Page 106 of Dante

I try to put that out of my mind and focus on the present.

Since my first visit to the National Portrait Gallery, I have wanted to be taken seriously as a caricature artist.

And now I am.

CHAPTER 41

GINA

The next day, Thomas appears in the doorway of my office with a light knock, his navy suit jacket slightly rumpled at the elbows.

“Hello, Mrs. Ricci,” he says in that formal tone he always uses, even though I’ve told him a dozen times to call me Gina.

“I’m ready to take you to your meeting in Long Island.”

“Great!” I tell him. As soon as Professor Washington approved my project yesterday, I reached out to Mr. Dureff, hoping he would accept an earlier appointment.

Luckily, he could accommodate me.

Glancing up at Thomas, I see that his cowlick is sticking up again at the crown of his head. That stubborn tuft of dark hair he complained about last week when driving me to the office.

I told him about some drugstore products that would help, but clearly he hasn’t had time to check them out.

“Right on time. Let me call Lorenzo and tell him we’re leaving.” I reach for my phone.

Thomas shifts his weight. “Didn’t Mr. Ricci tell you? Lorenzo was called away for business at the last minute. He’s in Canada.”

“Canada?”

“He left this morning.”

I pause, a knot forming in my stomach. I’d been counting on Lorenzo being there with me today. He always knows what to say in these situations, how to smooth over awkward moments with his easy laugh and confident handshake.

With him, I never have to worry about saying the wrong thing or forgetting some crucial detail. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do it.

“Okay,” I say finally, swallowing hard. “That’s fine.” I fidget with the sleeve of my blouse. This is just a preliminary meeting, after all. I’ll show Eugene Dureff the replica of my sketch, ask whether the design is feasible for a mural installation, and see if anything needs altering.

Lorenzo can handle the heavier business details next time.

Still, the thought of walking into that warehouse alone makes my palms sweat.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, I grab my purse from the side table.

When I reach the door, Biscotti comes trotting toward me with his red leash dangling from his mouth.

“You sure you want to bring him?” Thomas asks, eyeing the puppy. “Long Island City’s all warehouses, belching toxic fumes everywhere. Could be loud machinery inside. Might scare him.”

I crouch down and scratch Biscotti’s ears. He leans into my touch, still hopeful.

But it’s not a good idea.

“You’re right, Thomas.” My chest tightens at the thought of leaving him behind. “I’ll be back soon,” I assure him. “I promise.”

Downstairs, Thomas opens the car door and I slide inside, the leather seat cool against my legs.

The engine purrs to life, and we’re moving.

As we cross the bridge toward Long Island City, I watch the Manhattan skyline shrink in the side mirror.