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His eyes flew to Portia’s, even the suggestion that anything might have happened to their son turning his blood to ice. “Yes.” So far as he knew. He dismissed the thought. Georgia had left him, and she’d been right to leave him, but she also loved him, and she knew him. She knew his most essential fear, the only thing that weakened him was a fear of loss, and she’d made a point of messaging him every few days with an update on her health. Always keeping it contained to the baby, she would tell him if she felt a kick or how her symptoms were progressing, because she understood how important that was to him. He would write back, without fail, and ask how she was, meaning beyond the pregnancy, but she didn’t ever reply.
Frustration gnawed at his gut.
“So? What’s going on?”
“Why do you think anything’s going on?”
Portia just stared at him, her features bearing a mask of skepticism. “Because I know you.”
Dante sat in belligerent silence.
“Listen,” she moved then, coming to sit on the edge of the desk. “When Jack cheated on me, you made me talk to you. You got me to open up, and it helped. When things were bad with Marco, you were there for me. Even if you did also kind of screw it up,” she added wryly. “You helped fix it. You helped him understand what was going on. Why don’t you just talk to me? Maybe it’s my turn to help you?”
“You do help me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean professionally. You’re clearly miserable?—,”
“I am no more miserable than I have been since they died.” His eyes dropped guiltily to the picture on his desk. It was a lie. This was so much worse.
“I don’t believe you.”
Smart.
“How is Georgia?” Portia asked. “We were meant to have lunch on Friday, but she cancelled. She said she wasn’t feeling well.”
Dante stood up, restless. “Did she?”
“She didn’t mention it?”
He closed eyes, well aware of the subtlety to Portia’s prying—but it was still prying.
“Has something happened with the two of you?”
“There is no ‘two of us’—we’re not a couple. We never were.”
Portia nodded, but her eyes showed pity. “Oh, Dante.” She sighed. “You’re such an idiot sometimes.”
“Thank you very much.” The words dripped with angry sarcasm.
“You seriously don’t know why you’re miserable?”
“Leave it.”
“You’re allowed to love someone else, you know. It doesn’t invalidate what you felt for her.”
“Leave it,” he said, more seriously. “It’s none of your business.”
“Yeah, well, I beg to differ.” She stalked across the room, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I like Georgia. I like her a lot. And I love you, even when you’re being a total doofus. You think I’m going to sit back and let you ruin both of your lives? Seriously? Well, guess again.”
“Believe me, Portia, my life was ruined long before I met you. There is nothing you can say or do to change that.”
We’ll see, she thought to herself, as she strode from the office and reached for his phone.
Ensconced in his Manhattan penthouse, Rocco Santoro picked up his phone on the third ring. He might have ignored it—the blonde in his bedroom was very, very tempting—but Portia’s face was on the screen and she was one of the few people he could never ignore. His cousin’s Marco’s wife, his cousin Dante’s much needed PA, and an all-round excellent human being, Rocco had his own reasons for thinking the world of Portia. She’d done him a solid once, and he’d never forgotten it. Even more reason to be grateful: she’d never mentioned it.
“Hey.”
“Rocco, you got a minute?”
