Chapter 31 Chapter 31

Chapter 31 Chapter 31
Lily – Departure Day
I smooth the soft velvet fabric of my navy pantsuit, the matching jacket hugging my frame just right. The white sneakers on my feet give it a casual edge, and my hair falls in loose waves over my shoulders—simple, effortless, free. I adjust the strap of my small handbag, already packed with my passport, lip gloss, and the little things I never travel without.
I turn one last time to look around the penthouse.
It’s quiet now. Too quiet.
My eyes land on the wedding photo sitting on the living room shelf—the one of Sebastian and me. We looked so happy in that picture, so unaware of what was coming. My chest tightens with a quiet ache, but I manage a soft smile. For the love we had. For what it meant.
“I’ll come back,” I whisper to the photo, then roll my suitcase to the door.
As I pull it open, Dante is already standing there.
He’s leaning casually against the doorframe like he belongs in the cover of a noir film—dressed in a fitted black polo shirt and sleek black pants, his shoes polished, his beard trimmed to perfection. He’s handsome in the kind of way that makes time momentarily stop. And the look in his eyes—dark, unreadable, a little dangerous—sends a flicker of something sharp and electric down my spine.
He straightens and gives me a slow once-over, a soft smirk curling at the edge of his lips.
“Hi, sunshine,” he says, voice like velvet and steel. “You look beautiful. Ready to go?”
I nod. “I’m ready.”
He takes the handle of my suitcase without another word and wheels it behind him as we step into the elevator. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s weighted, full of meaning. I watch him from the corner of my eye, the way he carries himself with quiet command, like a man who knows exactly who he is.
When the elevator doors open, a sleek black SUV is already waiting downstairs. A man with broad shoulders in a black coat steps forward and opens the door for me. Another lifts my suitcase into the trunk. The whole operation moves like clockwork.
Dante slides in next to me in the backseat. The scent of his cologne lingers in the air—something woodsy and addictive. He scrolls casually through his phone, one arm resting on the seat behind me.
I place my hand gently on his thigh, fingers brushing against the fabric of his pants. He pauses, glances at me with a quiet smirk, then returns to his phone. He doesn't move away. Doesn't flinch. If anything, he relaxes into my touch.
His phone buzzes—an incoming call.
“The godfather,” he mutters, answering.
“Yes… everything’s good… luggage’s done, we’re headed through soon… yeah. No one followed.”
He hangs up, calm as ever.
The ride to the airport is smooth. We barely talk, but the silence is comfortable, our presence enough for each other. When we arrive, Dante loads our luggage onto a trolley and pushes it steadily through the airport. I walk beside him, my hand brushing his every so often. We move through the check-in, security, and boarding gates like a well-rehearsed dance.
Finally, we find our seats on the plane.
Window seat for me, aisle for him.
I sink into the cushioned seat and look out at the runway, the sky tinted with golden hues as the sun begins to dip. Beside me, Dante stretches his legs, scrolling through his phone again, sunglasses now perched on his head.
I turn to him.
“It’s real now, huh?” I say softly.
He glances at me and leans in just slightly, enough to make me feel his warmth. “It’s always been real. Now it’s just beginning.”
I smile, resting my head against the window as the engines begin to hum.
Sicily awaits.
The cabin lights dim to a soft amber glow as the plane hums steadily through the clouds. Outside, the world is a blur of darkening blue and golden streaks, but inside, it feels cocooned—private, like a secret shared just between us.
Dante leans slightly toward me, his voice dipping into that low, velvet tone that always sends a flutter down my spine.
“I have a lot of places to show you in Italy,” he murmurs.
I turn my head slowly, smiling as I lower my voice to match his.
“I’m so excited,” I whisper, my eyes sparkling. “Italy was a dream for me.”
He watches me for a beat, the corners of his mouth curling up.
I shift a little closer in my seat, the soft fabric of my jacket brushing against his arm. I rest my head on his shoulder, letting out a relaxed sigh as his warmth envelopes me.
He tilts his head down slightly, teasing, “You like Italians, I see?”
I bite my lip, trying not to grin too wide. “Yes. Italians are my favorite,” I giggle softly, my voice feather-light.
He chuckles under his breath, and I can feel it vibrate through his chest. His hand slips under the blanket draped over us and gently squeezes my knee, just enough to make my heart beat a little faster.
“I’ll make sure Italy lives up to the dream,” he whispers near my ear, the promise in his voice leaving goosebumps in its wake.
The soft chime of the service bell rings overhead, and moments later, the air hostess wheels the meal cart down the aisle, stopping gracefully beside our row. With a warm smile, she gently places the meal trays in front of us.
“Dinner service,” she says softly, setting two covered dishes, a small bread basket, and a pair of dessert cups on our fold-out tables. The aroma of warm food fills the air—a blend of butter, herbs, and something slightly tangy.
I lift the lid off my tray and take a look—grilled chicken medallions glazed in a white wine cream sauce, served with wild mushroom risotto and baby carrots roasted in thyme and olive oil. A mini side salad with balsamic dressing sits beside a crusty roll with a pat of butter. For dessert, a tiny square of tiramisu rests in a porcelain cup, topped with a perfect dusting of cocoa.
Dante pulls a face the moment he opens his tray.
“What even is this?” he grumbles, poking at the risotto with his fork like it’s a creature from another planet. “Looks like someone pureed rice and forgot to cook it all the way.”
I can’t help but laugh, rolling my eyes at him. “That’s the problem with rich people. You own a nightclub and live in silk sheets but can’t recognize gourmet food.”
I take a forkful and sigh. “This is risotto, Dante. Mushroom risotto. You know, food that’s actually considered a delicacy.”
He smirks, still eyeing the plate suspiciously. “If it’s not pasta or steak, I don’t trust it.”
We both chuckle and start eating. I notice that, despite his teasing, he eats everything—cleaning his plate slowly, bite by bite.
But as I glance at him from the side, I notice something shift. His jaw tightens slightly. He’s chewing, but his eyes aren’t on the food anymore. He’s not even listening to the quiet movie playing in front of him. His gaze is locked on nothing, like his mind has wandered into dangerous territory.
He’s plotting something.
I swallow and pause, my fork halfway to my mouth.
“Everything okay?” I ask gently, brushing my fingers against his.
He blinks like I just pulled him out of a tunnel, then meets my eyes. He forces a smile.
“Yeah… just thinking.”
But I can tell it’s not nothing. His expression says otherwise.
Something's off. There’s a storm stirring beneath his calm surface—and I can feel it brewing slowly in the space between us.
I take a bite of tiramisu, the bitterness of cocoa on my tongue contrasting with the sweetness of the cream, and silently wonder what Dante isn’t telling me.