The hotel room was as dark as a grave.
Dante sat at the small desk, one lamp creating shadows on the walls, the belladonna flower beside a piece of blank paper. He had been sitting there for hours, trying to think of the words to say what he couldn't say. How could he say he was leaving without saying why? How could he say good-bye without saying good-bye?
The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight, each second a blow to his heart.
Outside, beyond the world, London throbbed with the noise of the night—sirens in the distance, the hum of traffic, the laughter of people who didn't know what it was to carry death in their hearts. Dante pitied them. Pitied their innocence, their ignorance of the evil that lurked in the darkness.
Yet he also knew he would not switch places with them. Not if it would mean never knowing Fianna. Not if it would mean never feeling the way she made him feel—alive, hopeful, human.
He picked up the pen, the metal chilly against his fingers. The paper stared back at him, blank and accusing.
"Dear Fianna," he wrote, then paused.
How could he call her dear when he was about to break her heart? How could he pretend this was an ordinary goodbye when it was anything but?
He crumpled the paper and started again.
"Fianna," he wrote. "I don't know how to begin this letter. I don't know how to explain what I can't explain."
The words poured out now, like blood from a wound.
"I have to leave London. Tonight. There are things in my life—things in my past—who I am not able to tell you about yet. Things that would put you at risk if you were to know about them."
He paused, remembering her face, how she looked at him with such trust, such faith.
"I want you to know that things were different after I met you. You showed me what it feels like to be alive. What it feels like to hope. What it feels like to love"
His hand trembled as he gripped the pen.
"I don't know when I'll see you again. I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell the truth about who I am, about what I was. But I want you to know that no matter what, no matter what happens to us, you've given me something precious."
He thought of the belladonna flower, beautiful and deadly, like the love that had changed everything.
"You've given me hope."
He signed the letter simply: "Dante."
He folded it carefully then and put it in an envelope. He'd arranged to have it delivered to her studio tomorrow, after he was gone. After he was safe.
If he was ever safe again.
The phone buzzed on the bedside table. A text from Giovanni: "Car will be here in thirty minutes. Be ready."
Dante checked the clock. Eleven forty-five. In half an hour's time, he'd be on his way out of London. Away from Fianna. Away from all that he'd learned here.
He walked across to the window, looking out over the city that had changed him for good. The lights twinkled like stars, and somewhere in the lights, Fianna slept, unaware that her life was about to change forever.
He recalled their first meeting, the way her eyes had met his across the street. The way she'd looked at him as if she could see right through to his soul. The way she'd trusted him enough to let him into her studio, into her life.
And now he was leaving without a word. Without the chance to wish her a proper goodbye. Without the chance to tell her that he loved her.
The belladonna flower mirrored the lamplight, its deep purple petals glinting in the dim light. He picked it up, studying it in the lamplight. Eleanor's words returned to him: "Love is like the belladonna. Beautiful and deadly."
He was about to find out how dangerous love was going to be.
The phone buzzed again. Another text from Giovanni: "Men spotted at Heathrow. They're looking for you."
Dante's heart was racing. His father's men were here. In London. Looking for him. Looking for the man who had betrayed the family.
He packed quickly, neatly, as he had learned to do. Clothes. Money. Passport. The belladonna flower, wrapped carefully in tissue. The letter to Fianna, written and sealed.
Everything else he left behind. Everything but memories. Memories of her smile, her voice, the way she'd looked at him as if he was something more than shadow and death.
The car arrived at exactly midnight, a black sedan with tinted windows. Dante didn't know the driver, but Giovanni had said he could be trusted.
"Scotland?" the driver asked as Dante climbed into the rear seat.
"Yes."
"Long drive. You should sleep."
But Dante was aware he wouldn't sleep. Not tonight. Not when every mile took him further from Fianna. Not when every moment took him nearer a tomorrow he couldn't foresee.
The car accelerated away from the hotel, and Dante watched London fade behind them into the darkness. He pictured Fianna, asleep in her apartment, dreaming of tomorrow. Coffee. Painting. The man who had told her he would see her tomorrow.
Tomorrow would bring a letter. One that would break her heart.
The car wound through the city streets, heading north. Dante closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Instead, he saw Fianna's face. Her smile. Her eyes. The way she'd looked at him across the café table, like he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
He opened his eyes and looked out the window. The city had disappeared now, and in its stead was the dark country. The stars twinkled overhead, and the moon cast long shadows on the road.
Far away, he could hear the chime of church bells ringing in midnight.
The witching hour. The hour when the world was most magical, most perilous.
Dante's thoughts returned to the belladonna flower in his pocket, beautiful and deadly, just like the love that had changed everything.
And he knew that regardless of what happened next, regardless of what happened to them, he would never be the same man who'd arrived in London with death in his heart and darkness in his soul.
He had found love.
And he would die for it.
The car sped through the night, carrying him away from everything he had ever wanted, towards everything he had ever feared.
But he would be back. For her. For the woman who had shown him what it meant to live.
For the woman he loved.
Even if someone were to kill him.