Page 60 of Dante

“Another espresso, Mr. Ricci?”

Ciro stands before me in one of his impeccable, perfectly pressed black suits.

“No.” I set down my phone and prepare to head to the office. Then I reconsider.

“Actually, yes,” I tell my manservant. “This morning is cold and stormy. Another espresso sounds right.”

He inclines his head and turns toward the machine. The kitchen is warm despite the winter weather battering the windows of our penthouse.

Rain streaks the glass, blurring the gray cityscape beyond.

As I wait, I remember the way Gina sighed with satisfaction as she fell asleep in my arms last night.

I felt an odd sensation as I embraced her. She’s mine. All mine.

Above all, she’s mine to protect. Not just physically, but emotionally. And I haven’t been doing a very good job of that.

I should tell her what last night meant to me. What all the moments of our marriage have meant to me.

But I know the words won’t come. I don’t know why I want them to, honestly.

Gina remains a puzzle to me.

Though my marriage to Gina had been arranged to only unify the East and West Coast families against the Russians, it also served to reunite Gina’s mother with the Ricci family again.

A small mercy, though I doubt Gina’s mother sees it that way.

Twenty years is a long time to be exiled from your own blood.

A not-so-fortunate-part is that even though the East and West coast families are united, the Russians remain an even greater threat.

According to my sources, the Petrov family are accelerating their intent to storm our ports.

They’ve already bought off half the union stewards at Port Newark. And they will stop at nothing until it’s theirs.

“Good morning,” Gina says brightly, pulling me from my thoughts. She enters the kitchen in flannel pajamas covered in white bunny rabbits.

The sight of her, hair tousled from sleep, face still soft and unguarded, strikes an emotion in me I can’t recognize.

“Gina, please put on a robe. We are not alone.” I speak in a stern tone I instantly regret.

She freezes, her cheeks flushing pink as she glances at Ciro.

“I’m sorry, Dante. I’ll be right back.” She turns and goes back to her room.

“No need for formality on my part, Signore Ricci. I’ve only known your wife for a short time, yet she is like a daughter to me.”

“Espresso, please,” I say, reminding Ciro of his place.

He nods and returns to the machine without another word.

“This better?” Gina asks when she returns a moment later in a white silk robe. With her long golden curls, she looks like the lead in an angelic chorus.

“Sleep well?” I ask.

“Oh yes,” she says, coming forward and kissing my ear. “Very well,” she adds in a whisper.

Her breath warms my skin. She hasn’t yet bathed, and I delight in the sex-soaked scent of her from last night.