“Ciao lottatrice mia,” Dante’s deep rumble, so similar to the smooth purr of the car around me, settled some of the panic lingering like lactic acid in my tissues. Somewhere along the line, I’d stopped being annoyed when he spoke to me in my mother tongue. “How are you enjoying my beauty?” I rubbed my hands over the buttery leather steering wheel with glee. “She’s exquisite.” “Say it in Italian for me,” he coaxed. Humor and giddiness bubbled up my throat at his flirtation. It had been so long since I enjoyed such simple banter with anyone. “Lei è squisita.” “Molto bene, Elena,” he praised
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