He finally turned his head, his movement slow and deliberate. When his eyes met the waitress's, any trace of the softness Alina inspired was gone. His gaze was flat and impenetrable, a wall of polished obsidian. It held no interest, no acknowledgment of her as anything other than a function.
"You may leave," he said, his voice not loud, yet carrying a finality that seemed to freeze the very air around their table. "We require nothing further from you tonight."
The waitress's dreamy smile vanished, replaced by flustered confusion and a dawning fear. She stammered a quiet, "Of course, sir," set the wine bottle down with a faint clink, and practically fled from the rooftop, the romantic fantasy dissolving into professional panic.
The moment she was gone, Dante turned his full attention back to Alina. The cold detachment vanished from his expression, replaced by something intensely focused and warm.
"…Lina?" he called softly, testing the waters.
