chapter nine:The price of royalty

The morning sun filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the marble floors of the Vieri estate. Dante Vieri stood alone in the great hall, staring at the ornate double doors, as if expecting the ghosts of his past to step through them. The heavy quiet pressed against his chest, a reminder that rescue missions didn't erase scars—they simply carved new ones.

Lana found him there as she descended the grand staircase, her robe tied loosely at the waist, hair still damp from a quick shower. Owen's soft snores drifted up from the guest suite, but Dante's solemn figure held no comfort.

"Good morning," she said softly, pausing a few feet away.

He didn't turn. "Morning."

She stepped closer. "He's stable. The doctors said he can come home tomorrow."

Dante's gaze remained fixed on the doors. "Tomorrow."

"It's alright to feel relieved," Lana said gently. "You saved him."

He inhaled slowly, as though measuring her words. "I did. But at a cost."

Lana came to stand beside him. "There's always a cost."

He finally turned, eyes dark with exhaustion. "I had to betray my own father to get him back. I had to lie to every board member. I had to—"

"You did what needed to be done," Lana interrupted. "But you're punishing yourself."

Dante's jaw clenched. "My family will never forgive me."

"You have me," Lana said, lifting his hand to her lips. "And Owen."

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. For a heartbeat, they shared the silence of two survivors.

By midday, word of Owen's rescue and Elena's arrest had spread through the Vieri network. The family's lawyers scrambled to contain fallout; press releases were drafted, then scrapped, then revised. But in the private wing, emotions ran deeper than any public statement could quiet.

Alessandro Vieri's study was a battlefield of old money and older grudges. He sat behind his massive teak desk, steepling his fingers, as Dante and Lana entered.

"Sit," he commanded, voice frosty. "I have much to say."

Dante took the armchair directly across from his father; Lana stood behind him, hand on his shoulder.

Alessandro's eyes flicked between them. "Your stunt in Moscow—reckless. You jeopardized the family's assets, the foundation's reputation, and your own position."

"You were behind part of it," Dante said, unflinching. "Viktor Sokolov was your choice to head security."

Alessandro's lips thinned. "He was competent. Until he wasn't."

"Until he fled," Dante pressed. "Under suspicion of embezzlement."

"He cleared his name," Alessandro insisted. "But your vendetta with him… cost us Owen."

Silence.

Lana stepped forward. "All of us—every Vieri—owe a debt of gratitude to Dante. He brought my brother home alive."

Alessandro's gaze flicked to her. "You—Mrs. Vieri—you align yourself with these… theatrics?"

"I align myself with Owen's life," she said firmly. "And with the man brave enough to save it."

For a moment, the old patriarch's cold mask cracked. "Watch your tongue, girl."

Lana met his glare steadily. "I've earned the right."

Dante stood. "If we're done here—"

Alessandro waved a hand dismissively. "Leave. Both of you."

They turned and walked out. In the hallway, Lana exhaled.

"He'll come around," she said quietly.

Dante nodded. "I hope."

They didn't mention the deeper fracture—Dante's realization that his father would always choose legacy over salvation.

That afternoon, Lana escorted Owen back to his room. His cheeks were flushed with color for the first time in weeks; his eyes bright with gratitude.

"Lana," he said, voice shaky. "Thank you—for everything."

She knelt beside him. "I'll always do whatever it takes for you. Always."

He reached out, taking her hand. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Don't lose yourself," he whispered. "In all of this."

Her throat burned. Tears pricked. "Never."

As she left him resting, Lana felt the weight of that promise settle around her shoulders like a cloak. In protecting Owen, she had found a purpose. In standing beside Dante, she had found power. But the question lingered: at what price?

Night fell with brutal clarity. The estate's great hall had been converted into a temporary strategy room. Maps of the Vieri Foundation's global holdings covered one wall; financial forecasts and PR strategies sprawled across another. A row of computers hummed along a long mahogany table.

Camilla, now acting COO of the Foundation during the crisis, briefed Dante and Lana on the next steps.

"Elena's trial begins in two weeks," she said, pointing to a timeline on the board. "Public sentiment is on our side—heroic CEO saves boy from kidnappers. But that image will fade fast once the headlines shift."

Dante drummed his fingers. "We need to pivot. Next public event: the Vieri Foundation gala in Paris. We'll announce a new scholarship fund in Owen's name. Show unity, compassion, strength."

Lana studied the plan. "And after that?"

"We rebuild security," Camilla said. "We root out anyone else with ties to Sokolov. We tighten our circle."

Lana raised a hand. "And what about Elena?"

Camilla's expression darkened. "She'll rot in a Moscow prison. But public trials can drag on. The board may push for a quiet settlement—reward her silence in exchange for locked records."

Dante's voice was low: "No. Let her face the consequences. No deals."

Camilla nodded. "Then we prepare."

Lana glanced at Dante. "We're in agreement?"

He met her gaze, steel and warmth mingled. "We're in this together. From now on, every decision—between us."

A moment of solidarity passed. Then Camilla cleared her throat.

"We should test you two," she said lightly. "A public Q&A with the press tomorrow."

Lana groaned playfully. "Can't we have one night without staged events?"

Camilla smiled. "This is the price of loyalty."

The next morning, the grand ballroom was transformed into a press conference stage. Reporters packed the floor, cameras trained on the dais where Dante and Lana sat side by side. A banner behind them read: "Vieri Foundation: Hope, Resilience, Tomorrow."

Dante's posture was regal; Lana's expression composed. Yet beneath the calm, they both felt the tremor of performance.

The moderator introduced them and opened the floor.

"Mr. Vieri," a reporter asked, "how do you respond to critics who say your personal involvement in Owen Brooks's case undermined corporate protocol?"

Dante leaned forward. "When human life is at stake, there is no protocol. There is only urgency, compassion, and responsibility."

A murmur of approval.

"Mrs. Vieri," another voice called, "you've been praised for your role in negotiating the ransom. What was your greatest challenge?"

Lana's heart fluttered. She'd anticipated questions, but speaking her truth was still daunting.

"My greatest challenge," she said, "was believing I could make a difference. When I married Dante, I thought I was entering a contract. What I didn't expect was that I would find my purpose—saving my brother, yes, but also using this platform to help others."

Flashes erupted. Dante glanced at her, pride shining in his eyes.

Then came the knockout question: "Mr. Vieri, can we trust that your marriage is genuine and not merely a strategic alliance?"

A hush fell.

Lana swallowed. Dante's jaw tightened.

He looked at her. Then back at the press.

"Our life together," he said slowly, "has been forged in crisis, trust, and mutual respect. I won't pretend it wasn't born of necessity—but every day since has been a choice. A choice I make because I care for my wife, for my family, and for this foundation."

Behind the cameras, Lana felt tears prick. He had said "my wife." As if nothing could change that.

The applause was genuine.

They endured a few more questions—about the new scholarship, the restructuring of the board, their plans for expansion—then the moderator closed the session.

The press scramble began, but Lana and Dante rose together, hands brushing.

Outside, Camilla intercepted them with smiles all around. "That went better than expected."

Dante kissed Lana's temple. "Thanks to you."

She leaned into him. "Thanks to us."

Later that evening, the estate's private garden was alight with lanterns and soft music—Dante's impromptu reward for Lana's strength. He led her through the rose-lined paths to a secluded gazebo where a small table held two flutes of champagne.

She turned to him. "You didn't have to do this."

He offered the flute. "I did. For you."

They clinked glasses. The first sip was sweet with quiet triumph.

He looked at her seriously. "Lana, every day I've doubted if I deserved you. But today… today I know I do."

Her breath caught. "Dante—"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim leather-bound notebook. "I've been writing—in private—letters to you. Pages I never planned to send, thoughts I never thought could be shared. But tonight, I want you to read one."

He handed it to her. She opened it to the first page, where familiar handwriting formed the words:

My dearest Lana,

When I first asked you to marry me, I never imagined this… this fire of feeling that would grip my soul. I thought I was doing business. I thought I was offering you convenience. Instead, you offered me redemption…

Tears blurred the ink. Lana looked up at him, heart full.

He knelt on one knee, surprising her. "Will you continue to partner with me—heart, soul, and all—in building a life that's more than a contract? Will you be my wife, not just in name but in truth?"

Her world narrowed to that single moment. The man she'd married for a year—and found herself loving beyond reason—offered her a real proposal.

"Yes," she whispered, voice thick. "A thousand times, yes."

He slipped the notebook into his pocket, rose, and captured her in a kiss that sealed their true vows.

But the price of loyalty would soon demand its next due. As they embraced, neither noticed the silent figure slipping away from the shadows—the one whose allegiance would upend everything they had built.

And in that moment, their greatest test waited just beyond the flowers, where the roots of betrayal ran deep.