Page 115 of Dante

“It’s important, Gina.”

“It’s always important.”

She falls quiet. She knows this about me.

“Go,” she says with an edge of resignation. “You know where to find me.”

I hand her a fresh glass of Champagne from a passing tray, kiss her cheek, and return to the call.

CHAPTER 45

GINA

“Gina, I am so proud of you,” Chelsea says, handing me another glass of Champagne. “A toast to the first-place winner.”

“It’s a shared honor,” I tell her.

“What do you mean?”

“If you hadn’t told me about the competition, you would have won first place. So here’s to us.” I lead the toast this time.

We down our glasses like Russian soldiers and giggle when we’re done.

“I like your husband,” says Chelsea. “He’s great looking. But why does he carry a gun? I saw it peeking out of his jacket when we met at the animal hospital. Is he in the mafia?” Her voice drops to a whisper on the last word.

“Of course not. He just believes in a citizen’s right to self-defense,” I say, hating the lie Dante forced me to tell school friends. But he has his reasons.

Before Chelsea can say more, a woman approaches. She’s wearing a sharp suit and a polished smile. What stops me cold is that she’s carrying a mounted reproduction of my three-chef drawing under her arm.

“Gina Ricci, I’m Nancy Clark from Art Today magazine. Congratulations on your win. We’ve been following your work and would love a few photographs and brief interview.”

I look at Chelsea.

“Go,” she says. “I’ll take Biscotti.” She reaches for the leash. “See you later, diva.” She gives me a saucy wink before turning back to the party.

I follow Nancy through the thinning crowd. The noise of the reception fades behind us as we move out of the ballroom and toward the far end of the hall.

Nancy leads me to a narrow stone staircase. It’s different than the one I used to find Biscotti when he escaped, but it’s just as extraordinary. Dark arches, iron fixtures, and the weight of centuries pressed into the mortar.

I reach for my phone to snap a few pictures. But after the first few snaps, a hand comes from nowhere and snatches my phone.

Firm arms encircle my body. Someone presses a cloth soaked in something that smells terrible against my face.

In the silence that follows I realize with absolute clarity that I have made a terrible mistake.

When I open my eyes, my head feels thick. I make out a stone ceiling, and the distant sound of music, muffled and unreachable above me. My wrists are bound behind my back.

I am seated in a chair in what appears to be a vaulted cellar, clearly part of the catacombs under the Academy where I found Biscotti. I never thought I’d be back. I certainly never thought I’d be tied to a chair here.

Footsteps approach from the corridor. Unhurried. Deliberate. Then Silvio steps into the candlelight. He looks entirely at ease, the unhurried confidence of a man who has never had reason to rush. He studies me for a moment before he speaks. “My dear niece,” he begins.

“Why have you taken me?” I ask. My voice is steadier than I expect.

“Why?” He repeats the word as though it amuses him. “You’re a smart girl. You figure it out.”

I meet his gaze. “I don’t get involved in family politics.” The ropes dig into my wrists as I shift in the chair. “But I hear things. Dante talks about modernizing, about legitimate businesses, about moving away from the old ways. He stays up late working on spreadsheets and investment portfolios. He wants the outfit to survive in a changing world. That’s all I know.”

“Ridiculous,” Silvio scoffs. “Your husband is leading the outfit in a dangerous direction. I tried to correct him. He didn’t listen.”