Dante.
He’s dressed down. Dark jeans, a gray henley pushed up at the sleeves. No suit, no armor. Just him, leaning against the frame, watching me with an expression I can’t read.
His eyes drop to my hands. To the flour dusting my fingers, my wrists, the front of my shirt.
“Having fun?”
“Nonna Rosa’s teaching me to cook.”
“I can see that.”
He pushes off the frame, crosses to me. Nonna Rosa and Maria have become interested in their respective tasks, giving us what privacy the kitchen allows.
Dante stops in front of me. Close enough that I can smell his soap, feel the heat radiating off his body.
His hand comes up, and he brushes flour from my cheek with his thumb.
“You look good like this,” he says, voice low. “Here.”
My pulse skips. “I am happy.”
“Good.” His thumb traces my cheekbone, and his eyes darken. His gaze drops to my mouth and stays there.
He leans in, and his lips brush my temple. Warm. Certain.
“Everything’s ready?” I ask, voice low enough that only he can hear.
He knows what I mean. Not the food.
“Everything’s ready.”
My heart kicks against my ribs. “And tonight?”
He pauses. His hand slides to my nape, anchoring me.
“Tonight. When it’s done, I handle Romano. You stay upstairs. By morning, it’ll be over.”
I should be scared. Should be horrified at the casual way he discusses ending a man’s life.
But I think about Elena’s tear-streaked face when she told me about the money. About Salvatore dying and Romano standing at the funeral weeping fake tears. About thirty-two years of lies and theft and betrayal, all hidden behind Sunday dinners and loyal service.
“Okay.” One word. Complete trust.
Dante’s eyes search my face. Whatever he finds there makes his expression crack open.
He doesn’t say anything. Just pulls me against him, one arm banded across my back, his mouth pressed to my hair. Holding on like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
“Go back to your calls.” I rise on my toes, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I have bread to finish.”
The ghost of a smile crosses his face. Then he steps back, and the Don slides into place behind his eyes. The warmth remains underneath, but it’s banked now. Controlled.
He has a war to prepare for.
“When it’s done,” he says again.
“When it’s done.”
He leaves. I watch him go, heart full and aching in equal measure.
