"Good. Now go back to your table, finish your dinner, kiss your wife goodnight. Pretend everything's fine." A pause. "And Mike?Don't make me come looking for you. I hate when people waste my time."
Footsteps. Coming toward me.
I panic, duck back toward the restroom entrance, pressing myself against the wall in the small alcove. My heart is hammering so hard I'm sure they can hear it.
Dante walks past first, his expression perfectly neutral, like he didn't just possibly sentence a man to death. Then Patterson stumbles by, looking gray and shaken, one hand pressed to his chest like he's afraid his heart might give out.
I wait until they're both gone, count to ten, then force myself to walk back to the dining room on legs that feel like they might give out.
My hands are shaking.
I've seen Dante intimidating. Seen him angry. Seen him cold and controlled and impossibly arrogant.
But this? This was something else entirely.
He wasn't just threatening Patterson. He was playing him. Manipulating him. Giving him just enough hope to ensure cooperation while making it clear there was very little escape.
Like a puppeteer pulling strings.
And Patterson never even saw the threads.
When I reach the table, Nancy Patterson is dabbing at her eyes with a napkin, trying to compose herself. Dante is already seated, sipping his water like nothing happened. Patterson sits down heavily, his face ashen.
Dante's eyes meet mine across the table, and something flickers in his expression. Like he knows. Like he can tell exactly where I was and what I heard.
But he says nothing.
The rest of the dinner passes in a blur. Nancy tries to keep up conversation, but her husband barely speaks. Dante is perfectly charming, perfectly composed, asking about their daughter's college plans and complimenting the wine selection.
Like he didn't just orchestrate a man's death between the appetizer and the main course.
I play my part. Smile when I'm supposed to. Nod at the right moments. Laugh at Nancy's story about their vacation in the Hamptons.
But inside, I'm screaming.
Dante Vitale is a man who sees people as pieces on a board, who pulls strings so skillfully that his victims don't even realize they're dancing.
And the most terrifying part is that I’m one of those puppets now.
Tied to him by a contract I signed with shaking hands, my mother's life dangling from the strings he controls.
When dessert finally arrives—some elaborate chocolate thing I can't even taste—I realize I'm clutching my mother's pendant so hard the edges are cutting into my palm.
Dante notices. Of course, he notices. But he says nothing. Just watches me with those cold blue eyes that see everything.
And I'm more afraid of him now than I've ever been.
Because brute force and violence I could maybe understand and anticipate. But this? This calculated manipulation, this chess game he plays with people's lives? I have no defense against that.
No way to fight a man who's always three moves ahead.
No escape from strings I can't even see.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dante
Patterson is fidgeting.
