Page 118 of Dante

Neither do I.

“Lorenzo,” I call, jerking my head toward the dead. “You and Marco know what to do.”

“Got it, boss.”

I take Gina’s hand, and we walk back through the passage toward the light.

EPILOGUE

GINA

“Another cocktail, madam?”

I open one eye. The server stands over me against the St. Barts sky.

“Why not?” I say.

Beside me, Dante’s hand is folded over mine. His skin is getting darker by the hour, and this is the most romantic time I have ever spent with him.

Silvio is dead. The families have pledged. The man lying next to me is as close to relaxed as Dante Ricci gets, which isn’t saying much. But here in the sun, it’s enough.

There are things I haven’t asked yet.

Things I’ve been smart enough, or scared enough, not to push.

But we’re two drinks in and a thousand miles from New York. So I decide I’m asking them now.

I turn to my side.

“Dante?”

“Mmmm?”

“Do you love me?”

He opens his eyes and looks at me. Then at the fresh drink in my hand.

“Why would I buy you twenty-dollar martinis if I didn’t?”

I have to laugh at that. “I’m serious,” I tell him.

“So am I.”

“All right, let’s play a game of Truth or Dare. I’ll go first.”

He says nothing, which with Dante means go ahead.

“I fell in love with you when I was fourteen. We were together at that harvest party in Sicily. You were there with Mary. Was it love at first sight for you too?”

“Gina, why would I notice a kid? Besides, assuming this Harlequin fantasy of yours is true, what exactly did I do to catch your attention?”

I laugh. “How does a mob boss like you even know what a Harlequin romance is?”

“I have my ways.”

“You wore a white shirt,” I say. “And your hair was long and black. All the boys I knew were surfer boys. Blond and silly. Then there was you.”

“Ah, you imagined me in my dark prince persona,” he says, straight-faced. “Good to know.”