I slice my finger on the edge of the newspaper when I reach the entertainment section. Papercuts hurt like a bitch, but they’re nothing compared to the pain that shreds my heart when I see a large colored photo in the “around town” section.
The photo is grainy, but no amount of de-pixilation could have me mistaking the back of Dante’s head. Manicured nails are tangled in his hair, and a woman’s mouth is pressed to his. He’s not melting into her embrace, but my heart still stops.
I force myself to stay calm. It could be an old image. It might even be staged. Then I read the headline.
Carlisle’s Reformed Bachelor Back to His Old Tricks!
The date and location of the article are listed under the headline. It was apparently taken last night.
My veins freeze, my fingers numbing around the paper.
“Marco…” Picture a wife scrolling through her cheating husband’s messages after hacking into his phone. Now you have an idea of how possessive my voice is. “Where did you pick up Dante last night?”
He frowns. “I didn’t collect him last night. One of my colleagues did.” When I arch a brow, incapable of accepting such a nonchalant response, his Adam’s apple bobs. “Do you want me to check the logs? We keep records of the comings and goings of all the Caruso hierarchy.” I nod before I can remind myself that I have no claim to this man, so why do I believe I can stomp on his privacy? “One of my colleagues collected him from”—he squints at the report too small for me to see even while seated next to him—“San Therasia Palladium.”
I snap my eyes to the article so fast I have to blink to clear Dante’s hotel name. It is exactly what Marco said.
So it’s real.
The picture is recent and of Dante.
My stomach twists so violently I might be sick. Anger and nausea churn until I can’t pick which is worse. I feel stupid. Exposed.
Was I the prologue of Dante’s steamy date?
I’ve never felt so used, and I dance naked for money.
War rages inside me, but I tuck it away when Camille stirs. This is why I need to remember my place. I’m nothing more than a pawn to the families of the Cosa Nostra. Moving on will be easier now, though I see my anger shifting to hurt when I realize Dante’s actions have stolen the second-best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Camille isn’t my daughter, but I’ve grown closer to Gabriele the more time I spend with her. It’s twisted and sick to cut your teeth on parenting a child who has no relation to you whatsoever, but Camille has also benefited from our time together.I hope.
When Camille’s eyes drift to me, her nose crinkles when she spots the angst my influence in her life has rekindled. I swallow everything down. I fold the newspaper in half, burying both the photo and the jealousy, then jingle the pie to show Camille I got the exact one she suggested.
Her smile isn’t the biggest to date, but I’ll take any she’s willing to give.
We drive home in silence. Dante greets us in the underground garage. He’s all warmth and charm with Camille, but he barely glances at me as he helps carry groceries into the kitchen. The rare times I catch his gaze, he appears nervous, like he’s waiting for me to explode.
As I prepare dinner, he drifts over as he has every night the past week. He props his hip against the counter and chomps through a green bean I recently washed. His arms are casually folded, but the corded veins running through them broadcast his true composure. He’s tense.
“Need any help?”
“It’s fine.” I chop the vegetables with more force than necessary. “I’ve got this.”
“All right.” He wets his lips before straying his eyes to Camille, who is coloring at the dining table. Confident we don’t have any eavesdroppers, he continues his fishing expedition. “Are you okay? You seem a little… quiet.”
Hating that some men can’t own their lies, I fight the urge to drive my knife into his throat. “I’m cooking.”
“And you can’t smile while doing that?”
I shoot my eyes to him, then muster up the fake grin I give all my clients.
That’s clearly what he is, isn’t he?
A client.
That’s what all prostitutes call their johns when they pay for sexual favors.
A beat of silence follows my Harley Quinn smile, and then Dantetries again, but instead of skirting the truth, he edges it. “If this is about last night?—”
