Chapter 7 - DANTE LEARNS TO KNOCK
I did not date Dante for eleven months.
Not ten.
Not six.
Eleven.
In that time, I worked night shifts as a nursing assistant while completing coursework.
I moved into a slightly better apartment.
Mom complained the kitchen was too small.
Mateo complained the neighborhood parking was terrible.
Normal family complaints.
Dante texted occasionally.
Never after midnight unless it involved Valentina.
Examples:
Ma says your pepper soup cured her arthritis. Please correct this medically dangerous belief.
Or:
Patricia destroyed the coffee again. This is somehow your fault.
I answered when I wanted.
Important.
Then one evening, I came home and found Dante standing outside my apartment door.
No bodyguards visible.
Probably somewhere.
I stared.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Dinner.”
“With who?”
“You.”
I almost smiled.
“You came without asking?”
His face changed.
He realized.
Then stepped backward.
“You're right.”
He took out his phone.
Typed.
Mine buzzed.
Would you like dinner?
I laughed.
“Idiot.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
That became our first date.
Tacos.
Public restaurant.
No private room.
No reservation under a fake name.
Dante hated plastic chairs.
I enjoyed that.
He asked about nursing.
I asked about his compliance review.
He admitted three more businesses had been closed.
Then:
“I miss some of it.”
“What?”
“Fear.”
I appreciated the honesty.
“Why?”
“It's efficient.”
“Yes.”
“People move fast.”
“Also lie fast.”
He nodded.
“That's what I’m learning.”
At the end of dinner, he walked me home.
At my door:
“Can I kiss you?”
My heart accelerated.
“Yes.”
He did.
One kiss.
Then stepped away.
No assumption.
No entering my apartment.
Good.
We dated slowly.
Valentina found out in four days.
I do not know how.
Probably supernatural.
She called.
“Finally.”
“Do not start.”
“I did nothing.”
“You called me.”
“To say I did nothing.”
Impossible woman.
Dante never asked me to move into the penthouse.
Not for two years.
When he finally did, I said no.
He sighed.
“Why?”
“Because I like my apartment.”
“You hate the radiator.”
“I hate your cameras more.”
Fair.
We eventually chose a third place.
Not his penthouse.
Not my apartment.
A townhouse near Lincoln Park.
Bought jointly?
No.
He owned more money than I could comprehend.
I refused fake equality.
So lawyers structured it cleanly.
I paid a realistic portion toward shared living expenses.
He retained ownership.
May you like
I retained my savings and financial independence.
Romance survives paperwork better than people think.
