Page 63

Who is this man?

Maybe he’s not the monster I thought he was.

Wondering just how far Dante’s generosity goes, I look up the bank that holds our mortgage to see if they have foreclosed on our house yet. But I find it has been paid in full. Not just the three months in arrears. All of it.

Not only that, but I also call my mom’s medical insurance company and learn that it’s been paid too.

Dante has cleared all our debt.

The urge rises fast and fierce in me, so fast I start moving before the idea has fully formed.

I want to thank him, which is insane because this whole situation is crazy.

But I want to do something to show him that I am grateful for what he is doing for my father.

I pick up the phone and scroll to Charles.

"Mrs. Di Zaro,” he says in that clipped British accent when he answers. "Good morning."

I lean against the counter.

"Charles. What are you up to today?"

30

DANTE

It's after midnight when I arrive home, and when the elevator doors open, the penthouse is dark and quiet.

Sunny must be in bed.

A note sits on the kitchen counter.

Dante,

Dinner's in the fridge.

— S

I stare at the note. The last time she cooked for me, the cannelloni was as appetizing as a biohazard. I can only imagine what abomination she has conjured up tonight.

Still, it’s been hours since I’ve eaten, so I walk to the fridge. Inside, is a full baking dish covered in foil sitting on the middle shelf.

I peel back the corner. Lasagna. The top layer is golden brown with crisp edges and looks nothing like the soggy cannelloni.

In fact, it looks really good.

Taking a fork from the drawer, I carve off a mouthful and am surprised to taste actual flavors like salt, garlic, and a rich meat sauce.

I take another bite, then another, then give up on mouthfuls and cut off a massive slice to reheat it in the microwave.

My wife either bought it from a restaurant and is trying to pass it off as her own creation, or she’s had someone make it for her.

But she did not make it herself.

I don’t need a wife who cooks. But I do appreciate the gesture. Enough that I’m seconds away from licking the plate.

"I see you like my lasagna."