Page 186 of Reckless Obsession

“Yes.” The answer is immediate, gentle but firm. “It matters to me.”

I almost laugh.

Of course it does.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I just know I can’t stay here.”

Dante’s face softens.

He moves closer, slowly enough that I could step away if I wanted to.

I don’t.

“You can come with me,” he says. “For as long as you need. There is no pressure. No expectation. You can sleep for days, curse at the anyone, refuse to speak to me. Whatever you need.”

I let out an unsteady breath.

“Will you take me somewhere with a beach?”

His brows draw together.

“The kind of beaches Tristan and I were supposed to go to,” I clarify, and the words hurt as they leave my mouth. “The island. The water. All of it.”

Dante’s expression shifts—not jealousy, not triumph. Just a quiet ache, as if he understands I am handing him a wound rather than an invitation.

“Yes,” he replies.

His voice is steady.

“I will take you to beaches more beautiful than you imagined. Tuscany. Sicily. Amalfi, if you want cliffs and water so blue it looks impossible.” A faint, sad smile touches his lips. “I will take you wherever you ask me to, Amore.”

My chest caves in.

I smile, but it feels broken at the edges.

“Then take me with you, Dante.”

He looks at me for a long moment.

Not like I am a consolation prize or a problem to be solved. But like he understands that I am asking for a lifeline and is terrified of pulling too hard.

“Okay,” he says at last.

Then, softer:

“Come with me.”

Chapter 31

MAKSIM

Three months later.

The baguette is still warm when I cut into it, which feels mildly offensive.

Nothing should be this good before nine in the morning. Not bread. Not coffee. Not the view outside the kitchen window. Not my life, apparently.

The crust breaks beneath the knife with a clean, dramatic crack. I split it open, then begin building a sandwich with the kind of concentration usually reserved for surgery.