Chapter 25 Chapter 25
Lily – Present Day
The sky is already cloudy when Dante picks me up in his sleek black BMW. He steps out of the car dressed in a navy-blue suit, looking crisp, sharp, and devastatingly handsome. His black hair is slicked back just the right amount, and his trimmed beard adds to the charm. He wears dark sunglasses that reflect the moody sky above, and when he removes them to look at me, I feel a flicker in my chest.
“You look so pretty, sunshine,” he says with a warm grin.
I’m in a dark grey summer dress that hugs my waist and flows around my ankles. The fabric is light, soft. I chose it carefully. Today is his birthday — Dante Mancini turns twenty-seven — and despite everything I’ve been through lately, I wanted to make this day special for him. This man who’s shown up every day. This man who never lets me feel alone.
“Happy birthday to you, Dante,” I say, smiling as I open the car door.
“Thanks,” he replies, and he holds my gaze for a little longer than expected before looking away. It’s a silent, weighty pause, but he doesn’t say more.
He drives for over two and a half hours, through winding roads that stretch beyond the city and into the countryside. I watch him while he drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. His sunglasses return to his face, but not before I catch a glimpse of those expressive eyes that always seem to read me.
The rain begins lightly as we pull into the property — a breathtaking villa by a serene lake, tucked between low rolling hills and tall pine trees. The villa is warm-toned with terracotta roof tiles and stone walls laced with ivy. It smells like fresh earth and herbs.
The restaurant is nestled inside the main part of the villa, and Dante places his hand gently on my back as we walk in. A soft gesture, intimate. The owner greets him personally — a nod, a “Buongiorno, Signor Mancini” — like they know each other. Like they know who he is. We are led to a private table near a wide arched window that looks out on the lake, the surface already stirred by soft waves and a faint drizzle.
I order coq au vin with fresh herb linguine. Dante, in true Italian spirit, goes for homemade gnocchi and truffle sauce. We both share a bottle of red wine — the warm, rich kind that brings out smiles with every sip.
As we eat, the drizzle turns into a full-on downpour. Rain pelts the lake like a thousand tiny footsteps.
Dante cracks a joke after taking a bite of his food: “This gnocchi is so good I might marry it — no offense, sunshine.”
I laugh, really laugh, for the first time in what feels like ages.
Then he goes, “You know, if I ever get a tattoo, it’ll say ‘God bless carbs.’ Right here.” He points to his bicep with a teasing smirk.
“And what if you run out of space from eating too many carbs?” I raise a brow.
“Then I’ll get another arm,” he grins.
The waitstaff returns soon after with a small but elegant birthday cake — chocolate and hazelnut layers, just how he likes it. I sing “Happy Birthday” softly, just the two of us and the rain outside. He watches me, his smile softer now, more personal. There’s something tender in the way he looks at me, like he sees something more than he dares to say.
Then I reach into my bag and bring out the small wrapped box.
“What’s this?” he asks, curious.
“Open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is the diamond watch I bought for him — minimalist, masculine, and sleek. His jaw tightens slightly when he sees it.
“Lily…” he exhales, stunned. “Thank you so much for this gift.”
“You deserve this,” I say honestly.
His fingers brush mine when he closes the box, and for a moment, we just look at each other — the air thick between us, the rain a steady background rhythm.
Not long after, the owner approaches to inform us that a landslide has blocked the main road. It’s unsafe to return tonight. We’ll have to stay in the villa.
“There’s no way through,” he explains. “But you’ll be safe and comfortable here. We’ll prepare one of the private suites for you.”
The villa’s suites are tucked behind the main restaurant, spaced out with private pools and gardens. After settling in, I head to the tourist shop attached to the lobby to buy something comfortable — and a bikini. Despite the rain, the heated private pool calls my name. It’s tranquil and secluded, surrounded by tall hedges and the sound of rainfall on glass.
There’s something oddly healing about this place. Maybe it’s Dante’s presence. Maybe it’s the quiet. Or maybe it’s the first time I’ve felt like the pain is loosening its grip on my chest.
Tonight, the storm outside has nothing on the storm I’ve lived through — but somehow, I feel like I’m surviving it.
And Dante… he’s still here. Always here.
The rain hasn’t stopped. It’s still 4 PM, but the sky is a dusky gray, and the storm clouds outside give the illusion that the sun has completely set. The air is cool, the sound of the rain constant — a calming rhythm that fills the space with something soft and still. Our private villa is like something from a quiet postcard tucked away in the Italian countryside. There’s a cozy kitchen that smells faintly of coffee and rosemary, a warm-toned living room with cream-colored couches, and a bedroom I haven’t dared to look at yet because I know the silence will press against my chest the moment I’m alone in it.
But the patio — the patio calls to me.
The heated pool outside glows softly, a golden underlight shimmering through the water as steam rises gently into the cool rain. I slip into the small bathroom and change into the pink bikini I picked up earlier. It’s light, barely there, and soft against my skin. I wrap a towel around myself and pad barefoot through the villa toward the back door.
As I push it open, Dante’s voice stops me. “Lily, you are not going in the pool. You’ll fall sick.”
He’s standing there, leaning against the doorframe, half inside the villa and half out. His hair is slightly messy from the humidity, and he’s taken off his navy suit jacket. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned all the way down, hanging loose against his torso. His chest is defined — toned, sculpted — and his black dress pants fit him in a way that leaves little to the imagination. The fabric tightens slightly across his hips, and though I try not to look, my eyes betray me.
I smirk as I meet his gaze.
“We only live once, Dante Mancini,” I tell him, then drop the towel from my shoulders with no hesitation. The rain kisses my skin, cool droplets on warm flesh, and I slowly step into the steaming pool.
The contrast is addictive — cold rain above, heated water below. A shiver runs up my spine, not from the chill, but from the way Dante is still watching me. His eyes follow my every movement. There’s something intense about the way he looks at me now — like he’s both concerned and captivated. His arms are folded loosely, jaw tight, and there’s a war behind his eyes. As if he’s trying to hold something back.
I sink deeper into the water, up to my collarbone, resting my arms on the edge. The mist rises in tendrils around me, curling into the rain, and all I can see is him.
He hasn't moved from the patio.
“You’re going to stand there and watch me the whole time?” I ask, teasing.
His lips curve slightly, but he doesn't smile fully. “Maybe I like what I’m seeing.”
That makes my breath hitch — just a little.
The rain keeps falling, and I close my eyes for a second, letting it all hit me — the warmth of the water, the burn of his gaze, the ache in my chest that still exists but feels quieter now. Not gone. Just dulled by the way this moment feels like a breath I’ve been holding since the day Sebastian died.
And Dante… he’s still watching me like he doesn’t want to miss a single second.