Page 157 of Ricardo

“And if he says something that hurts you?”

My throat tightened.

“Then I will handle it.”

He did not like that either.

I could almost see him on the other end of the line, jaw set, eyes hard, every protective instinct in him straining to come out. But eventually, he gave me what I asked for.

“Call me after,” he said.

“I will.”

Now Dante is at my door, and my stomach is somewhere near my knees.

I smooth my hands down the front of my sweater, take one breath, and open it.

Dante stands in the hallway in dark jeans and a black jacket, his hair damp from the soft drizzle outside, his expression already wary.

He knows me too well.

“Hey,” he says slowly.

“Hi.”

His gaze moves over my face. “You sounded weird on the phone.”

“I did?” Hell, I sound weird now.

“Yes. Very.” He steps inside when I move back. “Like you were about to tell me someone died or ask me to help you move furniture.”

Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. It's weak and thin.

Dante gives me a look at that.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

His eyes narrow.

I close the door behind him. “Something happened, but no one is hurt.”

“That is the sentence people say before they tell you something terrible.”

“It isn’t terrible.”

“To whom?”

I look at him.

He looks back.

For a moment, I see the boy I met in Naples, too handsome and too restless, making jokes in three languages and pretending he did not carry loneliness so easily. I see the friend who answered my call after years of silence. The man who came for me when I finally admitted I needed help. The person who folded me back into his life as if I had never hurt him by disappearing.

My eyes burn.

Dante’s face tightens. “Jules.”