Because going to Bari means people. Eyes. Possibility. It means stepping out of the small, safe pocket I’ve built here and into a world where I could be seen. Or worse. Found.
My fingers tighten slightly against the fabric of my apron.
“Okay,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. “Just dinner.”
Just one night. One night where I can remember what it feels like to live… even if part of me is already bracing for everything to go wrong.
The dress is simple—black, soft fabric that skims my body without clinging—but when I look in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize myself. It makes me feel… beautiful. Like the version of me that existed before everything shattered might still be in there somewhere. It’s loose enough to hide the gentle curve of my stomach. My hand lingers there for a moment before I force it away.
I curl my hair and the unfamiliar reflection staring back at me feels steadier than I expect. My makeup is light.
When I step into the living room, Dante is already waiting.
He’s dressed in black. For a second, we just look at each other.
“You look beautiful, Juliette,” he says.
Something warm flickers in my chest.
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I reply, smiling.
He holds out his hand. I don’t even think about it—I just take it and let him lead me.
“You know,” I say as we step outside, the cool evening air brushing over my skin, “I think you might be my first real friend since Sienna passed away.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. But they’re true.
He glances down at me, something softer moving through his expression. “Same.”
I blink. “What? You mean a Mafia Don isn’t surrounded by friends?”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “If anyone around me calls themselves a friend, I assume they’re lying. Present company excluded.”
That makes my smile widen.
We reach his car at the edge of town. The streets are quieter here, shadows stretching long under the dim streetlights. He opens the door for me, one hand steady at my back as I slide inside.
He circles the car and gets in, the engine humming to life beneath us.
“I made us a reservation at one of my favorite places,” he says, glancing over. “I hope you like it.”
“As long as there’s no steak, I’m fine,” I tease.
The truth is less funny. Steak—and anything remotely heavy—has been turning my stomach lately. You know, just thegood old morning sickness that shows up whenever it feels like it.
“Noted,” he says. “No steak. But they do have the best lobster tail you’ll ever eat in your life.”
“Okay,” I say, settling back into the seat as we pull onto the road. “Now I’m excited.”
And I am.
He keeps the conversation light while we drive, but the ease of it feels manufactured. I hear Dante’s phone buzz in his pocket more than once, the sharp vibration cutting through the quiet of the car, but he never so much as glances at it. Whoever is trying to reach him can wait.
I guess men like Dante are never really off the clock. They just decide what deserves their attention.
When the car rolls to a stop, it’s in front of a restaurant so beautiful it almost doesn’t look real. Golden light spills through towering windows, warm and seductive, the kind of place built to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
Dante steps out first. By the time I gather myself, he’s already rounding the car and opening my door before the valet can get near me.
