I had to leave early to run some errands. There's a chocolate cornetto next to the Moka pot. I know you don't drink coffee, but help yourself to some if you like. I'll be back by noon. Try not to miss me too much -Your loving fiancé, Dante.
I roll my eyes at the last part.
I glance at the clock. It's 10:30 a.m. I don't know when he left or when he'll be back, but I'm alone in the house right now.
Curiosity gets the best of me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I take the staircase to the first floor.
The door to his bedroom is open. I peek inside to see a four-monitor computer setup in the middle and a single bed pushed to the wall. I walk around the room, searching for something that'll give me some insight into his personal life.
I check all the obvious spots—the drawers, his closet, the inside pockets of his jackets. But I come up empty. There's nothing here that can help me demystify this man.
There’s not a single personal touch inside his home. There are no books on the nightstand, no photographs on the walls.
I sigh and head back out. Halfway between his desk and the door, I feel a shift beneath my feet. I pause. This portion of the floor is uneven. I take a step back and crouch to inspect it. My fingers trace the outline of the floorboard. I knock on it.
Hollow.
With my heart racing in my chest, I wedge my nails under the edge and pry it open. Dust puffs into the air, making my eyes burn.
There's a collection of guns and explosives here. But my focus zeros in on a white envelope. It's frayed at the edges, like it's been picked up and put down multiple times over the years. I lift the envelope and open it.
A photograph falls into my palm.
It's Dante. He's younger here. There's a light in his eyes that has been dimmed with time. A girl is standing beside him. I bring the photograph closer to my face. She's stunning, even as a child. She has the same eyes and cheekbones as Dante, which makes me think she might be his sister.
"You're not supposed to be here." His baritone voice surrounds me like an inferno.
I look up at him. He's wearing a stormy expression on his face. It should make me want to shrink and cower, but I don't fear this man.
"You left me no choice," I say. "I don't know anything about you. Even when you answer my questions, you're always dancing around the truth."
"So you decided to go through my things?"
"I was just trying to get to know you better."
His gaze drops to the photograph I'm still holding. For a split second, I see the depth of his melancholy. But he blinks, and it's gone, like it was never even there.
"What was she like?" I ask, standing. "This is your sister, right?"
He takes a deep breath. "I don't like to think about the past, much less talk about it."
It might have been a long time ago, but I can see that the wound is still raw. It's still bleeding.
I don't want to bring him down, but something tells me that all the answers I seek lie in his past.
“There are still so many things I don’t know about you,” I say.
“If there’s something you want to know, you only have to ask,” he says.
“Ido,” I exclaim. “But you give me everything but the truth. I met you at a fucking human auction, Dante. And the next thing I know, you’re asking me to be your temporary wife. How am I supposed to be okay with any of it when I don’t even know who you are or what you stand for? You owe me the truth.”
His whiskey eyes are ablaze as they study me. It makes me feel achy and restless everywhere.
"I don't owe you anything, little bird," he says. "And if I ever catch you going through my things again, there will be consequences. Is that fucking clear?"
I've never seen him this angry before.
