“So you’re the woman who jumped into Dante’s lap.”
I nearly choked on my water.
Dante closed his eyes.
“Matteo.”
Matteo raised both hands.
“What? It’s news.”
Sofia grinned.
“Legendary news.”
I covered my face.
“Can we please never discuss that again?”
“Absolutely not,” Sofia said.
Dante looked at her.
“Sofia.”
She smiled sweetly.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
I laughed.
Dante sighed.
For the first time since running from Cameron, I felt something unfamiliar.
Comfort.
Not safety exactly.
Not yet.
But the possibility of it.
***
After dinner, Dante showed me the library.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
A marble fireplace.
A desk overlooking the gardens.
He stood near the doorway.
“There are rules.”
I folded my arms.
“Of course there are.”
“First, nobody enters your room without permission.”
I blinked.
“Okay.”
“Second, you’re free to leave.”
I stared at him.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you think it’s dangerous?”
“Even then. I’ll explain the risks. You decide.”
I swallowed.
“And the third rule?”
His expression grew serious.
“Don’t lie to me about threats against you.”
I looked down.
“That’s difficult.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes telling the truth makes things worse.”
Dante was quiet.
Then he said, “I know.”
Something in his voice made me look up.
For a moment, the cold mafia boss disappeared.
And I saw a man who understood fear better than I expected.
***
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
At two in the morning, I wandered downstairs.
The kitchen lights were on.
Dante stood at the counter, wearing black sweatpants and a white T-shirt.
His tattoos covered both arms.
Without the suit, he looked younger.
And somehow more dangerous.
He turned.
“Can’t sleep?”
I shook my head.
He opened a cabinet.
“Tea?”
I stared.
“You make tea?”
“Occasionally.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Only if you prefer it drinkable.”
I laughed.
He placed a mug before me.
We sat at the kitchen island.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then I asked, “What was Adrian like?”
Dante’s expression changed.
“My brother?”
I nodded.
He looked down at his coffee.
“Annoying.”
I smiled.
“Really?”
“Constantly.”
He paused.
“He laughed at everything. Trusted everyone. Thought people were better than they were.”
I studied him.
“You loved him.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
I looked at my tea.
“My mother was like that.”
“Trusting?”
“Hopeful.”
I smiled sadly.
“She always believed people could change.”
Dante was quiet.
Then he said, “Sometimes they can.”
I looked up.
His dark eyes held mine.
For one dangerous second, the kitchen felt too small.
Then I looked away.
***
The next morning, Sofia found me in the garden.
She carried two coffees and a folder.
“I have something for you.”
I frowned.
“What?”
She handed me the folder.
Inside were photographs of Cameron.
At charity events.
At political fundraisers.
At a private dinner.
And in one photograph, standing beside him, was Victor Sloane.
I stared.
“Where did you get these?”
“Public records and event archives.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like men who call women confused when they’re trying to escape.”
My throat tightened.
Sofia sat beside me.
“There’s something strange about Cameron.”
“What?”
She pointed to a date.
“Six years ago, he worked for Northbridge.”
My heart began pounding.
“The foundation?”
She nodded.
“And so did your mother.”
I stared at the photograph.
Then Sofia said quietly, “Nora, I don’t think Cameron met you by accident.”
The garden seemed to go silent.
I looked at her.
“What are you saying?”
She swallowed.
“I think someone sent him to you.”
There are things a woman can survive without understanding.
A broken heart.
A lost job.
A funeral without a goodbye.
But discovering that the man who once kissed your forehead every morning may have been paid to fall in love with you?
That requires a different kind of strength.
I sat in Dante’s library with Sofia’s photographs spread across the table.
Cameron Hale.
Victor Sloane.
The Northbridge Foundation.
My mother.
Every road seemed to lead back to the same people.
“You’re telling me Cameron targeted me?”
Sofia looked uncomfortable.
“I’m saying his employment history overlaps with your mother’s disappearance. And his first documented contact with you happened shortly after he began working with Sloane.”
I remembered meeting Cameron at a bookstore.
He’d reached for the same copy of Jane Eyre.
We’d laughed.
He’d bought me coffee.
For two years, I’d considered that meeting proof that beautiful accidents happened.
Now I wondered whether he’d even liked the book.
“Can you prove it?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
Dante stood beside the fireplace.
He’d been silent for nearly ten minutes.
Finally, he said, “That’s why we’re not confronting him.”
I looked up.
“We?”
He met my eyes.
“You decide what happens next. But don’t mistake suspicion for evidence.”
I hated that he was right.
***
