I glance in the rearview mirror and find him staring out the window. I still get the eerie feeling like he's watching me.
There's a reason he appeared like a dying star.
Despite the harshness of his form, there's something tragic that clings to him.
I almost breathe a sigh of relief when Dante gets into the driver's seat. None of us says a word as Dante begins driving.
“The Eiffel Tower,” the Don says.
"I thought we were going to dinner?" Dante asks.
"That's where we're having dinner," the Don says. "I can’t stay for long, but I want to see the whole city tonight."
The two of them start speaking in Italian, catching up on business stuff.
The party was on the outskirts of the city, so it’s a long drive. Don Savastano and Dante speak in low voices, but there's still a tension between them.
When we reach the center of Paris, the Don stares out of the window.
I know that look.
Wonderment.
It's the same way I looked at the city yesterday, when I saw it for the first time.
"How much do you know about me, Grace?" he asks, suddenly turning to look straight at me.
Something about having his undivided attention makes me feel like a cornered animal. I open my mouth to speak, but Dante gives me a subtle look. His eyes hold a warning.
“I only knew that you existed,” I say. “And that you stayed in touch with Dante while you were away.”
“Is that all you know?” he asks.
I know I shouldn’t speak about the rumors of his past, but there’s a challenge in his eyes.
"I know that you hate theCosa Nostra," I say.
A sinister smile spreads across his lips. "Did Dante tell you why?"
"Because you're competitors?" I ask.
"It's more than business,tesoro," he says. "Since you're a part of the family now, you should know our history. You need to know about Rebecca."
Dante shifts in his seat. The Don has a faraway look in his eyes, like he wants to return to a time when she was still alive.
I remember what Dante told me earlier this evening. Don Savastano had six ex-wives, but before them, there was a woman. A woman who didn't love him back.
"Who was she?" I ask.
He blinks. "My everything. She was born into a crime family, just like I was. I fell in love with her the day I met her. I was ten years old at the time, but I knew even then that my life would never be the same.Iwould never be the same again."
He goes quiet.
I have so many questions, but I wait for him to speak.
"It's the kind of love that happens once in a thousand lifetimes," he says. "She was older than me, so I decided to wait. Stolen glances and the memory of her perfume were enough. It didn't even matter that she didn't see me the same way. It was the truest, most unselfish kind of love. I learned everything about her. All that she liked, all that she disliked. I learned that what she hated most in this world was the mafia. She was a free thinker. A modern woman who craved freedom. She dreamed of going to America and becoming a doctor. But her father had other plans for her. He was a scummy bottom-feeder who was ready to do anything to climb the ladder. On her eighteenth birthday, he made a deal with theCosa Nostra. He forced her to marry Antonio Cavallari. Her husband was a cruel man. He broke her. Six weeks into her marriage, she escaped the only way she could."
I think the woman he loved took her own life.
