Chapter 6 - A Seat at Dante Caruso's Table
The photograph had been taken from a neighboring building.
That was Nico's conclusion.
Dante's conclusion was less calm.
For the first time since Clare had met him, she watched the controlled surface crack.
Not through shouting.
Dante became terrifyingly precise.
“Close the east terrace.”
“Nico, pull security footage from the last two hours.”
“Find every rental unit with direct sightlines.”
“Do not confront anyone until we know who is involved.”
People obeyed.
Immediately.
Clare stood beside the table while dinner cooled.
“This happens often?”
Dante looked at her.
“No.”
“People watching you?”
“Yes.”
“People watching women you eat dinner with?”
His expression darkened.
“There are no women I eat dinner with.”
That should not have affected her.
It did.
Clare looked away.
Nico approached.
“The vehicle is ready.”
“I can take a cab.”
“No.”
“Dante—”
“No.”
His tone stopped her.
She glared.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Please.”
That single word changed everything.
Clare nodded.
“Fine.”
They left through a private elevator.
Dante's hand hovered near her back without touching.
He wanted to guide her.
He remembered she hated being controlled.
Again—learning.
In the underground garage, an SUV waited.
Clare climbed in.
Dante followed.
Nico sat front.
The city moved past outside.
Clare watched reflections slide over the dark window.
“My apartment isn't safe, is it?”
Dante did not lie.
“I don't know.”
“Which means no.”
“Yes.”
“Where do you want me to go?”
“My home.”
Clare laughed softly.
“You really waited until I was trapped in a moving vehicle to suggest that.”
His mouth almost curved.
“I considered a hotel.”
“Owned by you?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“My house has better security.”
Clare studied him.
“If I say no?”
“I will argue.”
“But?”
“But the choice remains yours.”
There.
That mattered.
She looked outside.
“Your house.”
Dante's home was not what she expected.
She had imagined gold.
Marble lions.
Something designed by a man desperate to prove wealth.
Instead, the townhouse on the Upper East Side was elegant and strangely quiet.
Dark wood.
Warm lighting.
Books.
Original paintings Clare suspected cost more than her apartment building.
No photographs.
She noticed that immediately.
“Where's your family?”
Dante removed his coat.
“My mother lives in Italy.”
“Father?”
“Dead.”
Clare softened.
“I'm sorry.”
“It was twelve years ago.”
“That doesn't mean it stops mattering.”
His eyes met hers.
No one had apparently said that to him.
“My room?”
He led her upstairs.
A large guest suite overlooked a private garden.
Clare walked inside.
“This room is bigger than my apartment.”
“I can find a smaller one.”
“That was not a complaint.”
“I am learning sarcasm is dangerous with you.”
“You're learning fast.”
Dante remained near the doorway.
He did not enter fully.
“Everything you need should be here.”
“Toothbrush?”
“Yes.”
“Women's clothes?”
His eyes flickered.
“No.”
“Good answer.”
“I can have someone—”
“No gifts.”
“It would be clothing, not jewelry.”
“Still.”
He sighed.
“I will ask Rosa to bring something from your apartment tomorrow.”
“That works.”
Another boundary understood.
Clare crossed her arms.
“You can stop looking like I'm going to explode.”
“I do not know what you will do.”
“Neither do I.”
That earned a quiet laugh.
“Good night, Clare.”
“Dante.”
He paused.
“Do you think my father is alive?”
The humor vanished.
“I think we should prepare for either answer.”
“Politician.”
“I am trying not to lie.”
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
Dante left.
Clare did not sleep.
At two in the morning she gave up, put on a robe from the bathroom, and wandered downstairs.
Light spilled from beneath a door.
Study.
She knocked once.
Dante sat behind a desk.
Jacket removed.
Sleeves rolled.
Tattooed forearms visible.
His hair had fallen slightly forward.
For the first time, he looked tired.
Human.
“Can't sleep?” he asked.
“No.”
“Tea?”
“You own coffee?”
He stared.
“Of course.”
“Good coffee?”
“I refuse to answer that after your diner.”
Ten minutes later they sat in the kitchen.
Dante made coffee himself.
Clare watched.
“You can operate appliances.”
“I lived alone in college.”
“You went to college?”
“Columbia.”
“What did you study?”
“Economics.”
“Very criminal.”
His eyes narrowed.
Clare smiled.
He shook his head.
“You enjoy testing survival.”
“Apparently.”
They drank.
The coffee was excellent.
Clare hated admitting it.
“This is good.”
Dante leaned back.
“I will record the date.”
They fell into silence.
Comfortable silence.
Then Clare asked, “Were you always going to take over your family?”
“No.”
“What did you want?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“Nobody asks that.”
“I'm asking.”
Dante looked toward the dark garden.
“I wanted architecture.”
Clare blinked.
“You wanted to design buildings?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“My father died.”
“And you took over.”
“My younger sister was nineteen. My mother was grieving. There were men waiting to divide everything.”
“You felt responsible.”
“I was responsible.”
“Those aren't always the same thing.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Explain.”
“You can feel responsible for saving everyone even when nobody asked you to.”
Dante looked away.
Rosa had said the same thing in different words.
Clare did not know that.
“Do you have a sister?”
“Isabella.”
“Where is she?”
“Boston. Married. Two children.”
“So you do have family.”
“Yes.”
“You said your mother was in Italy like you were alone.”
Dante's jaw tightened.
“They are safer when distant.”
There was that word.
Safer.
Clare set down her mug.
“Do they agree?”
“Not always.”
“Maybe safety isn't the only thing people need.”
“What else?”
“Choice.”
Dante laughed once without humor.
“You have made that point very clear.”
“Good.”
He looked at her.
For several seconds neither spoke.
The room felt smaller.
The distance between them more noticeable.
Dante's eyes moved briefly to Clare's mouth.
Then away.
He stood.
“We should sleep.”
Clare's pulse quickened.
“You're avoiding something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
He met her gaze.
“You.”
The honesty stole her breath.
“Why?”
“Because you are staying in my home because someone threatened you.”
He stepped farther away.
“And I will not confuse fear with affection.”
Clare stared.
Powerful.
Dangerous.
Feared.
Yet he had just drawn a line to protect her from him.
Something shifted inside her.
Not trust.
Not completely.
But the beginning.
“Good night, Dante.”
“Good night.”
Clare reached the hallway.
“Clare.”
She turned.
Dante stood in the kitchen doorway.
His expression was serious.
“When this is over, I still intend to earn that dinner.”
Clare smiled.
“This wasn't dinner?”
“You barely ate.”
“Your restaurant portions are tiny.”
His smile appeared.
Brief.
Rare.
Real.
Clare went upstairs.
At 3:17 a.m., Dante's phone rang.
Nico.
They had identified the photographer.
He worked directly for Salvatore Moretti.
But that was not the worst discovery.
The man had left behind documents before disappearing.
One contained an old address in Brooklyn.
Another contained a recent photograph.
A silver-haired man leaving a grocery store in New Jersey.
Dante stared at the face.
Older.
Thinner.
But unmistakable.
Michael Murphy.
Clare's father might be alive.
May you like
And someone had spent seventeen years making sure she believed he wasn't.
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