And I know absolutely nothing about him.
If someone asked me today—tell me about Dante Castellani—I'd have nothing. No family stories. No childhood memories.No favorite food or music or place he'd rather be. The man is a vault. Sealed tight. Combination known only to himself and maybe,maybe, Lorenzo.
I watch the back of his head as the city lights slide past the windows. Dark hair, perfectly trimmed. Broad shoulders that fill the seat. He's handsome in an objective way. Sharp jaw. The kind of face that belongs in magazines or movies, except there's no warmth behind it.
Robot.That's what Amanda called him once.
She wasn't wrong.
Dmitri
She's late.
Twenty-three minutes late, to be exact. I've counted every one of them.
The waiter approaches for the third time. I wave him off without looking, my eyes fixed on the entrance. Celestine caters to Chicago's elite. Politicians, businessmen, the occasional celebrity seeking privacy. Tonight, every table is full except the four surrounding mine.
I bought them all.
Twenty-four minutes now.
She thinks she's clever. Thinks arriving late will rattle me, throw me off balance, give her some advantage in whatever game she believes we're playing.
Solnyshko, you have no idea who you're dealing with.
I've waited long enough. I can wait twenty-four more minutes.
The sommelier hovers nearby, a bottle of Barolo breathing on the table. I chose it specifically. The 2015 vintage from her family's own vineyard in Tuscany. A small detail. A message.I know everything about you.
Twenty-six minutes.
The front door opens.
Dante Castellani walks in first, his dark eyes scanning the room with the practiced efficiency of a man who's killed in places like this. He spots me immediately.
Then she appears behind him.
Bozhe moy.
The air leaves my lungs.
The dress she wears cuts low across her chest, revealing her collarbone, the soft shadow between her breasts. Gold drips from her ears, circles her throat, catches at her wrist. Her dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and her lips?—
Those lips are painted the color of sin.
I stand.
She moves like she owns this room. Like she owns every room she enters. Her chin lifted, her shoulders back, her eyes fixed on mine with a challenge that makes my cock twitch against my zipper.
She dressed like this for me.
She dressed like this to destroy me.
The maître d' guides her to my table. Dante takes position near the wall, close enough to intervene, far enough to give us privacy. His presence irritates me, but I expected it. Pietro Sartori protects what's his.
Soon, she'll be mine to protect.
I extend my hand toward her.
