Page 14 of Dante

“Why occasional?”

“Mr. Ricci often dines out. The chef is for when he entertains at home. What can I bring you?”

“I’ll eat when Dante—I mean, Mr. Ricci gets up. What time would that be?”

“Mr. Ricci typically rises quite early, usually around dawn for his trainer and workouts before he goes to the office. I imagine he’ll text you tonight about dinner plans. Can I make you an omelet?”

“No. Cereal will be fine. Do you have Cap’n Crunch?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I cringe. What did I just say? Why not just go ahead and ask for Lucky Charms?

“I’m afraid we don’t have that, but I’ll make sure it’s delivered for tomorrow’s breakfast. Can I tempt you with home-cooked oatmeal?”

“No thanks,” I say, hearing the sound of a vacuum cleaner coming from the back of the apartment. “I’ll just take my coffee and go to my room...”

But as I step away, I wonder what Dante expects me to do all day.

As I walk down the hallway, I see the housekeeper inside a room that’s neither mine nor Dante’s.

Can this be Mary’s room?

Angie said she’d heard he keeps her bedroom as it had been when she was living. Like a shrine to his devotion to her.

A moment later, the housekeeper shuts the door partially when she leaves the room.

That’s my cue to step forward and push the door open.

The bedroom is similar to mine in size.

But the décor is Art Deco. Very dramatic. And I can see one of those old-fashioned desks used back when women made a big deal of sitting down to apply their makeup.

Mary Ricci has been dead for approximately six months now.

Why are her things still here? Why does the housekeeper bother cleaning it?

And why are her photographs still all over the living room?

Seems Angie was right. Dante is still obsessed with Mary.

I step further into the room, feeling my skin prickling at my neck. Why do I feel as if I’m doing something wrong? It’s my house now, isn’t it?

As I gaze at the chair before her vanity table, I imagine beautiful Mary sitting in it. Perhaps stroking her glossy black hair with her silver comb.

I jump back when the image of her smirking back at me through the mirror becomes a little too vivid.

Catching my breath, I move to her bedstand. A gorgeous diary with gold leaf embossment sits on it. Its pages are tantalizingly spread open. A sleek fountain pen lies on top as if she just finished a journal entry.

What was it she had written?

I take a step forward, my breath catching as I reach down to pick it up.

Just before the first sentence comes into focus, I hear the sound of quick footsteps.

My eyes snap to the doorway where Dante stands.

“Dante...” I murmur, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “I was just having breakfast and saw the open door.”

He strides into the room, each footstep heavy on the wooden floor.

Dante’s dark eyes lock onto mine, cold and suspicious, making me feel like he can see straight through my lie.