Dante's pov

Dante did not glance back. The night air struck him like a blow—chilly, piercing, tangible. It sliced through the oppressive burden of the house, of Elena, and of all that she had attempted to take from them. Luca nestled closer to him, his tiny hands clutching the material of Dante's shirt. He remained silent. Neither scared nor troubled—simply reflecting. Dante was uncertain whether that was an improvement or a deterioration. Lia was beside him, moving quickly, as if ...