Page 55 of Dante

Delighted to see him still alive, I kiss his little puppy face. We both made it out of that mansion alive.

A miracle, all things considered.

“Thank you for keeping Biscotti safe,” I tell Thomas, squeezing my puppy in my arms.

“Sure thing, Signora Ricci. I know how much you love that little guy.”

Dante turns to me once the car starts moving. “You made an excellent impression on everyone tonight.”

I breathe a sigh of satisfaction.

“I was pretty scared,” I tell him.

“Why?”

“Silvio’s temper. I saw it firsthand the day I showed up at your office. And Angie says he can really fly off the handle⁠—”

“That girl,” Dante mutters, cutting me off.

“Don’t blame her,” I say. “She’s my only friend. But I’m curious—she’s your second cousin, right? Why does everybody treat her like she’s second class? And the man she’s married to...” I trail off.

Dante is quiet for a minute. I fear I’ve gone too far.

“The first thing you have to understand is that asking questions like this will only lead to problems. You have to accept things the way they are. Besides, it’s Angie’s life, not yours.”

“But it was an arranged marriage, right? What was the reason for it?”

Dante sighs.

“Long story. But the short answer for the way Angie is treated is that her father did something to disgrace the family many years ago.”

“What did he do?”

Dante makes a dismissive motion with his hand. “Don’t concern yourself with that. He’s been dealt with.”

His tone suggests follow-up questions are not welcome.

“But why does Angie have to suffer for her father’s transgression?”

“Gina, like I said, the fewer questions you ask, the happier you’ll be.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from pressing the issue.

Maybe Dante’s right. It’s none of my business.

And Angie’s taking care of herself fine so far.

It’s also high time I put her advice about reverse-engineering a courtship phase with Dante into practice.

I move close enough to inhale the cedar scent of his cologne. It always turns me on.

“It was so great to see the house you grew up in,” I tell him. “I could imagine you as a toddler, climbing those stairs. Was it lonely, you and your brothers, in that stone house?”

Dante looks at me, seeming surprised.

“Back when my mother was alive,” he begins, his voice losing its edge for a split second. “The house was filled with flowers and warmth. For me and Lorenzo, anyway. Luca never really knew her. She died when he was three. Things were different after that.”

He turns back to his phone.