Page 103 of Dante

My heart races.

“I run the New York mob. I’m a very big target.” He leans in closer, his voice dropping. “And you should know, you’re a target yourself.”

My stomach twists as I remember finding Biscotti earlier, his tiny body shaking, foam at his mouth.

Dante’s jaw tightens. “In my world, poisoning a dog is a very low-level attack. It’s just a message. A warning.”

He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “Something bigger is coming. Their next attempt will have far more serious ramifications.”

“Are they going to try to kill me?” I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the steam rising from my soup.

“It’s possible. You must be prepared for this mentally. And physically. Are you ready to defend yourself, Gina? I know you’ve been training every morning.”

I nod.

“I’ve watched you. I’ve seen how you handle yourself with a gun. I see you hit the bullseye with regularity. But I need to know. Do you feel comfortable defending yourself? Really comfortable?”

I hesitate.

He huffs. “That hesitation tells me everything I need to know. Gina, I didn’t give you gun lessons for entertainment. You have to be prepared to use the weapon to defend your life.”

I nod. “I know how to use a gun. But if the moment came that I must shoot, I’m not sure I could.”

Dante grips my shoulders, turning me to face him. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and I can feel the intensity radiating from him like heat.

“Listen very carefully,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous tone that makes my stomach tighten. “I want you to imagine someone with a gun to Biscotti’s head.”

My whole body recoils. I can actually see it. Some faceless man pressing cold metal against my puppy’s fur.

“No, no, I can’t do that,” I whisper, trying to look away.

But Dante’s grip keeps me facing him. “Yes,” he insists, his fingers pressing harder. “Imagine somebody with a gun to Biscotti’s head. Would you hesitate to shoot them if you knew it would save Biscotti’s life?”

I freeze. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too warm. My mouth opens but nothing comes out at first.

“What a question, Dante,” I finally manage to whisper.

His dark eyes never leave mine, waiting for an answer I’m not sure I want to give.

“You have to imagine,” he continues, “when somebody points a gun at you, what would you do if that person was pointing it at Biscotti instead. You might not shoot to save yourself, but you would for your dog, wouldn’t you?”

My hesitation vanishes. “Yes,” I say, my voice stronger now. “I would.”

Dante’s voice drops to a whisper, but his eyes burn into mine with an intensity that makes my chest tighten.

“You’re my Biscotti,” he says, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. His hand finds mine across the table with a grip that’s almost painful.

“My love for you is even stronger than yours for Biscotti. If somebody killed you, Gina...” He stops, and for a second I think I see moisture in his eyes before he blinks it away.

“I would die. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I’d failed to protect you.”

His fingers tighten until our knuckles turn white. “So please,” he continues, his voice rough with emotion, “be ready to pull that trigger. Kill your attacker if you get the chance. Do it for me, if not for yourself.”

“I’ll try,” I say to him. “But Dante, if I’m killed, don’t blame yourself. Everyone dies eventually.”

Dante’s face transforms before my eyes, his features hardening into something I barely recognize. “You don’t understand!”

The boom of his voice makes me flinch, and his fist comes down on the table, rattling the soup bowls between us.