Chapter Text
April 15th
After prowling the neighborhood for a while to blow off steam, Dante had come to a very logical, very professional conclusion: a mountain of strawberry sundae would probably lift his spirits better than any pint of beer ever could.
It had been ages since he’d lost his cool like that. And for good reason! Never before had his friends and family so blatantly disregarded him. Since when did they get to call the shots in his stead? Sure, friendly advice and participation were all well and good, but damn it, he was the boss!
"Even Vergil’s trying to play puppeteer," Dante muttered, stabbing a strawberry with his spoon. "Who the hell does he think he is? Mom?"
Cindy glided toward him, her roller skates clacking rhythmically against the checkered floor of the diner. With a practiced flourish, she slid a second sundae bowl in front of him.
"Yikes. Rough day, huh, Dante?" She leaned back on her skates, giving him a knowing look. "Welp! I’ll leave you to your sugar coma, then."
She did a quick, graceful pivot and skated back toward the counter.
See? Dante thought, watching her move. Even Cindy knows how to show some respect after all these years.
Before digging into his second round of strawberry bliss, he fished Mona’s envelope out of his breast pocket and slapped it onto the table beside the crystal bowl. The "Architect Lady" had officially scrambled his mental circuits. The side of her she’d put on display today was a far cry from her usual self. She’d actually stood up to Vergil, of all people—for crying out loud!
Would she still have that spark—that nerve to stand toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with him—if she knew what the elder twin was truly capable of? If she knew he could sever her hands from her wrists in a literal blink of an eye?
Of course, Vergil wouldn’t actually do that, Dante told himself. Well... not anymore. Hopefully.
Still, it was surreal. The shy, well-behaved Mona, who usually treated the eldest son of Sparda like a looming shadow to be avoided, had suddenly climbed onto a chair to look him in the eye and snap back.
Perhaps the shadow of death made humans more brazen. Even Mona had admitted as much to Vergil’s face.
"Don't try to scare me away. The water is already over my head; I don't care about the depth anymore."
She had agreed to that grueling treatment, but it was clear Miss Shirley had already made peace with her end. She wanted one last escape—one final trip away from the pitying eyes of friends and relatives—before she left this world behind.
And this time, she’d framed her request with cold, hard logic.
"Heh," Dante took a massive bite of whipped cream and smirked. "And with a pretty interesting payment, too!"
As he worked through his second bowl, he finally began to read the bucket list. No distractions this time.
A cold stone sat in his stomach that had nothing to do with the sundae. He couldn't quite put his finger on why he felt such a sense of dread. He genuinely wanted to scrub that bitter memory from Mona’s mind—to fix the trauma he’d inadvertently caused—but he knew he was stepping into a minefield by accepting this "mission." Anything was possible. He was afraid of the tether. He was afraid of getting attached, and even more terrified of Mona getting attached for a second time. Her persistence, her quiet gravity—it was pulling him into an orbit he didn't know how to navigate.
He understood now that the poor girl was lonely. Perhaps not with the soul-crushing intensity Dante had once known, but she had suffered long enough in her own right. And out of all the people in the world, she had chosen to place her trust in him.
"Too late for regrets now," he murmured, the words lost in a mouthful of strawberry cream.
But Dante couldn't help the instinct to recoil. Mona wasn't the first woman to make the mistake of developing feelings for the legendary — infamous — Devil Hunter of Redrave City. But Dante’s reaction was always the same: the moment the white-haired man caught even the faintest whiff of genuine affection, something inside him moved with cold, mechanical efficiency. The gates came down. Every lock turned. Every chain drew tight.
No one gets in.
Not even his own kin were permitted to roam freely through the dark, fortified corners of his soul.
He could flirt until his heart was content, indulge in fleeting sexual fantasies, or stare at the pinups on his walls and flip through those dirty magazines without a second thought.
But his heart? That was off-limits.
No one was allowed to hold that blackened, poisoned thing. In his mind, it was a simple law of nature: anyone daring enough to love the Blood of Sparda was signing their own death warrant. History had proven that with ruthless consistency.
Eva, Jessica... And now he knew the fate of Nero's mother—Vergil's beloved—as well.
Every face that had ever looked at him with something warmer than professional regard.
The world had the habit of making him pay for those connections in the worst possible currency.
Consequently, every time Mona showed him a sliver of kindness, every time she looked at him with that quiet warmth—despite the ridiculous gulf between their worlds—Dante felt himself losing his grip. His survival instinct screamed at him to push her away—to be as violent and cruel as necessary to ensure she never looked back.
And he had tried. God knew he'd tried.
He had been the monster he thought she needed to see. But it didn't work. The desired result never came. Instead, the young woman had returned, ticking like a time bomb, her fuse lit by a terminal diagnosis and a stubborn, quiet defiance.
He thought bitterly to himself: maybe if he hadn’t listened to Morrison—if he hadn't been foolish enough to humor him, as the old broker put it—things wouldn't be this twisted. He should have listened to Vergil instead. For all his faults, his older twin had a goddamn PhD in Anticipating Dante's Fuck-Ups.
But then what? Would he have let Mona die alone, without seeing her one last time?
There was no time for regrets now.
He scooped up a massive spoonful of juicy strawberry, whipped cream, and crushed nuts, gulping it down, letting the sugary cold soothe his jagged nerves. The familiar surroundings of Freddie’s Diner helped, too. Old Freddie had long since retired, passing the torch to his son, but the soul of the place remained intact. Cindy was still there, and to Dante’s immense relief, the quality of the strawberry sundaes had remained sacred—if not improved.
He realized then that he’d been zoning out, staring aimlessly at the page for minutes without actually processing the words. Taking another swallowed bite, he finally focused his eyes and observed the list. To his slight disappointment, it was typed and printed—clinical and cold. But who could blame her? In the state she was in, steady handwriting was probably a luxury she couldn't afford.
The moment his eyes hit the first item, his heart sank.
Item One: A picnic in Redgrave Central Park. Escort: Dante.
"Didn’t you cut to the chase a little too early, little missy?" he grumbled to the empty bowl. "You could've at least picked a spot that wasn't a total hallmark card."
Central Park was one of Redgrave's most picturesque attractions: a lush, elevated hill covered in trees and stone balconies overlooking both the city and the ocean. Couples flocked there to hold hands, gaze into each other's eyes, and make Dante physically ill. Thankfully, the demon hunter had only ever seen it in the dead of night while hunting. He had absolutely zero patience for watching passionate young couples make eyes at each other.
Now, it seemed, he was about to become one half of the very thing he avoided.
His mind drifted back to a couple he’d helped a lifetime ago... he could still recall the demon’s name. Bradley? Yeah. Bradley and Angelina, the mayor’s daughter.
Man, Dante thought, I was around Mona’s age back then. It was a sobering thought. Time didn't just fly; it evaporated.
He shook his head, licking his spoon clean before turning his attention back to the list, studying the items one by one. Dante’s name was plastered next to almost every starred 'obligatory' wish. Many were group activities: camping in the woods, a day at the beach, plein-air painting—painting?!—photography, and a handful of others that blurred together the longer he stared. He lowered the page and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm.
He couldn't call them bad wishes. They weren't. They were just... ordinary. Aggressively, almost comically ordinary. The kind of things that a normal person with a normal group of friends would do in a long, lazy summer. Not the sort of itinerary you'd hand to the legendary demon hunter and his collection of socially maladjusted associates.
The only ones who would actually enjoy this stuff were Nero, Kyrie, and Nico. It made sense; they were closer to Mona’s age, after all. It was painfully apparent that the poor girl was trying to manufacture a lifetime’s worth of friendship and memories into the final months of her life.
"Hey, Cindy! Give me another sundae, a beer, and a pizza!"
From somewhere across the diner, Cindy exhaled like a woman who had seen everything and was still somehow surprised. "Must be real nice," she announced to no one in particular, already skating toward the counter, "not having to think about blood sugar or cholesterol. Real nice."
Dante considered that and decided it was, in fact, really nice.
He had just reached for the list again when a voice cut through the ambient clatter of the diner.
"I see we’re having another 'overeating episode,' Dante."
Dante’s eyes snapped to the seat across from him. It wasn't empty anymore. It was now occupied by a leggy blonde demoness who had apparently teleported there for the sole purpose of annoying him.
"Gah! Where the hell did you spring from, Trish?!"
His partner chuckled, shifting comfortably in the booth. Her leather outfit looked wildly out of place in the domestic hum of the diner, but then again, so did he.
"Lady called. Told me what went down. You’re not exactly a needle in a haystack when stress-eating, you know." She pointed a manicured finger at the paper resting next to his hand. "Is that the list?"
The red-clad hunter nodded and slid it toward her. Trish picked it up and skimmed it with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd read a thousand demonic contracts and found most of them less interesting than this.
"Hmm... interesting," she murmured, a playful glint in her eyes. "Nothing smutty in here. I'm almost disappointed."
Dante's spoon hit the bowl with a sharp clink.
"Oh, come on. Not you too!" He pointed the spoon at her accusingly. "Why does everyone keep expecting her to ask me for something lewd?! What kind of person do you all think she is?!"
Trish smirked, shaking her head. "She’s just a lovestruck teenager in the body of a thirty-year-old. We don't expect her to ask for it overtly, Dante. But look."
She snapped the paper taut, holding it directly in front of his eyes.
"It’s obvious she’s trying to bridge the gap again. There are a few ‘girly’ items on here—completely harmless—but your presence? It’s the most palpable thing on the page."
"I know, I know," Dante huffed, leaning back. "It doesn't take a genius to see what she's doing."
"Hihi! Look at you, Mr. Popular," Trish teased, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "A cool million dollars just to spend the rest of her life in your shadow."
"It’s not just for me," Dante corrected, pointingly. "It’s for all of us."
Trish hummed, her eyes scanning the lower half of the list. "A clothes shopping day... a salon visit... girls' day out. Hmm. I don't hate those. Not one bit."
"I haven’t even decided if I’m accepting yet. Nero’s practically already packed his bags, but Vergil..." Dante trailed off, his brow furrowing.
"If she wants the whole circus, how is the money being divided?" Trish asked, as practical as ever.
"Exactly. If it went to one person, it'd be an eye-popping sum. Split between the whole crew, it's pocket change. We'd each get enough for a large pizza and a side of garlic knots. Maybe"
The rhythmic *clack-whir* of skates announced Cindy’s arrival. She slid a steaming pizza box, a fresh sundae, and a frosted beer onto the table with practiced grace. "One strawberry sundae, one beer, and one pizza. Knock yourself out."
Dante’s eyes drifted to the pizza. His expression soured instantly with the intensity of a man betrayed. "Hey, Cindy."
"Hm?"
"There are olives on this."
Cindy rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. She didn't even stop moving. "Oh, for the love of... after all these years, you’re still not used to olives, Dante?"
"After all these years, don't you know I hate 'em?" Dante called after her. "Not knowing the preferences of your oldest customer is bad for business, y'know! It's a lapse in professional standards!"
"Stop whining like a schoolboy and eat your food!" she shouted back over her shoulder, spinning on her wheels and gliding effortlessly toward the kitchen.
Dante let out a long, dramatic groan, grumbling under his breath as he began the painstaking process of picking the little black rings off his pizza one by one. Trish didn't wait for an invite; she reached out, snagged a slice that was still heavy with cheese, and took a graceful bite.
"You know," Trish said, watching him carefully. "It’s odd. You’re actually considering her request."
"Yeah, well." Dante picked at the remaining olives with focused resentment. "I normally reject emotional clients. That's rule one. But I don't exactly have a choice this time. I treated her badly—twice—and I owe her for it. And she told me herself I'm allowed to refuse after reading the list." He paused. "So what excuse do I make? 'Sorry, sweetheart, your dying wish isn't lucrative enough'?"
"You could try the truth," The demoness suggested with a shrug. "Tell her you’ve noticed her 'true' intentions. Call her bluff."
Dante leaned back, the plastic chair creaking under his weight. "My gut says that isn't right. She’s sick. I don’t have it in me to kick her while she’s down—not again."
The blond demoness laughed—bright and uncharitable. "Just admit it. You're looking for an excuse to accept, not to refuse."
The red-clad hunter said nothing. He reached for his beer and sundae instead.
They ate in silence for a while. Outside the wide diner windows, Redgrave moved at its usual evening pace—families, couples, lone pedestrians weaving between streetlights. The city had never quite recovered its old shape after the Qliph. There were gaps where buildings used to be, and new scaffolding where wounds were still healing. But the people were there. That was the thing. They were always just... there. Pushing forward.
This was what made Sparda fall in love with them, Dante thought. This stubborn, unreasonable will to keep going. Like a plant cracking a stone to reach the sun.
He watched a family pass the window. A couple. An old man walking a dog.
"The more I think about it," he said finally, "the more stuck I feel. I can't find a solid reason to refuse. And I can't find a clean reason to accept either."
"Mm-hmm."
"I just feel this—" he gestured vaguely at his chest, "—this dread like she's trying to buy me. Like I'm some kind of commodity. A piece of merchandise."
Trish tilted her head. "Like a gigolo?"
Dante closed his eyes slowly, the image of himself in a silk robe and too much cologne flashing unbidden through his mind. "...Not quite to that extent."
"Close, though?"
"...Closer than I'd like."
Trish leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Would you prefer 'emotional support demon hunter'? 'Platonic life companion with a sword'? 'Rent-a-Dante'?"
"I'd prefer you stop talking."
"Welcome to the service industry, Dante." She stole the last untouched slice off the tray."Look, this is what we do. We’re for hire. Haven’t you heard? In places like Japan, you can rent anything—a girlfriend, a best friend, even a whole family for a weekend. Very civilized."
Dante stared at her. "That's the most depressing thing I've ever heard, and I've literally been to Hell."
"Multiple times."
"Multiple times! And this is worse. You're telling me there are people out there paying for a fake dad to show up to their fake birthday party?"
"Mhmm."
"And I'm about to become the premium package." He slumped in his seat. "The Dante Deluxe: comes with childhood trauma and a cool coat. No substitutions."
Trish patted his hand. "At least you know your market value now."
"Money can’t buy real affection, Trish. You can't put a rental tag on a heart."
"You think that matters to a woman who's dying alone?"
Dante paused, his slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. That landed harder than he wanted it to.
"For Mona?" He stared at the table. "Yeah. It matters. I'd bet my guns on it—at least the Mona I knew before all this. Unless six months and a terminal diagnosis have changed her more than I think."
The huntress was quiet for a moment. Then, practically: "Set boundaries, then. Be upfront with her. She came to you with her own conditions—you're entitled to yours. Tell her you need to keep your emotional distance. Make it part of the agreement."
"...That's actually not bad."
He turned back to the window. His gaze landed on a young couple walking hand-in-hand, looking like they were the only two people on the planet. They reminded him of Nero and Kyrie.
Thinking of Nero brought the kid’s constant financial struggles to mind—the repairs for the van, the kids, the orphanage, the endless bills, and his savings for a small wedding. Suddenly, a lightbulb flickered on Dante's head.
"Trish." He sat up straighter. "I just said the money would be a different story if it went to one person instead, right?"
Trish paused, her eyebrow arching. "Mhmm. And? Are you planning on playing Robin Hood? To whom?" She leaned forward. "And what if the others don't want to play along?"
Dante drained the last of his beer in one long pull and set the glass down with a decisive thunk.
"They will," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Once I explain it to 'em. Move it! We’re going back to the shop. Cindy! Check, please!"
Dante exhaled quietly when, fifteen minutes later, he stepped through the door and clocked the room. Nero and Nico had already cleared out — headed back to Fortuna, most likely. Good. Fewer variables.
Lady, however, was still there, crouched down on the floor and apparently engaged in some kind of staring contest with Stella, despite Vergil’s obvious and lethal death glare. The sun conure chick sat perched on her forearm with the regal indifference of a creature that had survived far worse than Lady's attention. It was the perfect opportunity for their first "family meeting."
It was as good an audience as he was going to get.
"Alright. Everybody, gather round." Dante dropped the envelope onto his desk with a sharp slap. "Lady — put the bird back in her box and get over here. I need the room's full attention."
Lady glanced up with one eyebrow raised, but she obliged, guiding Stella back into her makeshift nest box before crossing the room. Trish followed, easy and unhurried. Vergil didn't move.
Dante looked at him.
Vergil looked back.
Dante decided to proceed.
I have an idea. And I need your cooperation and consultation."
He let the silence stretch for half a beat, just long enough to feel the weight of the room settling around him. Lady crossed her arms. Trish leaned a hip against the desk. Vergil remained a statue on the couch, but his eyes were sharp and watchful.
"I've decided to accept Miss Shirley's request."
Lady's eyebrows shot up. Trish's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. Before either of them could speak, Dante raised a hand.
"But I want the full payment routed to a single agent."
Lady's brow dropped immediately. She opened her mouth.
"Before you say anything—" Dante cut across her cleanly, "—hear me out. We don't need this money, Lady."
"Speak for yourself," she said sharply. "Some of us actually have expenses. Unlike certain people in this room, I can't just manifest a new rocket launcher."
"I know. Weapons, ammo, gear — you spend more on hardware than any of us, and I'm not dismissing that." He met her eyes without flinching. "But, Lady, we're experienced hunters with a reputation. Jobs with bigger payouts come to us regularly now. This particular job? It's not that. Plus, you said yourself you also owe Miss Shirley for what happened that day. So either do this pro bono or pull out. Mona offered this job to me and *my* agency—which, technically, you aren't a part of."
"Neither is Trish!" Lady fired back.
"Trish heard my reasoning and agreed to my terms." He kept his voice even. " And you will too, if you'd shut up and listen for five goddamn seconds.."
A beat of silence.
Lady's jaw tightened. She didn't sit down, but she stopped talking — which from Lady was roughly equivalent to a white flag.
Vergil finally broke his silence. "What terms?"
The younger twin exhaled slowly, turning to face his brother fully. "Vergil. How much have you actually put aside for Nero until now?"
The eldest son of Sparda knit his brows. He clearly wasn't pleased about having his private accounts interrogated in front of the room. He remained silent for a long moment, the air in the office growing heavy, before he finally spoke.
"That is hardly—"
"How much?"
"Five thousand. Approximately."
Both Lady and Trish looked at him with raised eyebrows — and for once, it had nothing to do with the sum.
The fact that Vergil — the emotionless, cold-blooded bastard who had unintentionally killed thousands barely a year and a half ago — had been quietly, privately setting money aside for a son he hadn't even known existed for decades...
That was actually something.
"Wait," Lady interjected calmly. "You want to give all of the money to Nero?
"Yup!" Dante declared. "As an early wedding gift from all of us."
The huntress sighed and dropped her head. "You should've led with that!"
"I wanted it to be impactful."
"You idiot!" she snapped — but the bite left her voice almost immediately, replaced by something quieter. "Okay. For Nero and Kyrie. Why not? Besides, it’s not like I’m going to waste expensive ammo on this, right? No demons involved. I guess I can... help out with a few of these."
Trish let out a soft chuckle. "And that’s on top of the mandatory 'girlie' days!"
"Girlie days?!" Lady snapped. "Where? I didn't see anything like that on the list!"
While Trish moved in to break the news to a horrified Lady, Vergil stood up slowly, his coat settling around his boots. "He will refuse it, Dante. He is stubborn. The funds he has gathered, combined with my own, will provide a... respectable ceremony-"
"I don't want respectable!" Dante's voice rose, filled with a rare, raw conviction. "I want him to have the biggest, most beautiful wedding in Fortuna. Damn it, Vergil — if this money is real, he and Kyrie deserve a better house. Julio, Kyle, and Carlo deserve better toys, better clothes, a better start. I wasn't there for half of my nephew's life." His voice dropped, but didn't soften. "I want to be there now. For him. For all of them."
It was a staggering admission. For Dante to speak his guilt so plainly was almost terrifying. He looked at Vergil, searching for a reaction, his heart on his sleeve.
"And what if the money does not exist?" The blue half-demon's voice was cold. "What if that woman is lying just to gain access to you? What then, little brother?"
"She won't!" The younger twin's jaw tightened. "She's a pain in the ass, Verge. I know that. But she's not a liar." He exhaled, some of the fight leaving his shoulders. "And if it's a lie, then... well. I'll cross that bridge when she burns it."
The words hung in the air, raw and unfamiliar. Dante didn't look away.
"You want the same thing, Vergil. Don’t you? And... if you don't, fine. I’ll do it alone with Nero’s help and the others."
For a moment, the legendary coldness of the Alpha and the Omega flickered. Vergil looked truly moved—or perhaps just exhausted by the weight of his own shared regret. He was finally considering it.
Lady stepped in, crossing her arms with a theatrical roll of her eyes. "Come on, Papa V. Don't be so difficult. We all know how much you want good things for your son. It'll be fine — no pranks, no chaos. Well. Minimal chaos. Scout's honor."
Vergil regarded her with the quiet contempt he reserved for minor inconveniences, then let out a long, tired sigh and gave a single, stiff nod.
"Very well. I accept. For my son... for my daughter-in-law... and for my grandsons."
Both women smiled. Lady even allowed herself a small, victorious fist pump when she was reasonably sure Vergil wasn't looking.
Dante stared at him for a full minute, making sure he wasn't dreaming. Then, a slow, teasing smirk spread across his face as he waved the list in the air like a trophy.
"Great! Because there are a few items on here that only you are capable of granting, brother."
Vergil's eyes narrowed. "Just... ensure he does not find out. About the source of the funds."
"You got it. Secret's safe with me."
Dante started to turn back to his desk, but Vergil’s voice stopped him one last time.
"Dante."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you," Vergil said, his voice low and remarkably calm. "I presume... this is a better approach."
"You're thinking hard again, kido!" Nico drummed her colorful nails on the steering wheel, keeping time with the gritty rock-'n'-roll track blaring from the jukebox.
The moment they’d stepped through Vergil’s portal back to Fortuna, Kyrie had sent them straight out on a shopping spree. They hadn’t even had a chance to breathe, let alone recount the chaos at Devil May Cry. Gossiping could wait; dinner, apparently, could not.
Nero couldn't shake Miss Shirley from his mind—or that staggering one million dollars. And then there was the bizarre behavior of Dante and Vergil.
"I think... they didn't tell us everything about that day, y’know?" Nero muttered, staring out at the passing coastal scenery. "What did she even mean by that?"
"What day? Oh, right!" Nico chirped, swerving slightly to avoid a pothole. "The Sneaker-Throwing Championship! Wait... what did who mean about what?"
Nero turned to her, deadpan. "Seriously, Nico? Were you even in the same room?"
"I was too excited to listen! My brain was buffering!" She grinned, flashing a thumbs-up. "C’mon, jog my memory."
"Miss Shirley! She looked at me," Nero said, his voice dropping an octave as he recalled the intensity in Mona's eyes. "She said: 'So you’re his son.' Remember now?"
"Ooh! Yeah, yeah, yeah! I heard that. Cross my heart." Nico blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. "Yeah, it was weird. Super weird."
"It sounded like she already knew me..."
Nero shifted in the passenger seat, his brow furrowed. Nico nodded thoughtfully. "I guess maybe your old man brought you up at some point? I mean, you saw her. She’s got that total baby face. Maybe he said something like..." She sucked in her cheeks and deepened her voice into a hilariously gravelly, dramatic imitation of Vergil, "...' You are the same age as my son. It is distasteful!' Or something like that. Besides, you're a bit of a baby-faced yourself. Not as much as me, obviously."
"Hah! Shut your face," Nero grumbled, though a small smile tugged at his lips.
"I’m just sayin’!" Nico continued, shifting gears. "She wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. When I first heard about her, I figured she’d be some kind of plain-Jane, average-looking gal."
"Nobody said she wasn't pretty, Nico."
"Actually, they kinda did. Or at least, the way they talked about her gave off that vibe. I mean, from what Lady and Papa V said back then, it was like: How dare a girl like her fall for the incredible, beautiful, legendary Dante!"
"Oh, come on! Nobody sa—" Nero stopped himself, sighing. "Okay, fine. Forget it." Nero sighed, knowing arguing with Nico was a losing battle.
"Despite the illness, her face was like a doll, if you ask me," Nico added, lighting a new cigarette with one hand while steering with the other.
Nero didn't put much stock in that. In his eyes, no woman on earth could hold a candle to Kyrie. Besides that, he knew that real love—the kind that built up slowly over years of knowing someone’s soul—didn't hinge on a "doll-like" face. It wasn't surprising to him that Dante had rejected someone as young and beautiful as Mona. To the older man, beauty was probably the least interesting thing about a person.
"Or maybe," Nero declared, leaning his head back against the headrest, "Dante just prefers 'flashy' girls."
Nico burst into a jagged laugh, slapping her palms against the steering wheel.
"Oh, please! Everyone with eyes knows what kind of girl that man is attracted to!" She shot Nero a mischievous, side-eyed grin. "If it wasn't for your old man coming back and playing monk, those nude posters and smutty magazines would still be scattered all over the office! Maybe Miss Shirley should loosen up a bit. Wear some sexier shi–"
"Nico." Nero cut her off flatly. "Would you say that about Kyrie?"
A beat.
"...That's different."
"It really isn't." He turned back to the window. "And here's the thing — by physical standards, sure, maybe Dante should be dating a supermodel. But character-wise? That lazy bastard doesn't deserve a single hair on Miss Shirley's head. His taste is the last thing she should be adjusting herself for."
Nico squinted at him. Then broke into a grin. "Aww. Look at you, defending her honor. Then who should she be dating, in your expert opinion?"
"Someone like herself. A normal, decent person."
"Exactly what I've been saying!" Nico jabbed a finger at him triumphantly. "A simple, cute guy. A nice guy. Not the poster boy for red flags and bad boy tropes!"
"Then why the fuck are we arguing?!"
The van hit a massive speed bump. They both lurched upward. Nico let out a colorful string of curses, wrestling the wheel straight.
"Because," she said once the suspension stopped groaning, "it doesn't matter what either of us thinks, hotshot. Your uncle already said no. So the real question is — why does she keep trying?"
Nero didn't have an answer for that. Neither did Nico.
Out of nowhere, Nero let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Wait, wait. I seem to recall someone having a crush on Dante a while back, too!"
Nico squawked in indignation. "First of all, I’m a fan, not a fan-girl! I never had that kind of crush on your uncle. Gross! Secondly, look who's talking." She pitched her voice into a dramatic whine. "Ooh, I don't deserve Kyrie! Ooh, she's an angel, and I'm just a punk!"
"Shut the hell up!" Nero's face flushed.
"Aww! Did I hit a nerve? Don’t you say that shit to me like twice a week?"
"It’s different when I say it! Stop repeating it!" Nero’s voice went cold and threatening, but it only served to widen the gunsmith’s grin.
"What, you wanna throw a sneaker?" She leaned toward him with gleaming eyes. "Huh? HUH?! A sneaker for my snicker, kid! Bring it on!"
The portable phone rang right on cue.
Nero snatched it up while shooting Nico a sharp side-eye that screamed Don't interrupt.
"Devil May Cry." A pause. "Oh. It's you... Mhmm. How come? What?" His voice spiked. "You accepted it?!"
Nico's head snapped toward him, but she didn't get a chance to ask—the van lurched to a sudden halt with a screech of brakes that sent both of them nearly careening into the dashboard. Pedestrians on the street yelped and scattered. Nero barely noticed, too stunned to process the near-accident.
"No! Not at all!" He said quickly, waving a hand at Nico to keep her quiet. "Shush!"
"What?! What happened?! He accepted what?!"
"I said shush!" Nero pressed the receiver closer to his ear, nodding at nothing in particular. "Uh huh. Hmm. Yup. Good. Yeah. See you tomorrow then. We'll call for a portal. Night!"
He lowered the phone slowly, staring out at the road ahead—and the very terrified Fortunans still recovering from their near-death experience after the sudden braking.
"I can't fucking believe it..." A smile crept across his face, spreading wider with each second. "Dante accepted her request!"
"Then it's settled?!" Nico's eyes went wide.
"It sounded that way, yeah! Holy shit! What the—... How the hell did he accept it? What just happened?!"
"You're not complaining, are ya?"
"Stop talking, Nico! Just drive!" Nero slapped the dashboard with both palms, grinning like an idiot. "Faster! We gotta get this shopping done ASAP. I gotta tell Kyrie about this!"
"It’s strange."
It wasn't the first time his lover had started a quiet discussion in the dead of night, while the rest of the world—and the rest of the house—lay in darkness. The boys had long since drifted off to la-la land, and Nico was passed out in the spare bedroom.
"What is?" Nero asked, shifting his weight. He looked to his left, where Kyrie lay beside him. Her back was to him, and her gorgeous reddish-auburn locks spread out like a crimson sea across her pillow.
"Your father’s attitude toward Miss Shirley," she responded after a long pause. "I don’t understand all this... hostility."
Nero sighed, staring up at the dark ceiling. "I don’t get it either. He’s always so quiet, so... introverted. Getting involved in this kind of drama isn't his style at all. But he seemed way too invested in this. What the hell could’ve made him hate that woman so much?"
"Dante didn't say anything about it?"
Nero shook his head. "Nope. Nothing we don't already know. Based on what they told us, Mona hasn't done anything wrong. Just some silly, annoying stuff."
"Silly and annoying?" Kyrie's voice carried that quiet, precise edge she only used when she thought he was being deliberately obtuse. "Showing kindness, making hot homemade meals, baking pastry, and personally delivering it — that's what you're calling silly?"
"N-no... I don't think that, Kyrie. But Dad and Dante did. Maybe she acted too smitten while doing it. I don't know." He exhaled. "She didn't do anything wrong, that's what I'm saying."
A beat of silence — Kyrie's way of accepting the concession without making it a victory.
He paused, a small smirk forming. "But I gotta say, it was hilarious to watch her go toe-to-toe with Dad. You should’ve seen it, Kyrie. I still can’t tell if she’s incredibly brave or just plain stupid."
The mattress sank slightly as Kyrie shifted, turning around to face him. Even in the shadows, their eyes met.
"Or maybe she was frightened," Kyrie murmured. Even in the dim light, Nero could see that thoughtful, empathetic look in her brown eyes. "Some people act brave and brazen just to confront their fear. I think... she’s still terrified of Vergil."
"Are you trying to say..." Nero’s voice trailed off into a whisper. "No... it didn't feel like that. I could see pain in her expression. But fear?" He thought for a moment, then added, "I’d say her desire is just way more important than her fear right now."
"So that’s how much she loves Dante?"
"Is it about Dante? Or just about actually 'living' before she dies?"
"Don’t play naive, Nero," Kyrie said softly. "I can easily guess what her true wish is."
"Well... you women are better at reading people than we'll ever be. But," Nero added, his brow furrowing, "it still doesn't explain a damn thing about my father's behavior."
The young woman propped herself up slightly on one elbow, staring at the dark wall just beside Nero’s head.
"It’s not quite that simple," she mused, her voice a soft melody in the quiet room. "Nor is it that complicated. Your father has probably noticed her true intentions as well. But his reaction... It’s too much. Perhaps the effort Miss Shirley is putting in to get closer to Dante seems silly or childish to him. But it isn’t hurting anyone, is it? It feels spiteful. But...Perhaps he's protecting Dante. Or himself. He's spent so long believing connection is weakness... maybe he doesn't know how to stop."
Nero shifted, pulling the blanket up. "I don't care what his reasons are," The young quarter-demon muttered. "She's dying. He could at least pretend to be human for five minutes. And whether he likes it or not, Dante accepted the deal. Which means we’re all involved now."
The redheaded beauty settled back down, crawling closer to him until she could rest her head near his shoulder.
"Honestly, Nero... I’m happy about it. I can't even explain why! I just have a good feeling about Miss Shirley, even if we’ve never met. I really want to meet her in person.
The young hunter nodded, the tension in his own shoulders finally beginning to bleed away. "She’ll love you. Everybody does. And we’ll be seeing plenty of her anyway. A lot of those wishes on her list... they can be fulfilled right here in Fortuna."
"Yes!" Kyrie’s voice regained a spark of excitement. "Fortuna Castle is the perfect spot for that 'abandoned palace' wish. I just hope everything goes well. She needs peace and happiness, Nero. I don't want to see any more sneakers being thrown."
Nero let out a dry snort of laughter, but as he closed his eyes, a lingering doubt remained.
Was peace even possible with his father in the mix? Would Vergil actually allow this to happen? He thought of the look in his father’s eyes back at the shop—the absolute, icy resolve. The eldest son of Sparda seemed determined to keep Miss Mona Shirley at arm's length, or further. Ideally, several city blocks. Perhaps a small ocean.
Yeah, he thought. This is gonna be a disaster.
He couldn't wait.