CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
Cassia glared at him. She looked at his crisp, expensive clothes, and then looked down at her stained sweatpants and the sponge in her hand. Most women would have been mortified to be caught by a gorgeous, wealthy man in such a state. Cassia couldn't have cared less.
She debated slamming the door in his face. It was what she should do. But she had twelve hours of free time stretching ahead of her and infuriatingly, the scent of the fresh espresso beans drifting from the bag was incredibly enticing.
"Take your shoes off," Cassia ordered sharply, turning on her heel and walking back toward the kitchen without waiting to see if he followed. "I just mopped."
Dante’s smile widened into something victorious. He stepped inside, locked the door behind him, and kicked off his expensive leather loafers, leaving them neatly by the console table before following her in.
He set the bag of coffee on the marble island and leaned against the counter, watching her as she tossed the sponge into the sink and washed her hands.
She didn't offer to entertain him. She didn't apologize for the mess.
She existed in her own space, unbothered by his presence, and Dante found it intoxicating.
"You look tired," Dante observed quietly.
Cassia grabbed a towel to dry her hands, shooting him a dry look over her shoulder. "Thank you. That is what every woman wants to hear."
"It wasn't a criticism," Dante said softly, walking around the island to pull out one of the wooden stools. He sat down, making himself comfortable. "You work too hard. I know the hospital has been understaffed."
"People don't stop bleeding just because we are short on beds," Cassia replied, tossing the towel aside and turning to face him. She leaned back against the sink, crossing her arms. "So. You’re in my apartment. What do you think you’re doing, Dante?"
"I am enjoying a rare afternoon off," Dante replied easily. "Just like you."
Despite her best efforts to remain abrasive, a small, reluctant sigh escaped her.
The fight drained out of her posture, leaving only the bone-deep exhaustion of her profession.
She walked over to the coffee machine, opening the bag he had brought, and the rich, dark scent of the beans filled the kitchen.
"I suppose I can make a pot," she muttered.
What started as an annoyed, reluctant concession slowly bled into hours.
The afternoon stretched on without any real agenda behind it.
They moved from the kitchen island to the grey sofa in the living room, the mugs of dark coffee warming their hands as the sunlight tracking across the floorboards began to lengthen into the gold of early evening.
Cassia found herself relaxing. The conversations wandered, unstructured and surprisingly easy, bouncing from the mundane logistics of her hospital rotations to the infuriating bureaucracy of his legitimate shipping businesses.
But as the room grew dimmer, the casual banter naturally gave way to something deeper.
"Gabriella told us about her conversation with you at the hospital," Dante said quietly staring down into the dark dregs of his coffee mug. The silence that followed was different from the ones they had shared before. It was laden with the weight of the past.
Cassia looked at him, her profile illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby floor lamp. She knew who he meant. She didn't offer a platitude. "Flora's mother. She was in a great deal of pain."
"She has been for eight years," Dante murmured.
He looked up, his pale green eyes locking onto hers.
He didn't build his usual walls. For the first time since he had sat on this very couch bleeding from a gunshot wound, he allowed her to see the scar tissue beneath the armor.
"You were right, you know. In what you said to her.
About Flora inspiring love, but not life. "
Cassia uncrossed her legs, resting her mug on her knee. "I wasn't trying to be cruel to her, Dante. I was making an observation."
"It wasn't cruel. It was the truth," Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, steady hum.
He leaned his head back against the cushions, looking at the ceiling.
"Flora was... she was pure. She was a light in a world that is built on darkness.
I loved her. We all did. But when she died, taking a bullet that was meant for me...
I didn't know how to keep that light alive.
So, I just shut it all off. I turned my heart to stone because it was the only way I could survive the guilt of her dying in my place. "
He had never spoken those words out loud.
Not to Zoran, not to his uncle, not even to his own mother.
He had never admitted the crushing, suffocating guilt of surviving while she perished.
Yet, sitting in this minimalist apartment, next to a woman who demanded nothing but the unvarnished truth, the words spilled out easily.
Cassia listened. She didn't reach out to touch him. She didn't offer a soft, sympathetic murmur. She gave him the dignity of her attention.