Of course she does. My brilliant, observant wife, who sees patterns where others see chaos.
I type back:Twenty minutes.
As I head downstairs, I catch myself checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. When did I start caring if my tie was straight when I see her?
The answer is obvious, even if I don’t want to admit it.
I started caring the moment she became mine. Really mine, not just legally mine.
And that terrifies me more than any business threat ever could.
The garden is warm in the afternoon sun, and she’s set up lunch at the small table under the pergola. She’s changed from her morning clothes into a yellow sundress that makes her skin glow.
“You burned your jacket,” she says without preamble.
“How did you?—”
“I could smell the smoke from my room. Plus, Benedetto mentioned you had a small fire in your office.” She pours wine into two glasses. “Trying to destroy evidence?”
“Something like that.”
“Did it work?”
I look at her sitting across from me, sunlight in her hair and mischief in her eyes, and know the answer.
“No. Not even close.”
Her smile is radiant. “Good. I’d hate to think I was that forgettable.”
25
KASI
The law officecalled this morning, asking for Dante’s personal papers. Something about finalizing the last details of the estate transfer, ensuring all assets are properly documented.
“Just his personal files,” the lawyer explained over the phone. “Anything that might contain business contracts, property deeds, or financial records we haven’t catalogued yet.”
The lawyers need the files from Dante’s house. His study has been locked since his death, and nobody’s touched his personal belongings. The room sits like a shrine to a monster.
I stand outside the heavy oak door, key in my hand, steeling myself for whatever’s inside. Alaric offered to do this himself, but I refused. Some ghosts you have to face alone.
The lock turns with a soft click.
The study looks exactly as Dante left it. Mahogany desk polished to a mirror shine. Leather-bound books arranged by height. Crystal paperweights catching afternoon light. Everything in its designated place, because Dante couldn’t tolerate chaos in his environment, even if he created it everywhere else.
His scent still lingers in the air—expensive cologne and the faint metallic tang that I now recognize as the smell of violence.
I walk to his desk and start with the obvious places. The top drawers contain business cards, expensive pens, and a Rolex he never wore. Nothing the lawyers would need.
The filing cabinet beside his desk is locked. I search through the desk drawers until I find a small key taped to the underside of the center drawer. Typical Dante—paranoid but predictable.
The first filing cabinet drawer contains business records. Contracts with shipping companies, invoices for merchandise I don’t recognize, correspondence with names I don’t know. I pull out folders to set aside for the lawyers.
The second drawer is lighter. Personal correspondence, tax documents, insurance policies. More folders for the legal team.
The third drawer sticks when I try to open it.
I pull harder, and it slides open with a screech of metal on metal. Inside are three manila folders, each one thick with papers. Unlike the business files above, these are labeled with women’s names written in Dante’s precise handwriting.
