Page 102 of Dante

His breathing has finally evened out after the scare we had today. Each tiny snore vibrates against my arm, reminding me he’s okay.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun’s going down, turning all the skyscrapers into towers of orange fire.

The city looks peaceful from up here, like nothing bad could ever happen.

Though I know better now.

I hear Dante’s footsteps before I see him, that confident walk I’ve come to recognize. He stops in front of me, blocking my view of the sunset.

“Ciro’s made chicken soup. Let’s have dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” I tell him, keeping my eyes on Biscotti. I can’t bear to put him down after what happened today.

“You have to eat,” Dante says. His large hand wraps around mine, warm and insistent. He tugs gently, trying to pull me up from the couch. “Time to tuck Biscotti into bed for the night. If you like, I’ll do the honors.”

I look up at him, one eyebrow raised. This is new. The big, bad mob boss volunteering for puppy duty?

The same man who not long ago stood in the doorway of my bedroom with his arms crossed, declaring that “the dog stays contained.” Like Biscotti was some kind of biohazard?

Intrigued, I follow Dante as he takes Biscotti to my room.

When he opens the door, my hand flies to my mouth. For a second I wonder if I’m hallucinating.

Dante’s purchased more than a dozen plush animals and arranged them in a protective circle. I see fluffy dogs, sleek cats, lions, tigers, and even an oversized alligator.

They’re all facing inward, like guardians, around a circular doggy bed I’ve never seen before. It’s plush, with raised sides that look like they’d cradle Biscotti perfectly.

“Dante, this is so cute,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper as he lowers my precious puppy into the doggy bed, then pulls a soft blue blanket over him.

For effect, he arranges the nearest animals so it looks like they’re reaching out for Biscotti, guarding him from danger.

I laugh and take out my phone to snap a picture.

“If you’re satisfied he’s sleeping well, it’s time to get some chicken soup into you.”

Filled with warmth, I nod and follow Dante to the kitchen where we take our places at the island.

Ciro has dimmed the lights, so it feels like we’re in our own world. Two fancy silver domes I’ve only ever seen in movies or fancy restaurants sit before us.

“Here you are, my famous chicken soup,” Ciro announces with a flourish, lifting both domes at once.

A cloud of steam rushes up to my face, carrying the scent of herbs and chicken and old-fashioned comfort.

“Gina,” Dante says after Ciro leaves us with a bow. “I realize that what happened to you today was quite traumatic. I know how much you love Biscotti.”

I nod and blow on my steaming hot soup, watching the steam curl up in wisps as I take in what Dante is trying to say.

“Yes, I love Biscotti.” My throat tightens as I force myself to look up at Dante’s face. I take in that strong jaw, those dark eyes that miss nothing.

“But it’s nothing compared to my love for you.” I shake my head. “What if I got word you had been shot? Killed?”

The thought makes my stomach clench so hard I have to press my palm against it. I can’t form the words, can only see flashes of Dante bleeding, Dante not breathing, Dante gone forever.

“If something happened to you...” My voice cracks as I reach across the table to touch his hand.

I need to feel his warmth, his solidness, to chase away the horrible images in my head.

Dante’s eyes turn dark. “Gina, you have to prepare yourself for that day.” His fingers tighten around mine, warm and rough against my skin.