32. Dante
DANTE
Virgil, with his golden curls and graceful form, disappears beyond the bend. I stand and stare at the place where he vanished for an endless stretch of time while wind bites my cheeks and light wraps around my shoulders like a gentle embrace. A quiet summoning.
I don't listen.
Not yet.
I sit on the cliff's edge, letting my legs hang over the drop, and look out at the world spread beneath me.
Fog curls around the mountain's slopes and the light gleams like a shaft of sun breaking through clouds, pouring over rocks and moss and delicate green things sprouting between stones. Everything soft. Everything at peace.
All that is within me longs to stand up and walk into that radiance. To feel the ease and union it promises. The end of striving. The end of pain.
I've made it so close.
But I did not make it alone.
And I cannot stop thinking of Virgil walking back into hell.
Facing Satan's wrath—for certainly that's what awaits him.
Virgil returning to the early realms, watching a world he cannot touch through borrowed memories.
Virgil feeling broken and retreating into the swamps, or into his quiet, beautiful sanctuary, the hot springs he cannot feel, the books he cannot read, the candles he cannot smell.
Tears fall again, hot and stinging against my wind-chapped skin.
If I were in Virgil's place, I'd want me to walk into this light. He wouldn't desire for me to descend back into hell, not after everything he paid to bring me this far.
But—
But I was here for him. I'm certain of it.
And this cannot be the end.
There's always Satan's offer. Though I'm certain Virgil would never forgive me if I took it.
I stand and turn to face the light. I actually laugh looking at it—the sheer peacefulness, the ease. I walk toward it. The wind is loud enough that I cannot hear my footsteps or my watch. Perhaps I'm not even wearing it anymore. Time has no meaning here, after all.
I reach the light's edge and brush my fingers just over the surface.
An electric thrill courses through me, a feeling of every pain in my body ceasing at once.
The perfect afternoon nap in a sunlit room.
The comfort of being held safely in a mother's arms. The laughter of good friends around a table.
The security of never needing to worry again.
The perfection of all that is and ever will be.
"How could you not take Virgil?" I whisper to the light. "He is the best of all that."
I stand there breathing, feeling the light's beauty wash over me for five long breaths.
Then I understand what I must do.
I abandon ascension and run down the mountain.
A light that won't accept the purest soul I've ever met can be damned.
I reach the ivy-covered gates in what feels like minutes, my breath ragged from the descent.
By the time the gates slide open—liveried servants bowing as I pass—I've composed myself.
No gasping. No tear-stains. I walk over the threshold wearing a tailored charcoal suit, single-breasted, immaculately pressed.
Crisp white shirt. Breitling ticking steadily at my wrist. Dark polished oxfords striking the flagstones with purpose.
This is what I know. What I've always known.
Satan was right about one thing: I understand systems. I know how to find the cracks in them, the pressure points, the places where leverage hides. I've built fortunes on that knowledge. Destroyed rivals with it.
Now I'm going to use it for something that actually matters.
By the time I step into the polished office where sunset glazes the art and statuary in amber and gold, I have my terms in order. I am not alive. I may never have been, not truly.
But I have never felt more present than I do in this moment.
Satan rises from his chair. "Mr. Dante. I hadn't expected to see you again so soon."
I step forward and accept his handshake. Firm. Measured. The shake of equals entering a deal.
"Thank you for allowing me the indulgence of the mountain," I say. "I'm ready to discuss your proposal."
That easy grin slides back onto his face. "I'm glad to hear it. Let me get you a drink." He studies me for a moment. "If I had to guess—I’d say you’re a Negroni man.”
I hesitate. He's very good at this, at small reminders of who holds authority, who reads whom. I will need to be extraordinarily careful with my words.
"You're an excellent reader of people."
"An important skill in business, wouldn't you say?" He rises and crosses to a mahogany drinks cabinet, its surface gleaming with crystal decanters and polished glassware.
"Undoubtedly."
While he's pouring gin and uncapping the Campari, I add, "I have terms, though. If we're to negotiate. Very specific terms."
He stirs the drinks slowly, the spoon clinking against crystal. He presses an orange peel onto the rim with the precision of a man who has performed this ritual ten thousand times.
"I would expect nothing less, Mr. Dante."
He offers me the glass and waves a hand toward the leather chair opposite his desk.
I take the drink. I take the seat.
And I begin.