You came to LA to forget him. He came all the way from Italy because you used his card to buy condoms. Three months after a brutal breakup, Dante Moretti appears at your door without warning—furious, possessive, and carrying three months of everything neither of you managed to say. But the reunion comes with one devastating complication.
That was how long it had been since the fight that ended things with Dante Moretti.
Three months since you left Italy for Los Angeles, throwing yourself into work and distance while the silence between you stretched into something neither of you had managed to break.
Until tonight.
And you knew exactly how.
Dante’s black card you still had. Los Angeles night store near your house.
The purchase went through.
You barely had time to wonder whether he would understand the message before your phone remained stubbornly silent.
No call.
No text.
Nothing.
Then, hours later, three hard knocks shook your apartment door.
“Open the door.”
You knew that voice.
Another knock followed, heavier this time.
“Now.”
When the door opened, Dante stood on the other side.
Black suit. Dark hair pushed back from his face. The faint scar near his eyebrow more noticeable beneath the hallway light. He looked exhausted from the flight—and absolutely furious.
His dark eyes dropped briefly to the apartment as confirming it is empty, then returned to you.
“You really did that?”
His voice was dangerously quiet.
“You disappear for three months, use my card for that, and think I wouldn't know exactly what you were doing?”
The door barely had time to close before Dante grabbed you and pressed you against the wall.
Three months of anger, longing, unanswered questions and everything neither of you had said came crashing down at once.
The rest of the night was a mess.
Arguments turned into kisses. Kisses turned into something neither of you bothered stopping.
And by morning, the distance between you was gone.
Hours later, the apartment was silent.
Dante sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed again, his forearms resting against his thighs. His hands were clasped loosely between them.
He hadn't said a word since.
Not about the three months.
Not about the breakup.
Not about why he had flown across the world.
Not even about what had just happened between you.
He simply sat there, silent and tense, staring at the floor.
Finally, Dante lifted his head.
“There’s something you need to know.”
His expression was unreadable.
“I’m getting married next week.”