Page 100 of Dante

“Where’d you go to school before?” Chelsea asks.

“UC Irvine. Majored in Art History. I was close enough to the Pacific to surf between classes.”

“Ah, don’t torture me! That would be my dream life.”

Chelsea doesn’t know about Dante or what my life really is. For these few hours every week, I get to pretend I’m normal. But who am I kidding? Normal girls don’t carry a Beretta Jetfire in their schoolbag.

The cafeteria bustles around us. Chelsea shifts gears and dips a spoon into her black fudge cake.

“One thing I’ll say for the Academy is that the food is divine. Did you know it’s prepared by a celebrity chef? His test kitchen is next door. We’re basically his guinea pigs.”

“Good to know. We’re looking for a chef.”

“We?” Chelsea asks.

My gut twists. I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about my other life.

“Slip of the tongue. I meant that I’m trying to keep up with the Manhattan food scene.”

A man dressed in the uniform of a prep chef emerges from the kitchen carrying a small plate. He walks directly to our table.

“Gina Ricci?”

I look up at him. “Yes?”

“Our chef prepared this for your dog.” He sets down a plate of shredded chicken and rice arranged with incredible care. “He hopes he likes it.”

“How did the chef even know I brought my dog?”

“Oh, word gets around,” he says with a grin.

“Look, Biscotti, you’re so famous you have your own personal chef,” I say, setting him down to nibble. He takes delicate bites with his tiny teeth.

Chelsea and I turn back to our conversation, discussing the upcoming art competition. Then, Biscotti makes a choking sound.

“Biscotti?”

When I look down, he’s staring up at me, his brown eyes filled with pain. He collapses onto his side. Drool pours from his open mouth as his muscles tremble.

“Oh my God. Chelsea, we need to get him to a vet!”

She stabs at her phone. “Looks like the nearest vet is a half-mile away. Let’s go!”

I look out the Academy’s Gothic window and see the limo parked at the curb. Thomas is still at the wheel. “I…have a car. Follow me.”

I scoop Biscotti into my arms and rush outside. “Thomas!” I nearly scream. “We need to get to the vet!”

“Right away, Mrs. Ricci.”

Chelsea shouts out the address to Thomas, then turns to me. “Mrs. Ricci?” she asks beside me in the backseat.

“It’s...complicated,” I say quietly.

“You’re married? And you have a fancy limo? You’re full of surprises, Gina.”

All I can focus on is Biscotti’s labored breathing. Please don’t let him die. In under five minutes, Thomas pulls up in front of a small clinic. I rush inside.

“Please help me! My dog was eating lunch, and suddenly he became sick⁠—”