Chapter 4
1439 Words
The city stretched beneath him like a river of light.
From the rooftop terrace, Dante could see everything, the burnished glow of passing cars, the silhouettes of skyscrapers, the reflection of stars caught between glass towers.
He wasn’t used to places like this.
Not anymore.
He’d spent years in the shadows, in quiet rooms where deals were made with blood and silence. The rooftop restaurant felt too exposed, too refined. And yet, when he saw her, standing by the railing in a dress the color of champagne, the world seemed to fall away.
Millia.
She turned at the sound of his footsteps, and for a moment, Dante forgot how to breathe. The soft evening breeze lifted her hair, and the lights painted her in gold. She was elegance embodied with every movement; every detail deliberate. Her skin glowed faintly under the city’s gleam, and her smile, small but real, was enough to quiet the hum of the world.
“You clean up well,” she said, voice smooth as silk.
Dante smiled faintly. “I could say the same.”
He had chosen simple attire a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, paired with dark trousers. No tie, no pretense. Just enough to blend in. Just enough to make her comfortable.
They were seated at a private table tucked near the edge of the terrace, overlooking the skyline. A soft jazz melody drifted from hidden speakers, and the scent of jasmine floated through the air.
“Aria insisted on this place,” Millia said as she sat. “She claimed the view was romantic.”
“Does it bother you?” Dante asked.
She smiled, a little sadly. “Not the view. The reason behind it.”
The waiter poured wine, then vanished discreetly, leaving them in a cocoon of candlelight and soft city sounds.
For a while, they talked about simple things.
Her business, his “freelance work,” her daughter’s impulsiveness.
Dante watched her carefully the subtle pauses between her sentences, the way she occasionally pressed her hand against her ribs, as if soothing something unseen. Her composure was perfect, but he’d spent too long reading faces to miss the small cracks beneath the surface.
“You’re studying me,” Millia said after a while, her tone teasing but edged with awareness.
He didn’t deny it. “I’m trying to understand what kind of woman raises someone like Aria.”
Her laughter was soft, genuine. “Wild, isn’t she?”
“Free,” he corrected. “But not reckless. She just hasn’t learned how dangerous the world can be.”
“And you have?” Millia asked with a bit of curiosity.
He looked down into his glass, the reflection of the candles flickering against his face. “More than I’d like.”
Millia watched him for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Because I didn’t come in a suit?”
“Because you don’t act like someone who needs anything from me.”
Dante leaned back slightly, his eyes steady. “Maybe I don’t.”
The words hung there heavy, curious. And for the first time that night, silence wasn’t awkward. It was charged, alive.
When their food arrived, Millia barely touched hers. Dante noticed. Her fingers trembled faintly when she lifted her fork, her appetite distant.
“You don’t eat much,” he said quietly.
She set the fork down. “Bad habit.”
“Or something else?”
Her eyes lifted to meet his, sharp, assessing. “You really don’t miss anything, do you?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Millia exhaled slowly, then leaned back in her chair. “Aria said you were different. I didn’t believe her.”
“And now?”
“Now,” she said softly, “I see what she meant.”
The wind shifted, carrying the faint hum of the city below. For a while, neither spoke. Then Millia reached for her wine again, her hand unsteady, her composure beginning to fray.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Dante.”
Her tone changed quiet, fragile.
He set his glass down. “Go on.”
She hesitated, looking out at the skyline as though the words might hurt less if she didn’t have to face him. “I don’t have much time left.”
He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
She turned back to him, her eyes shimmering with something raw. “Two years. Maybe less.”
It hit him harder than he expected. “You’re ill?”
She nodded once. “Terminal. I’ve… made my peace with it.”
For a moment, Dante didn’t speak. The air between them thickened. The noise of the restaurant faded into nothing but the sound of the wind.
He had seen death more times than he cared to count. But hearing it from her lips, so calmly spoken, felt different. She wasn’t afraid. Just tired.
“Does Aria know?” he asked finally.
“No,” Millia said, shaking her head. “And she won’t. Not yet.”
He stared at her, his jaw tightening. “You shouldn’t carry that alone.”
“I have to.” She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “If she knew, she’d stop living her life just to take care of me. I want her to dream a little longer. To be reckless a little longer.”
Her voice broke, just slightly, and Dante looked away, his chest tight.
He hadn’t expected this.
He hadn’t expected her strength to come wrapped in softness.
When he looked at her again, he saw not the powerful businesswoman the world knew, but a woman quietly making peace with her own mortality still graceful, still proud, still trying to protect everyone but herself.
She caught his gaze and smiled again, that quiet, knowing smile. “You look like you don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t,” he admitted.
“You could say I’m selfish,” she said. “Marrying someone now, knowing I’m dying. But if I’m being honest, I don’t want to go alone. I don’t want to be pitied either. I just… want something that feels real, even if it’s borrowed time.”
He studied her for a long moment, the candlelight flickering between them. “You think I can give you that?”
“I think,” she said softly, “you might be the only one who could.”
Her words landed with quiet finality, echoing somewhere deep in his chest.
He reached out then, his hand brushing over hers not out of obligation, but instinct. Her fingers were cool, delicate, trembling just slightly.
“You’re not selfish,” he said quietly. “You’re human.”
She held his gaze, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them a thread woven out of shared solitude.
But behind his calm eyes, Dante’s thoughts burned.
If she only knew.
If she knew the kind of man sitting across from her the blood he’d spilled, the enemies he carried like ghosts she wouldn’t look at him with that softness.
And worse still, part of him wasn’t even here for her.
He could still see Aria’s smile in the back of his mind, hear her laugh echoing with wildness and light. The daughter who had sent him into her mother’s world, unaware that the very thing she set in motion was pulling him deeper into something he couldn’t control.
Millia withdrew her hand gently, her composure returning. “Thank you, Dante.”
“For what?”
“For not looking at me like I’m already gone.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t have to. His silence said enough.
When the night ended, Dante escorted her to her car. The city glimmered behind them, but neither spoke. There were no promises, no confessions. Just the heavy truth hanging between them.
As she slipped into the car, Millia looked up at him one last time. “Goodnight, Dante.”
He inclined his head. “Goodnight, Millia.”
When the car disappeared into traffic, Dante stood there for a long while, the city lights flickering in his eyes. The world kept moving, but something inside him shifted.
He had stepped into her life as a protector, a lie wrapped in charm. But now… now there was something real in the mess of it.
A dying woman who wanted to live again.
A daughter who wanted to save her.
And a man caught between them both bound by duty, haunted by desire, and walking a line where sin and salvation blurred.
- Writer
