Page 75 of Dante

We even pass his bedroom. Finally, he stops at an unfamiliar door tucked away at the end of the corridor.

When he turns to face me, his eyes are black pools of rage, his jaw clenched tight.

Dante pulls out a heavy gold key. It’s ornate and oversized, like something from a medieval castle rather than a luxury high-rise built in the last decade.

When he turns it in the lock, the door releases with a deep, resonant creak.

“What is this place?” I ask as I step inside, though the answer is already revealing itself before me.

Leather-bound books line the walls, their ancient spines releasing a sharp, musky scent.

A desk dominates the room. It’s a massive slab of ebony wood elevated on a platform. It forces anyone seated across from it to look upward like a supplicant.

Behind it stands what can only be described as a throne rather than a chair. It’s upholstered in rich, dark hide that adds another layer to the room’s overwhelming leather and pipe aroma.

“This is my office,” Dante says, pinning me with his black eyes.

Though his gaze makes me feel like I should ask permission to move, I defy him by walking toward his desk.

It’s empty aside from a fountain pen resting in an elaborate gold stand.

Then I notice a rectangular piece of blackened wood that almost blends in with the desk.

“And this?” I ask.

“A souvenir from Salvatore’s bootlegging days.”

“Interesting that you have it in your office,” I say, picking it up. It still smells faintly of rum. “Why?”

Instead of answering, Dante moves to stand behind his throne-like chair.

“We need to talk.”

“Sure,” I say, forcing my usual bright tone.

I move towards a chair.

“You will remain standing.”

I feel like a child summoned to visit the principal’s office. “What’s this about, Dante?”

“You are not to ask me questions,” he barks. “You are to respond to mine.”

I bite my lip to keep from asking another question and simply nod.

Dante removes his jacket with deliberate slowness, folding it with military precision before placing it on the chair’s edge.

His fingers work methodically at his cufflinks, never once breaking his gaze from mine as he rolls up each sleeve.

Under his unwavering stare, I’m frozen in place. A specimen captured and displayed for his examination.

The silence in the office presses against my eardrums.

“Tell me your name,” Dante says, his tone so low I strain to hear it.

“Gina Ricci,” I reply, my throat suddenly dry.

“Mrs. Dante Ricci,” he corrects, emphasizing each syllable. “My wife. Did that fact slip your mind today when you flaunted yourself at that real estate agent?”