The rooftop restaurant had the vibe of a different world — too calm, too refined, too far removed from the chaos that followed Dante everywhere. Milan glittered beneath us. Sleek towers, winding lights, wealth and power hummed through the city like a heartbeat. Up above the night stretched endlessly, soft, deceptive. Just one candle flickered between us, its flame tiny but steady in the wind. I watched the way that light painted gold over his razor-edged cheekbones; how it danced in his eyes, with the look that told me nothing of anything. He was impossibly composed, as ever. He sipped his wine like he wasn’t the most feared man in three countries. That he didn’t come close to strangling a man, two nights ago, for touching me. I picked the glass up and left it to swirl and, I held it in my hand, the crimson wine caught the light. “You’re quiet,” I said. “That’s unusual.” “Thinking,” he replied, a low, smooth voice. “About what?” He gazed at me over the rim of his glass, dark,
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