Page 113 of Dante

Gina is my wife and a grown woman.

Yet she’s going through so many “firsts” in her life.

Tonight she’s absolutely stunning in a classic long black dress with a simple strand of pearls.

She fought me on the outfit. “This isn’t the Academy Awards, Dante. The other students won’t dress up like this.”

But I sent Antoine to shop with her anyway.

“Everyone is going to laugh at me,” she’d said.

“I won’t laugh,” I told her. “And you’re going to win. You must look the part.”

In the end, she gave in to please me. That was enough.

“Lorenzo is coming later,” I tell her, scrolling through my phone. “He’ll find us inside during the reception.”

She glances over at me. “Is something happening?”

“Nothing that concerns tonight. Why do you ask? You know my phone is my office.”

“Yes. But there’s a different energy to your scrolling.”

I laugh despite myself. “I wasn’t aware I had a scrolling energy. But if you must know, the call I’ll be taking during the ceremony is key. You promised no sulking, so see that you don’t.”

She falls silent.

Gina looks out the window as the city moves past us, indifferent and lit up.

“Here we are, Mr. Ricci,” says the driver when we arrive, getting out to open Gina’s door.

“You must be new,” says Gina, shaking his hand as she exits. “I’m Gina Ricci.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says, doffing his cap. “Marco.”

Once we’re out of earshot, Gina turns to me. “Is he to be my new bodyguard in addition to my driver?”

“I’m trialing him for you.”

“Why?”

“I’m setting up a few tests to see if he can outshoot you,” I say with a smirk. “You’re a pretty good shot, it seems, and it’s important that your driver be too.”

“Big compliment coming from you, mob boss,” she says softly.

I look up at where the Academy building rises against the night sky, Gothic and theatrical. Its stone facade is lined with torches, whose flames flicker in the wind.

The entryway is crowded with students and their families, the air filled with the chatter of people who consider themselves patrons of something important.

A young woman breaks from the crowd with the kind of bouncy energy that parts it naturally. She sports a blonde ponytail, bright eyes, and approaches us slightly breathless.

“Gina!” she calls. Then, catching herself, she adds, “Mr. Ricci, I’m Chelsea Brown. We met at the animal hospital.”

“Of course. Nice to see you.”

She and Gina fall in together immediately, the way girls today do, laughing before a sentence is even finished.

I watch Gina’s face open up in a way it doesn’t always in my world. She looks lighter, easier.