Page 209 of Ricardo

Then he pulls back and opens the door

Cool air slips into the car.

Ricardo steps out first, then turns back to me, one hand still on the doorframe.

His eyes hold mine for another second, too long and not long enough. Then he steps away.

Dante slides in and closes the door.

Dante looks straight ahead, one hand settling near his jacket, his body angled toward the window as the car pulls away from the curb.

“Seat belt,” he says.

I turn my head toward him.

He still does not look at me.

“Really?”

“Really.”

I stare at his profile for half a second, then reach for the seat belt and pull it across my lap.

The click sounds too loud in the quiet car.

“There,” I say.

The car turns away from the hotel, and the gala disappears behind us. No music. No laughter. No green silk under warm lights. Only the dark windows of downtown Chicago and Dante beside me, close enough to touch and farther away than he has ever been.

I fold my hands in my lap.

“You don’t have to do this like I’m cargo,” I say quietly.

His jaw shifts.

“I know you’re not cargo.”

“Then you can look at me.”

For a second, I think he won’t.

Then he turns his head.

His eyes meet mine, and everything I thought I was ready to say vanishes. He looks tired. Angry.

“I’m looking,” he says.

I swallow. “Hi.”

Something flickers across his face.

Gone almost at once.

“Hi.”

Silence fills the car again so quickly it feels like a third person sitting between us.

I fold my hands in my lap.