The Mafia Boss's Secret Lover (by Z·Nyra) novel Chapter 17

Chapter 17

One year after Paris, the studio had a waiting list six months long. Aria hired two assistants–both young women from the program she’d started, both learning that metal could be shaped without breaking.

Dominic’s office was in the back, a small room where he managed the family’s legitimate businesses while she hammered steel in the next room. Sometimes he’d watch her work, the rhythm of metal on metal becoming the soundtrack to his new life.

The day the article came out, he found her sitting on the studio floor, surrounded by newspaper clippings. *Forged in Fire: How a Weaponsmith Found Peace*

“They made me sound heroic,” she said. “I’m not. I was just tired of being afraid.”

“You’re the bravest person I know.” He sat beside her. “You walked away from everything.”

“I walked toward something. There’s a difference.” She leaned against him. “Did you see the photo?”

It was the one they’d taken together at the studio opening–her holding a finished piece, him standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder. Not possessive. Just present.

“We look happy,” he said.

“We are.” She said it with wonder, like it was still new.

That evening, they walked through the Garden District, past mansions that had witnessed a century of stories. They stopped in front of the old Cavallo estate, now occupied by Dominic’s cousin who managed the eastern routes.

“You ever miss it?” she asked. “The power? The control?”

“I have power.” He took her hand. “I just don’t have to prove it anymore.” They continued walking, toward their smaller house with its garden and studio and life they’d built from broken pieces. It wasn’t perfect. It was better than perfect. It was real.

Natalia sent a gift for their anniversary–not their wedding, they hadn’t married yet, both of them content with the choice they’d made without legal documents. It was a vase, blown glass from Venice, delicate and beautiful. The note read: *For the woman who taught me that power comes in many

forms. -N*

Aria placed it in the studio window, where light could shine through it and remind her that even enemies could become something like friends.

Gabriel visited on Sundays, bringing reports and cannoli from Papa’s favorite bakery. He’d taken over much of the day–to–day operations, steering the family toward more legitimate enterprises. Sometimes he’d shake his head watching them. “Never thought I’d see Dominic Cavallo washing dishes while his woman builds an empire.”

“She’s not building an empire,” Dominic would say. “She’s building a life. I’m just learning to live in it.”

The students kept coming. Young women, mostly, but some men too, all of them learning that strength wasn’t about dominance. That art could be born from pain without being defined by it. That love didn’t have to be convenient to be real.

One student asked Aria why she’d returned to Dominic after everything.

“Because he learned to listen,” she said. “And I learned to speak. Ten years

of silence teaches you what matters.”

“What does matter?”

“Choice.” She held up a piece of steel, still warm from the forge. “This metal doesn’t have to become a blade. It can become anything. A bowl. A sculpture. A tool. The steel doesn’t decide. The smith does.”

Dominic stood in the doorway, listening. He heard the lesson and

understood it was for him too. He’d been steel once, shaped by expectation and power. She’d been the forge that heated him, the hammer that remade

him.

That night, as they lay in bed listening to New Orleans settle into its familiar rhythm, Dominic said, “We should get married.”

“We already are,” Aria replied. “In every way that matters.”

“I want the paper. The legal part. I want to give you my name with your

consent.”

“I already took it. In Paris.”

“That was Gabriel’s joke. This would be real.”

She rolled over to face him. “Why now?”

“Because I’m not afraid anymore. Of losing you. Of needing you. Of being

the man who loves you more than his empire.”

She kissed him. “Ask me properly.”

“Aria Cavallo-”

“Moretti Cavallo. I’m keeping both.”

“Aria Moretti Cavallo, will you marry me? Not for convenience. Not for

strategy. For love.”

“That’s the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes.” She smiled against his lips. “But you’re going to have to work on your romantic speeches.”

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