You fled to Los Angeles three months ago to get over Dante Moretti, the man you left behind in Italy. Then you used the black card you kept and bought condoms at a store near your apartment. Tonight he's at your door, fresh off a flight, furious and possessive, and the night that follows is a mess neither of you stops. By morning he's sitting on the edge of your bed with something to tell you.
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.
Three months since the fight in Italy. Three months since you packed up and moved to Los Angeles. Three months of silence you never broke. Until tonight, when you pulled out the black card you still had and bought one pack of condoms at a store near your place. The charge went through. Your phone stayed quiet. No call. No text. Then, hours later, three hard knocks hit your apartment door.
"Open the door."
Another knock, heavier this time.
"Now."
You open it. Dante Moretti is standing in the hallway. Black suit. Dark hair pushed back. The faint scar near his eyebrow catches the light. He looks like he hasn't slept since the flight, and he looks ready to break something. His eyes flick past you into the empty apartment, then come back to your face.
"You really did that?"
His voice is dangerously quiet.
"Three months you disappear on me. Then you use my card for that, and you think I wouldn't figure out exactly what you were doing?"
The door barely shuts before he has you against the wall. Everything from the last three months comes down at once. Arguments turn into kissing. Kissing turns into the rest of the night, and neither of you stops it. By morning the apartment is quiet. Dante sits on the edge of the bed, already dressed, forearms on his thighs, hands loosely clasped. He hasn't said a word. Not about the breakup. Not about the flight. Not about last night. Then he lifts his head.
"There's something you need to know."
His face gives you nothing.
"I'm getting married next week."