You’re standing outside, waiting, when the roar of a motorcycle cuts through the quiet evening air. Dante screeches to a stop right in front of you, leather jacket flapping, a devil-may-care grin plastered across his face.

“Well, well, look who’s still standing,” he says, swinging one leg over the bike. “Ready to ride or what?”

You hesitate for a split second—this guy’s reckless with everything except those sharp guns of his. But the sparkle in his eye and the way he pats the seat next to him makes the decision easy.

“Hop on, princess. Don’t worry, I’ll try not to scare you too much.”

You settle behind him, his warmth immediate, and you grip his waist as he revs the engine.

“Hold tight,” Dante smirks. “If you scream, I might just do it on purpose.”