That small act undoes me totally.
"Let's go home," I say quietly.
She bites her lip and nods.
As Marco helps the drunk to his feet—what's left of him—I guide Bianca toward the exit. My knuckles throb. My suit is ruined.
I’ve acted completely unraveled. Bat shit crazy instead of cold, silent menace. That’s notme.I worked so hard for my image, what is happening?
But when she slides her hand into mine and doesn't pull away, I know I'd do it again.
I'd do worse.
For her, I'd burn the whole fucking world down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Bianca
When we get home, I leave him alone.
Not because I want to. The look on his face in the car—dark and distant—tells me he needs space to process whatever happened tonight with Matteo and the drunk man.
I change out of the black dress, wash the casino smoke from my hair, try not to think about the way he beat that man. And the way I reacted. I wasn’t scared, not one bit, because I knew Dante’s anger wasn’t directed at me, it was for me. And it softened my heart towards him even more.
An hour passes. Then two.
Finally, I can't stand it anymore.
I find him in his office, sitting in the leather chair behind his desk. The room is dark except for a single lamp casting shadows across his face.
There's a glass of whisky on the desk in front of him, which startles me.
It’s full, clearly untouched. But what’s it doing there?
I raise a confused brow. "Dante?"
He doesn't look up. Just stares at the amber liquid like it holds answers he's afraid to find.
"Why do you have that if you're not going to drink it?"
"I like the smell." His voice is quiet. Hollow. "Reminds me of my father's office. When I was a kid, I'd fall asleep on the couch while he worked. The smell of whisky and leather and old books."
I step closer. "But you never drink."
"No." His eyes hardens.
"Because of your mother."
His jaw tightens. "She drank herself to death after my father's scandal. Vodka, mostly. Sometimes wine. She'd hide bottles inthe garden, in closets, under the bathroom sink. Thought no one knew."
"But you knew."
"I always knew." He finally looks at me, and the pain in his eyes steals my breath away. "I came home one night and found her on the bathroom floor. Empty bottle beside her. She was still breathing, but barely. I held her while we waited for the ambulance."
My throat closes.
"She died three days later. Liver failure." He picks up the glass, brings it close. "I held her hand while she died. She smelled like vodka and the grin fucking reaper."
