Laughter—low, rich, and mocking—rolled through the hall.
It wasn’t Dante’s laugh.
I froze at the top of the staircase, one hand clutching the banister. The sound grew louder, followed by footsteps—confident, unhurried, as though the very walls bent to make room for him.
A man appeared at the base of the stairs.
At first glance, the resemblance was uncanny: broad shoulders, dark hair, the unmistakable cut of a Moretti jaw. But where Dante’s presence pressed like a storm, this man’s was fire—reckless, dancing, dangerous in its own way. His suit was tailored but loose, a touch of rebellion in the way he wore it, as though rules were meant to be broken.
His eyes found me instantly. Blue—icy and bright, nothing like Dante’s midnight darkness. They lingered on me too long, slow and delibera
