Chapter 2 - Dinner With Dante Caruso
I didn’t sleep.
At six in the morning, I had convinced myself the photograph was a prank.
At six fifteen, I had convinced myself Marcus had sent it.
At six thirty, I remembered the symbol.
That ruined both theories.
I placed Dante’s black card beside the photograph.
Then I stared at them until my coffee went cold.
At eight, someone knocked.
I nearly dropped the mug.
“Who is it?”
“Mrs. Bennett?”
My landlord.
I opened the door two inches.
Mr. Bennett stood there holding a padded envelope.
“This came for you.”
“Who delivered it?”
“Courier.”
“When?”
“Five minutes ago.”
I signed nothing.
There was no return address.
Inside was a new phone.
It rang immediately.
I nearly threw it.
Instead, I answered.
“Hello?”
“Emma.”
Dante.
My anger arrived faster than my fear.
“Did you send someone to my apartment last night?”
“No.”
“Did one of your men?”
Silence.
Then his voice sharpened.
“What happened?”
I told him about the call.
The photograph.
The symbol.
He didn’t interrupt once.
“Lock your door.”
“It is locked.”
“Do not leave.”
“You don’t get to order me around.”
“Today I do.”
“No, you absolutely—”
A knock sounded.
Three precise taps.
My blood turned cold.
“Emma?”
“I heard it.”
“Stay on the phone.”
“Who is it?” I called.
A male voice answered.
“Matteo. Mr. Caruso sent me.”
I looked through the peephole.
One of the men from Table Seven stood outside.
I opened the door with the chain still attached.
He held up both hands.
“Morning.”
“Did you leave this photograph?”
His face changed.
“No.”
“You wear that symbol.”
Matteo looked at it.
Then at me.
“That isn’t ours.”
“What?”
“It looks like ours.”
Dante spoke through the phone.
“It was designed to.”
I let Matteo inside.
He examined the photograph without touching it.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Dante answered.
“Someone wants you to believe the warning came from me.”
“Why?”
“That is what I intend to find out.”
“I met you twelve hours ago.”
“Yes.”
“People don’t threaten strangers because they poured you champagne.”
“No.”
“So what aren’t you telling me?”
Silence.
Then Dante said, “Have dinner with me.”
I laughed incredulously.
“This is your idea of persuasion?”
“My idea was better before someone photographed your home.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“You should.”
That surprised me.
“I should?”
“Yes. Matteo will remain until they arrive.”
“And dinner?”
“Seven.”
“You’re assuming I’ll come.”
“No.”
A pause.
“I’m hoping.”
He disconnected.
I should have hated that answer.
Instead, I looked at the black card again.
At seven that evening, against every sensible instinct I possessed, I walked into Belladonna.
The restaurant occupied the top floor of a building overlooking the river.
Dante was waiting.
No entourage.
No crowded dining room.
Just one table beside enormous windows.
“You closed the restaurant?”
“I own it.”
“Of course you do.”
He pulled out my chair.
“I wasn’t certain you’d come.”
“Neither was I.”
Dinner began strangely normally.
Pasta.
Wine I barely touched.
Conversation.
Dante asked about my catering job.
I asked about his businesses.
His answers were direct but incomplete.
“You really own shipping companies?”
“Three.”
“Hotels?”
“Seven.”
“Construction?”
“Yes.”
“And the things Claire says can’t be put on paper?”
His eyes met mine.
“Claire talks too much.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
I waited.
He eventually set down his glass.
“My father built an organization before I was born. Some parts were legal. Others were not.”
“And you?”
“I inherited both.”
“That sounds carefully worded.”
“It is.”
“Are you a criminal?”
His expression remained calm.
“I have done things you would disapprove of.”
“Parking violations?”
“No.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
“Why me, Dante?”
His gaze softened.
“Because you looked at me like I was simply a man sitting at a table.”
“I didn’t know who you were.”
“Exactly.”
Something about that answer stayed with me.
Then he reached into his jacket.
I stiffened.
He stopped immediately.
“Photograph,” he said.
He placed it on the table.
A younger Dante stood beside another man.
Marcus.
My breath disappeared.
“What is this?”
“It was taken four years ago.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
“Marcus said he’d never heard of you.”
“He lied.”
I picked up the photograph.
Marcus looked younger.
Dante looked colder.
Behind them stood shipping containers.
“What was my husband doing with you?”
“Your ex-husband worked indirectly for one of my companies.”
“Doing what?”
“Financial consulting.”
Marcus had told me he worked in investment management.
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“He stole from us.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Three point two million dollars.”
I almost laughed.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I wish it were.”
“Marcus never had three million dollars.”
“He lost most of it.”
“How?”
“Gambling. Investments. Debts.”
Pieces of my marriage shifted inside my memory.
Late nights.
Secret calls.
Money disappearing.
Marcus screaming when I asked questions.
“Why wasn’t he arrested?”
“Because at the time, proving what he had done would have exposed information my father wanted kept private.”
My stomach tightened.
“Your father?”
“He died two years ago.”
Around the time of my divorce.
“Why show me this?”
“Because the photograph outside your apartment was not about you meeting me.”
He leaned forward.
“It was about Marcus seeing us together.”
I stared at him.
“You think Marcus sent it?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Someone who believes Marcus gave you something before your divorce.”
“He didn’t.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Dante watched me carefully.
“Think.”
“I am thinking.”
“Documents. Keys. Jewelry. Anything unusual.”
“No.”
Then I remembered.
The engagement ring.
My old ring.
Marcus had demanded it during the divorce.
I had refused initially.
Not because I wanted it.
Because it had belonged to his grandmother, and I wanted to return it directly to his mother.
Marcus had become furious.
Unreasonably furious.
He had insisted I give it to him immediately.
I eventually did.
Dante noticed my expression.
“What?”
“My engagement ring.”
He went completely still.
“What about it?”
“Marcus was obsessed with getting it back.”
“When?”
“The week we separated.”
“Describe it.”
“Platinum. Oval diamond. Small sapphires underneath the setting.”
Dante stood so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor.
“What?”
He called Matteo.
“Find Marcus.”
Then he looked at me.
“Dante, what is happening?”
“That ring never belonged to Marcus’s grandmother.”
My pulse accelerated.
“What are you talking about?”
Dante came around the table.
“My father used custom jewelry to transport information when electronic communication was too dangerous.”
I stared at him.
“You’re telling me my engagement ring was some kind of spy device?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“A key.”
“To what?”
Before he could answer, Matteo entered.
His face was grim.
“We found Hale.”
“Where?”
“His apartment.”
“And?”
Matteo looked at me.
“He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“We don’t know.”
Then Matteo placed a photograph on the table.
My old engagement ring.
Except the diamond had been removed.
Hidden beneath it was a tiny engraved number.
Dante stared at it.
I read the number aloud.
“317.”
Matteo looked at Dante.
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“What?” I demanded.
He looked at me.
“Locker 317 disappeared the night my father died.”
And suddenly I understood.
Marcus hadn’t married me despite the secrets he kept.
May you like
He might have married me because of them.
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