I start to look though my haul of designer things, wondering if we will be going out to dinner, and if so, where will we go and what I should wear.
I find Dante intriguing even though he is cold and aloof. His standoffish demeanor doesn’t give me much of an opportunity to get to know who he is. I mean, was he born a coldblooded killer, or did he grow into the role and the life? I’d like to ask him about that.
Either way, I decide there is no way I could ever take him home to meet my parents knowing who he is and guessing what he must do for a living.
My feet are sore from walking all day and I kick off my wedges thankfully. I pick up a pretty notepad on the nightstand, stenciled with the same blue color as the curtains. The name of the hotel is at the bottom, and in fine print under it, it reads ‘Micheli Enterprises’. Holy shit, he must own this hotel. That would explain the private elevator and the penthouse.
I wonder how many other properties he owns. For now, I’m content to find one more piece of the puzzle that is Dante Micheli. And I figured it out on my own without having to ask questions, questions that only seem to piss him off.
I’m feeling a bit smug and pleased with myself as I curl into a ball on the bed. And with only the low murmur of voices in the other room, I soon slip into a nap.
I don’t know how long I slept. Without a watch or phone, it’s hard to tell. I can only go by the sliver of sunlight still glowing outside my window. I look in the antique mirror over the dresser, run a comb through my straight black hair, and decide I need some makeup. Dante insisted on the best, of course. I dust some bronzing powder onto my face and apply red lipstick with a touch of gloss to make them look moist.
There. That’s as good as it’s going to get for the moment. Now, I prepare myself to be scrutinized by the men as I make my way to the living room, curious as to what I may have missed while I slept.
It’s getting dark outside, and Italians in the north tend to eat dinner a bit earlier than Tuscans. Flavio is sitting in the kitchen with an espresso and greets me while reaching into his pocket to pull out my phone.
“Your mother called. You may call her back now, but no tipoff on anything,” he warns, “otherwise, there will be consequences.”
“Okay.” I snap the phone out of his hand and tentatively read the text message. I ring my mother; afraid I might say the wrong thing but welcoming the opportunity to hear a familiar voice.
“Ava and I are fine, Mama,” I reassure her after she picks up on the first ring and chastises me for taking so long to call her back. After she gets me caught up on her week, I tell her I love her and ask her to give Dad a hug for me. I manage to hang up without mentioning the fact that she’s not my real mother.
Dante and Riccardo come in from the elevator, and judging from their relaxed demeanor, whatever they were up to went well. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen either of them look close to happy.
“Great,” Dante rubs his hands together gleefully, “where to for dinner? I want loads of seafood.”
“Good,” Riccardo agrees before slipping out on the balcony to vape.
“What should I wear?” I ask Dante.
“That cute little number that shows off your legs. I think it was a pastel blue.”
“All right,” I agree. Everything is so beautiful, I don’t care when I wear it. I just want an opportunity to look chic and grown up for a change.
I turn on my heel and head back to my room. I still need to get him alone and find out who my father is. My wardrobe may have changed, but my priorities have not.
But right now, I need to figure out what shoes to wear with the pale blue dress now that I’ve wriggled into it. I want to wear my new heels but don’t know if Dante will help me across the tricky sidewalks and cobblestone streets. I decide to chance it and slip on the Louboutin stilettos before touching up my lips. Dropping the Ferrari red lipstick in my new Fendi handbag, I deem myself ready to go.
I return to the living room just in time to hear Riccardo recommend a restaurant nearby. Flavio agrees it’s the best place in town for seafood. Every Italian knows that you only eat seafood near the coast and we’re only three hours away from the Med, so I can’t wait.
The energy shifts as soon as Dante walks into the room. All eyes focus on him when he’s around. His commanding presence demands it. He’s like a singer who’s lucky to be born with that elusive star quality that makes everyone want to watch them—fascinating, alluring, and charismatic. It’s no wonder I feel like a teenage girl with a crush on her favorite boy band whenever he’s near me.
But I’m not a teenager and he’s clearly not a member of a boy band. The man has practically grown a beard since he shaved this morning. I like his five o’clock shadow and I’m glad he didn’t shave it. It goes well with the crisp shirt he’s just changed into, another dress shirt that cost most than the last one, judging from the price tags I saw today. But his shirts are perfect, unwrinkled, and I wonder if he ever sweats. How can any man look so incredible all the time?
He moves around the room, affixing cufflinks to his remaining sleeve, then gives the sign he’s ready.
“Let’s go, shall we?” he says to me. His entourage know their places and step effortlessly into their roles.
I walk dutifully to the door and notice with a pleased thrill that Dante and I walk ahead of the guards as if we’re a couple.
Once downstairs, Flavio leaves only to reappear minutes later driving a black Escalade. I’m confused to see a car when the restaurant is so close and I turn to Dane questioningly.
“I can’t have you walking that far in those heels. That would be cruel and unusual punishment,” he says, and the way he speaks with genuine concern, so different from his normal cold tone, makes my heart swell. Dante opens the door so I can slide over and let him in beside me.
“As if there is anything worse,” I attempt the snappy retort as a joke, but it falls flat, and his piercing blue eyes darken.
“You have no idea the things I could do to torture you without ever touching you.”