By the time I make it back to my suite, my hands still smell like antiseptic, and Dante’s almost‑apology is stuck in my head like a half‑finished chorus.
*There’s something I should’ve said years ago—*
Then New York called, and the moment evaporated.
“Please tell me that face is just about bad coffee,” Mia says, looking up from my bed where she’s sprawled with a laptop on her stomach. “Because if it’s about him, I’m legally required to mock you into sanity.”
“He’s fine,” I say. “Some knuckle‑to‑goon contact, nothing life‑threatening.”
She narrows her eyes. “You bandaged him, didn’t you?”
“His hand,” I say quickly. “Not his ego. That would require surgical intervention.”
Mia grins. “My girl’s got jokes again. Progress.”
I drop onto the chaise near the window and stare out at the sea
