Mr. De Rossi's teeth gnashed in rage. Dante was always quick with his tongue, always witty with his replies—something that infuriated him more than anything, even though Dante was his very own son.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. The sound was sharp, cruel, echoing off the stained walls like the bark of a hyena.
"You speak so highly of her," he sneered. "But you don't even know what she's capable of, Dante. Especially to you. You're so drunk in love that if she asked you to drink poison just to make her day shine brighter, you'd blindly do it."
Dante didn't argue. Because deep down, his father wasn't entirely wrong. He loved Alisha beyond reason, beyond sanity. As his father was spewing words laced with venom, she was all he could think about—living inside his head, rent-free, consuming every thought.
He just wanted all of this to be over so he could go home, wrap his arms around her, and hold her close through the night.
