intensity that made my knees weak. It was claiming and possessive and absolutely shameless, and I kissed him back with equal fervor, pouring three weeks of building tension into the contact.

When we finally broke apart, the other diners were politely looking away, but I caught more than one smile.

“Take me home,” I whispered against his lips.

His eyes darkened.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The drive back to the apartment was charged with electricity. Dante’s hand stayed on my thigh the entire time, his thumb drawing maddening circles against the fabric of my dress. Marco drove with professional discretion, his eyes firmly on the road, but I caught his small smile in the rearview mirror.

In the elevator, Dante pushed me against the wall, his body pressing into mine, his mouth tracing fire down my neck.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled against my skin. “Tell me you need more time.”

“I don’t.”

I pulled his head back to mine, kissing him with all the pent-up desire I had been carefully controlling.

“I need you. Now.”

We barely made it through the apartment door before his hands were in my hair, my dress was pooling at my feet, and he was lifting me against the wall with strength that should have frightened me but instead made me feel powerful, desired, chosen.

What happened next was nothing like the cold, mechanical encounters I had endured with Derek. This was fire and passion, two people learning each other with desperate intensity. Dante touched me like I was precious and claimed me like I was his in equal measure, and I gave myself to him completely, trusting him with vulnerabilities I had thought were broken beyond repair.

Afterward, we lay tangled in sheets, the city lights painting patterns across our skin. His fingers traced lazy circles on my bare shoulder while I listened to his heartbeat slow to normal.

“I love you,” he said quietly, the words hanging in the air between us. “I probably loved you from the moment I saw you trying to disappear in that grocery store. I know it’s too soon. I know I shouldn’t say it, but I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

My heart stuttered.

Three weeks ago, I had been married to a man who made me fear my own shadow. Now I was in bed with a mafia boss who had just confessed his love as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I love you, too,” I whispered, surprised to find it was true. “You’re terrifying and possessive and probably bad for me in a hundred different ways, but I love you anyway.”

He laughed, a real laugh, full of genuine joy, and pulled me closer.

“I’ll be so good for you,” he promised against my hair. “I’ll build you a world where you never have to be afraid again, where you can be as loud and bright and powerful as you were always meant to be.”

“And possessive?” I teased, tracing the tattoos on his chest.

“Unbearably.”

He caught my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm.

“You’re mine, Ava. I don’t share. I don’t compromise. And I sure as hell don’t let go of what belongs to me.”

“Good,” I said, surprising us both. “Because I’m kind of possessive, too, and you’re mine just as much as I’m yours.”

His smile was pure satisfaction.

“Fair enough.”

We stayed like that for hours, talking and touching and building something new from the ashes of who we had been before. When dawn painted the sky pink and gold again, I watched the sun rise from the safety of Dante’s arms and realized this was what freedom felt like.

Not the absence of cage bars.

The choice to stay.

Six months later, I stood in the same grocery store where it had all begun, Dante at my side, his hand possessive at the small of my back. I was shopping for ingredients for dinner, real cooking in the massive kitchen of the penthouse that was now officially our home, not just mine.

“You’re sure about the carbonara?” I asked, studying a package of pancetta.

“My mother’s recipe is perfect,” Dante assured me. “You just need to trust the process.”

We had fallen into this routine, cooking together, me slowly learning the recipes of his childhood while he learned to appreciate my simpler comfort foods. Our lives had blended in unexpected ways.

I had finished my degree online and started volunteering at a women’s shelter, using my story to help others escape their own Derek Morrisons. Dante had gradually let me into his world, teaching me the family business, the legitimate parts anyway, and letting me see the empire he had built.

As we walked down the dairy aisle toward the checkout, I caught sight of our reflection in the security mirror overhead. Dante, tall and powerful in his usual dark suit, his hand never leaving my back. Me, in jeans and a cashmere sweater, my hair styled, my face free of bruises, my eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like happiness.

We looked like we belonged together.

And we did.

“What are you thinking?” Dante asked, following my gaze.

“That six months ago I was standing right here, invisible and terrified, and you walked into my life and changed everything.”

He pulled me close, right there in the middle of the grocery store, uncaring of the other shoppers.

“You changed everything first,” he said against my hair. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

“I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you more.” He kissed the top of my head. “And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it.”

Later that night, after we had cooked dinner together and eaten on the balcony overlooking the city, Dante pulled a small velvet box from his pocket.

“I know it’s fast,” he said, dropping to one knee with the same certainty he brought to everything else. “I know we’ve only had six months. But Ava, I’ve waited my entire life to find someone who makes me want to build rather than destroy. Someone who reminds me why power matters, so I can protect the people I love.”

He opened the box.

“Marry me. Not because you have to. Not because you’re afraid. But because you choose me the way I choose you, every day for the rest of our lives.”

The ring was beautiful, a sapphire the deep blue of my favorite color, surrounded by diamonds that caught the light like stars.

I did not hesitate.

“Yes.”

He slid the ring onto my finger, stood, and kissed me with an intensity that stole my breath. Behind us, the city sprawled in endless possibility, but all I could see was him. All I could feel was the rightness of this choice, this man, this life we were building together.

I had walked into a grocery store invisible and walked out seen. I had been broken and found someone who treated my pieces like treasures worth keeping. I had been afraid and found someone who made me brave.

Now I was choosing forever with the dangerous, beautiful man who had looked at my bruises and decided they were the last ones I would ever wear.

“Mrs. Salvatore,” Dante murmured against my lips, testing the title. “How does that sound?”

“Like coming home,” I whispered back.

And it did.

After years of cages and fear and making myself small, I had finally found the place I was always meant to be. Not saved, not rescued, but loved.

Completely, obsessively, irrevocably loved.

And I loved him right back, with every piece of my healing heart.

THE END.