Page 120 of Dante

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Dante's jaw tightens.

"What were you?" I ask. "A nun?"

The question hangs in the air.

For a long moment, he doesn't answer.

Then he laughs.

It's a quiet sound. Rough. Like he's not used to making it.

"A nun," he repeats.

"It's a valid question."

"It's a ridiculous question."

"You're avoiding it."

He turns his head. Looks at me.

His eyes are dark in the dim light. Unreadable.

"I've been with women," he says. "Plenty of them."

Something twists in my chest.

I don't want to examine what that feeling is.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

He looks away. Stares at the dark television screen.

"I don't know how to explain it," he says finally. "I've had... arrangements. Women who understood what I am. What I do. They didn't ask questions. They didn't expect anything."

"That sounds lonely."

The words slip out before I can stop them.

Dante's body goes still.

"It wasn't lonely," he says. "It was simple. No complications."

"No feelings."

"No feelings."

I pull back slightly. Just enough to see his face properly.

"So you've never felt anything? For anyone?"

His jaw works.

"I felt things," he says. "For my family. For the Sartoris. Loyalty. Gratitude. The kind of love you have for people who saved your life."

"But not romantic love."

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