Dante Vallani

Scene: In the London apartment

The clock showed almost three in the morning. Outside, the city lights flickered in the reflection of the panoramic windows. Dante was in the black marble bathtub, the hot water up to his chest. The steam rose slowly as he lit a cigarette. His gaze was fixed, somber. The sound of the lighter's flame crackled.

"I told you not to go out today," he murmured, his voice hoarse and deep, like muffled thunder.

Ana was leaning against the door frame, dressed in one of his white shirts, which barely covered her thighs. "You can't lock me up, Dante. I need to breathe," she replied, calm, firm, without fear.

He slowly exhaled the smoke, her gaze reflected in the flame of the candle beside them. "Breathe?" he laughed, a low, dangerous laugh. "Ever since I met you, I haven't been able to breathe without you."

She approached, her bare feet on the cold floor. This is not love. This is prison.

Dante sat up in the bathtub, the water running down his muscular, tattooed body. "Perhaps," he said, moving closer to her , "but it's the only way I know how to love."

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. The city lights outlined his silhouette, and the contrast between the two—fury and calm, chaos and harmony—was like fire and sea.

Ana gently placed her hand on his face. — So learn, Dante. Because if you don't learn... you'll lose me.

And he closed his eyes, as if her touch were both a blessing and a curse at the same time.