CHAPTER 19

Lia’s POV

His voice was quiet but direct, cutting straight through the silence.

I turned to look at him. His eyes were on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, his expression calm and unreadable.

"What?" I said, though I'd heard him perfectly.

"Why are you with a man who can't respect you?" Dante clarified, still not looking at me. "Who treats you like you're invisible?"

My defenses went up immediately. "You don't know anything about our relationship."

"I know he's parading his ex-girlfriend in front of you," Dante said evenly. "And you're pretending it doesn't bother you."

The words hit me like cold water.

Ex-girlfriend.

Celeste was Rob's ex-girlfriend.

That's why she was here. That's why Rob had invited her without telling me. That's why he'd looked so happy when she arrived, why he'd hugged her like that, why he was touching her now with a gentleness he never showed me.

The realization settled over me slowly, piece by piece, forming a picture I didn't want to see but couldn't look away from.

I must have looked shocked—no, I definitely looked shocked—because Dante glanced at me briefly before returning his attention to the road.

"You didn't know," he said. It wasn't a question.

"No," I whispered. My voice sounded hollow. "I didn't know."

Dante was quiet for a moment, his jaw tightening slightly.

"You deserve better than that," he said finally. His voice was low and serious, and something about the way he said it—like it was simply a fact, not an opinion—made my throat feel tight.

Something inside me snapped.

All the shame and hurt and anger from the past two days came rushing up at once, looking for somewhere to land. And Dante was there, solid and real and saying things that cut too close to the bone.

"Better like you?" I snapped, turning in my seat to glare at him. The words came out sharp and bitter. "Is that what you're saying?"

Dante didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't defend himself or snap back.

He just kept his eyes on the road, his expression unreadable, and said nothing.

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable.

I immediately regretted saying it. He didn't deserve that. He'd been nothing but kind to me—offering me a chair by the pool, holding open doors, trying to tell me something I needed to hear even if I didn't want to hear it.

But I couldn't take it back now.

So I turned away and stared out the window at the passing scenery, my arms crossed over my chest, feeling like the worst version of myself.

And neither of us said another word.

The village was nothing like I expected.

I'd imagined something small and quaint, maybe a handful of buildings clustered together on the coast. But as Dante drove us down the winding road and the trees finally cleared, what appeared before us was absolutely charming—a proper village that looked like it had been pulled straight from a postcard.

Stone buildings with terracotta roofs climbed up the hillside in tiers, their walls painted in warm shades of cream and pale yellow and soft pink. Narrow cobblestone streets wound between them, too small for cars, lined with flower boxes overflowing with red geraniums and trailing ivy. Laundry hung from lines strung between windows, colorful fabrics moving gently in the breeze. At the center of it all was a small piazza with a fountain, surrounded by cafes with outdoor seating where old men sat playing cards and drinking espresso.

It was beautiful. Lived-in and real and completely unpretentious.

Dante parked the car at the edge of the village where the road ended, and we got out into the warm afternoon sun.

"This way," he said simply, gesturing toward one of the narrow streets.

I followed him into the village proper, my sandals clicking softly on the ancient cobblestones. The air smelled like fresh bread and coffee and something herbal I couldn't identify. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing music—an accordion, I thought, though I couldn't see where it was coming from.

People noticed us immediately. Or rather, they noticed Dante. As we walked through the streets, villagers looked up and smiled, calling out greetings in rapid Italian that I couldn't understand. He responded easily, his Italian flowing and natural, stopping to shake hands with an older man sweeping his doorstep, pausing to exchange words with a woman hanging laundry.

They clearly knew him. Respected him. The way they greeted him wasn't the stiff formality you'd show to some distant wealthy landowner—it was warm. Genuine. Like he was one of them, despite the obvious differences in their circumstances.

We stopped at a small cafe where several men were waiting, older guys with weathered faces and work-worn hands. Dante shook each of their hands and introduced me in Italian, gesturing to me with what I assumed was my name.

One of the men—silver-haired with kind eyes and deep laugh lines—looked between Dante and me with a knowing smile and said something in Italian that made the other men chuckle.

Dante responded smoothly, and I caught what sounded like a gentle correction, but he was smiling slightly.

The silver-haired man turned to me and said in heavily accented but clear English, "Beautiful girlfriend. You are lucky man, Dante."

My face went hot. "Oh, I'm not—we're not—"

"Thank you, Antonio," Dante said easily, neither confirming nor denying, just moving the conversation forward. "Shall we discuss the community center?"

They launched into conversation then, a mix of Italian and English for my benefit, discussing plans for a new community building that Dante's family was apparently funding. He listened carefully to their concerns about the location, the design, the impact on the village's character. He took notes on his phone. Asked thoughtful questions. Made suggestions that showed he'd actually thought about what they needed, not just what looked good on paper.

I watched him work, fascinated despite myself.

This wasn't the Dante from last night by the pool—quiet and slightly mysterious, giving nothing away. This was Dante in his element. Confident but not arrogant. Listening more than talking. Treating these men like their opinions mattered, like they were equals in this discussion rather than just locals who needed to be managed.

There was such a vast difference between him and Rob.