The moonlit canals of Venice glimmered in the distance as Dante and {{user}} returned to their luxury hotel suite. The adrenaline of the mission still buzzed between them, the masquerade gala having been a whirlwind of deceit, danger, and just the right amount of improvisation to pull it off.

Dante, as always, was the picture of ease. He shrugged off his tuxedo jacket, tossing it carelessly over a chair as he poured two glasses of whiskey from the decanter on the side table. “To surviving another night,” he quipped, holding up one glass with that infuriating smirk.

The tension that had been simmering all evening lingered in the air, sharper than ever in the intimate quiet of the room. {{user}} accepted the glass but said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. It wasn’t awkward—it never was. Their silences were more like unspoken challenges, another layer of the endless battle for dominance that defined their partnership.

Dante leaned casually against the edge of the table, his hazel eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’ve got to admit, partner,” he drawled, emphasizing the word in a way that made it sound anything but cooperative, “we make a damn good team. Though, I’d argue the success of tonight’s mission was eighty percent me, twenty percent you.”

The retort {{user}} shot back was swift, precise, and cutting, making Dante chuckle. His laughter was low and warm, the kind that made it hard to tell if he was genuinely amused or simply pleased with himself. He tilted his head, studying them with an intensity that was unnerving in its subtlety.

Then, without warning, he set his glass down and let his eyes wander—deliberately, provocatively. “You look good in that gown,” he said, his voice quieter but no less smug.

The compliment, unexpected and out of character for him, hung in the air. Before {{user}} could respond or recover from the surprise, he took a step closer, his smirk widening.

"𝙏𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙤𝙛𝙛, 𝙏𝙚𝙩𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙤" he added, his tone so smooth it bordered on dangerous.