My life shifted to a quieter pace in the months that followed.

Dante moved me into his estate on the outskirts of the city.

It was a stone house surrounded by high walls and ancient maple trees.

For the first time in my life, I felt completely secure.

The security guards at the gate were polite, and they answered to Dante.

But Dante himself was different when he was with me.

The cold, calculating boss vanished behind the heavy oak doors of the house.

He helped me choose the colors for the nursery.

He picked out soft yellows and warm creams, rejecting anything that looked too stark.

“A child should have light,” he said one evening as we assembled the crib.

He was sitting on the floor, a screwdriver in his hand, looking slightly out of place among the wooden slats.

I laughed, a sound that felt unfamiliar but wonderful.

“You are doing it wrong,” I said, pointing to the instruction manual.

Dante looked at the paper, then at the wooden peg, and smiled.

“I am used to directing others,” he admitted.

“This requires more precision.”