The chill of the early morning air bites at my exposed skin, but it's a welcome sensation, a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth of the motel.
Dante stands beside my sleek silver car, the engine already idling, his silhouette etched against the nascent blush of dawn.
He’s dressed simply, a dark jacket against the cool air, and his eyes, usually so quick to tease, hold a rare solemnity.
“So, this is it, cara,” he says, his voice soft, a hint of his usual wry humor just beneath the surface. He runs a hand through his dark hair, a gesture that always made me smile. “You’re really going back.”
I nod, gripping the steering wheel. “I have to, Dante. It’s… it’s where I belong. Even if I don’t know what I’m going back to.”
He sighs, a slow, deliberate sound. “I know, bellissima. I under
