Page 104 of Dante

“In our world, it’s not just a matter of being gunned down and ascending to heaven.”

My mouth goes dry as he continues.

“Do you understand what torture is? Do you understand what they would do to you for days, for weeks? Possibly months or years?”

I swallow hard, my hands suddenly cold and clammy in my lap.

He shakes his head. “You don’t know what they’re capable of, especially the Russians.”

My body goes rigid. Torture had never crossed my mind.

Now Dante has opened the possibility of enemy capture, of being abused for amusement, retribution, and to force Dante to yield to their demands.

My stomach turns over, and I taste bile at the back of my throat.

My mind fills with images I can’t stop. My screams echoing in some dark basement, my fingernails pulled out one by one while Dante receives videos of my suffering.

I imagine him pacing, sleepless, haunted by my cries, making desperate phone calls, offering everything he has.

The thought of him broken like that hurts worse than imagining my own pain.

I look down at my trembling hands, then back to his face, where worry has carved deep lines around his eyes.

“Yes, Dante,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I hadn’t thought it through that way. I’ll take my gun training more seriously. I’ll practice until it feels like an extension of my arm.”

But Dante only shakes his head. I can tell he’s not satisfied with my answer.

“I know you can shoot well, Gina,” he says, his voice gentler now. “More practice is always good, but it won’t solve the core problem.”

He leans closer, his dark eyes meeting mine. “At the shooting range, you must visualize yourself pulling that trigger without a moment’s hesitation. That’s what you must practice.”

The way he says it makes my stomach knot up again. But I know he’s right. “I will, Dante. I will.”

His shoulders drop. “Good,” he says, reaching for his spoon. “Now, let’s have some soup before it gets cold.”

CHAPTER 40

GINA

The next afternoon, at 5 pm sharp, Professor Washington opens his door to let me in.

“Gina, please have a seat. Has your dog recovered?”

I enter his now-familiar office, my eyes traveling yet again over the sketches I remember from my university art class.

As I sit, I clutch my portfolio case against my chest. “Yes, thanks. So sorry I had to cancel yesterday.”

“Please, no worries. Now make yourself comfortable while I bring tea for us.”

“Sure,” I say as he leaves the room.

After the chicken soup dinner with Dante last night, I tried to sleep. But my mind kept circling to the reality that someone tried to kill Biscotti.

And probably also wants me dead.

“Have the tea,” says Professor Washington, returning with two Styrofoam cups. “You look tired. The caffeine should perk you up.”

“It’s true I couldn’t sleep last night,” I say, my tone light. “But I’m operating on the belief that insomnia can be a springboard for creativity. I got out of bed and reworked some of the images I made when my husband took me to dinner in Little Italy. And Eureka! I found the chef expression that’s been eluding me for so long.”