Chapter 9: Dante

Hearing Lilliana upset over the phone was probably the worst thing I’d ever experienced in my entire life. The sound of her voice—cracked, shaky, barely stitched together by false composure—gripped me with a panic I hadn’t felt in years. Knowing she was hurting, knowing she needed someone, and realizing that someone should have been me... it wrecked me. The worst part? I hadn’t been the first person she called. That role belonged to her brother, Jeremy.

Sure, she’d asked for him. But he was unavailable—tied up with something else—and I was the only one left who could get to her quickly. I knew the city like the back of my hand; I could navigate its chaos without blinking. And even more than that, I wanted to get to her. Not just for comfort. Not just to be the hero. But because the thought of her standing alone, outside his workplace, heartbroken and lost, lit a fire inside me that I couldn’t ignore.

The mere image of her waiting in the shadow of that scumbag’s office, her heart in shambles, made my blood boil. I wanted to tear the man apart. I wished I could erase him from existence with nothing more than a thought. I wished I could rid the world of him so Lilliana would never have to suffer another second at his hands.

But I couldn’t—not as long as she still loved him. As long as there was a glimmer of hope in her heart that the two of them had a future, I couldn’t act on what I felt. I couldn’t force him out of her life, not without crossing a line she might never forgive. So I waited. I needed him to screw up. I needed him to destroy whatever fantasy she was clinging to. Only then would I be free to act. Only then could I make him suffer for every lie he fed her, every time he touched what wasn’t his, and every tear he ever caused to fall from her eyes. Only then could I punish him—for ever treating her like some kind of trophy instead of the extraordinary woman she truly was.

The car slowed to a halt right in front of her. My eyes swept over her figure, and the sight knocked the wind out of me. She looked stunning, as always—her sunglasses perched perfectly on her nose, a tight black dress hugging every curve of her body, and her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail that made her look nothing short of regal. But there was something off. Something in her posture, something in the way she held herself like she was trying to stop from crumbling.

This wasn’t the Lilliana I knew. This wasn’t the girl who used to spend a week each summer splashing in the pool, her laughter echoing across the yard. This wasn’t the young woman who would sunbathe on the deck with her favorite novel in hand, completely immersed in a world of fantasy. This wasn’t the Lilliana who had stood in the kitchen with Antonia, flour on her cheeks, trying to master Antonia's great-aunt’s old Italian recipes. This wasn’t the girl who’d once called her brother in a panic, worried sick about her SATs and convinced she’d never pass.

No. This was someone else entirely. Someone carved from sadness. Someone whose vibrant spirit had dimmed, whose emotional range had collapsed into a single muted note of defeat. She looked like a painting drained of color, like a woman who had been forced to strip away the layers of love, joy, and wonder that made her who she was.

I didn’t care about the traffic or the blaring horns behind me. I threw open the car door and stepped out, not giving a damn that I was parked illegally or disrupting the flow of a busy Manhattan street. All that mattered was her.

“Lilliana,” I greeted her softly, moving around the car with long strides. I just needed to get to her. I needed to make everything okay again.

“You don’t have to do this, Dante,” she began, her voice far too composed, the kind of calm that only comes after a storm. “I’m okay. You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“I do,” I said firmly, stopping right in front of her. “Every single day.”

Even behind her sunglasses, I could tell she was looking at me. I could see the faint shadows of her lashes, the subtle tilt of her head. She was trying to keep her guard up, but I knew her too well. I could see right through it.

“Tell me what happened,” I asked—more like ordered—unable to keep the edge out of my voice. I knew I should tread carefully, but the urge to understand, to protect, was stronger. I needed to know whether I should go up there and make him pay for whatever he’d done to her.

She shrugged, eyes dropping to the pavement. “He just blew me off for our lunch date,” she whispered. But I knew Lilliana. I knew her tells. I knew that was a lie.

“So you wanted Jeremy to take you to lunch instead?” I asked gently, giving her space, giving her the lie she clearly needed to cling to. If pretending it was nothing helped her survive the moment, I’d let her have it.

“I guess, yeah,” she muttered. “I mean, now I’m here anyway, and why not allow my brother to take me to lunch?”

She had always been a terrible liar. Absolutely awful. But this... this was almost painful to watch. Was it because she didn’t have time to come up with something better? Or was it because I was the one asking the questions? I couldn’t be sure, but one thing I did know was that I wasn’t about to leave her standing on this sidewalk, alone with her pain.

“Come on, then,” I said, turning to open the car door for her.

“What?” she asked, blinking at me in confusion, eyes darting between me and the open door.

“I’m going to take you to lunch and then drive you home, fiorellino,” I said, watching the subtle flush of pink rise to her cheeks. Even in her sadness, she was beautiful.

“You don’t have to do that, Dante,” she whispered, fingers fidgeting at her waist, thumbs brushing over one another nervously. “I’ll just take the subway home or something.”

“Stop being difficult, Lilliana,” I said, extending my hand. “Come with me to lunch and tell me about your finals.”

Her lips twitched into a small smile—fragile but real. Her dimples appeared for just a second before she nodded. She placed her hand in mine, her soft fingers curling around my own. I guided her into the car gently, closing the door behind her, ignoring the cacophony of horns and curses from drivers annoyed by the delay.

Let them wait.

Right now, she was all that mattered.

I moved around the car, pulling open the driver’s side door before sliding into the seat behind the steering wheel. The leather was warm from the afternoon sun, but I barely registered it. Without saying a word, I started the engine and eased us back into traffic, heading straight for A Taste of Italian—a quiet place tucked into a side street, one of Lilliana’s favorites. I knew she loved the Spaghetti Cacio e P**e there; she said it reminded her of childhood summers, of simplicity, of better days, of staying safely tucked away in my manor.

She sat quietly beside me for a while, her body turned slightly toward the window, her fingers loosely intertwined in her lap. The silence between us was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy, weighed down by things unsaid, emotions tucked away in the corners of her expression.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted you during something,” she finally said, her voice low and apologetic, cutting through the quiet like a whisper in a chapel.

She had interrupted something—something important, something involving Jeremy—but it didn’t matter. Not now. I trusted Jeremy to handle it. I trusted him to get what he needed, to finish what we had started. There were few people I would’ve dropped everything for. Lilliana was always at the top of that list.

“You never disturb me, fiorellino,” I replied, my voice soft but steady. Being with her in any way—calming her, helping her, simply sitting beside her—was better than being anywhere else. Always.

“Tell me, how’s the end of school?” I asked, trying to redirect her thoughts, to anchor her in something she could talk about without falling apart.

“Terrifying,” she admitted with a nervous chuckle that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m scared that I’ve wasted my time with this degree. I’m scared I won’t pass the exams. I’m scared that my life is slowly but surely starting to unravel.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I hated hearing that kind of fear in her voice. I hated knowing she felt like the ground was shifting under her feet, that the future she’d worked for now seemed like a mirage slipping further away.

“I thought he didn’t want you to work,” I said, my voice low, laced with disdain. I didn’t want to say his name. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of occupying even a fraction of our conversation.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, turning her face back toward the window, watching the city blur past. “I don’t know anything right now, Dante.”

Her voice cracked slightly at the edges, and it took everything in me not to slam my fist into the steering wheel. My hands tightened around it instead, my knuckles going white. She sounded hollow. She sounded like someone who had been drained of hope, of joy, of certainty. And that wasn’t right. A woman like Lilliana—bright, brilliant, full of compassion—should never feel like this. She should be cherished. Protected. Revered.

I pulled up in front of the restaurant and parked along the curb, watching as one of the suited waiters noticed the car and immediately made his way over. He moved quickly, respectfully, knowing exactly who I was. I turned off the engine and stepped out of the car.

What made me feel strangely triumphant, though, was that Lilliana didn’t move. She stayed exactly where she was, sitting patiently, quietly, just like I’d told her to in the past whenever I opened the door for her. There was something deeply satisfying about that—like a silent understanding still existed between us, even now.

With a quiet pride swelling in my chest, I rounded the car and opened the passenger door. She looked up at me, composure still guarded, and placed her hand in mine without hesitation this time. Her skin was soft and cool, and I held on just a little longer than necessary, helping her out of the low car.

Before she could pull away, I brought her hand to rest gently on my arm, guiding her forward toward the entrance. Her touch on my bicep was light, almost fragile, like it could disappear at any moment. And maybe it could.

“Mr. Gallo,” the waiter greeted with a slight bow as I handed over the keys, and then he opened the restaurant door for us, ensuring neither of us had to lift a finger.

The interior wrapped around us like a warm embrace—cozy brick walls lined with dark wood shelves, the scent of garlic and wine permeating the air, the faint strains of an old Italian love song playing softly in the background. The tables were adorned with crisp linen, and the low lighting cast a golden glow across everything it touched. This place had ambiance, yes, but more than that, it had familiarity. It had memories.

“Mr. Gallo,” the hostess greeted with a polished smile, already picking up two menus. “Are we expecting others to join you and Miss Caraway today?”

“Not today,” I said, scanning the restaurant for the table I had in mind.

Every staff member here knew who she was—just like they knew me, Jeremy, and even Sophie Caraway. I had made sure both Lilliana and her mother were known, looked after, and treated like royalty in any place associated with my name. Their meals were always comped, their service impeccable. It was the least I could do.

I led Lilliana to a corner table, one with a bit of privacy, and pulled out her chair before gesturing for her to sit. She did so with a small, tired smile. I pushed the chair in gently and took the seat across from her.

She removed her sunglasses slowly, and I could see the remnants of what she had been hiding—the faint redness in her eyes, just enough to betray the tears she had shed earlier. Not noticeable to the untrained eye, but I noticed. I always noticed. And that subtle sadness, buried just beneath the surface, carved something deep into me.

The hostess placed the menus on the table.

“I’ll give you a moment to look these over, sir. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate,” she offered cheerfully.

But I barely acknowledged her. My focus remained locked on Lilliana.

“Actually,” Lilliana said, lifting her gaze to the hostess, “what are today’s specials?”

“You don’t want the Cacio e P**e?” I asked, raising a brow.

She shrugged slightly, eyes meeting mine again. “I might be in the mood for something new.”

“The chef’s special today is a handmade gnocchi in a creamy parmesan sauce, served with a grilled steak,” the hostess replied, drawing her attention again. “It’s one of our new featured dishes.”

“I’d like to try that,” Lilliana said softly, offering a small, polite smile. “And a glass of water, please.”

“Absolutely, miss,” the hostess replied, then turned to me. “And you, sir? Would you like your regular order?”

I gave a curt nod, my eyes never leaving Lilliana, even as I handed my menu back. She did the same.

As I sat there, watching her eyes shimmer with something deeper than disappointment, I realized again that she hadn’t just been canceled on. No—she had been cracked open, left exposed. And now she was looking for something to anchor herself to.

Something new.