Dante went to visit Giovanni at his hotel room the next day.
Not surprising, Giovanni had known he would come. Had been sitting with the specific knowledge of it, the specific comfort of it, and the specific complicated feeling of being comforted by someone whose family he had tried to attack at a dinner table.
Dante sat beside him.
He said nothing immediately.
This was Dante.
Giovanni looked at the floor.
“She was there,” he said.
Dante looked at him.
“At the gate,” he said. “When we were driving out, She was standing at the gate looking at me.”
“Sofia?” Dante said.
“Sofia,” Giovanni said. “Or—” He stopped. “Something… someone that looked like her.”
Dante was quiet.
“She smiled at me,” Giovanni said. “And waved.” He paused. “It was wrong.”
Giovanni,” Dante said carefully.
