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“I know exactly who I am,” he said softly. “I am Dante Russo, and whoever deals with me should never forget it.”
“Dante. I only meant—”
He took her arm, quick-marched her down a set of concrete steps and away from the dock. An alley led to the street where he hailed a cab, handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill and told him Charlotte’s address. He’d left his topcoat inside the hotel but he didn’t give a damn. Coats were easy to replace. Pride wasn’t.
“Dante,” she stammered, “really, I’m sorry—”
So was he, but not for what had just happened. He was sorry he had lived a lie for the past three years.
Taylor Sommers had made a fool of him. Nobody, nobody got away with that.
He took his cell phone from his pocket and called his driver. When his Mercedes pulled to the curb, Dante got in the back and pressed another number on the phone. It was late, but his personal attorney answered on the first ring.
He didn’t waste time on preliminaries. “I need a private investigator,” he said. “No, not first thing Monday. Tomorrow. Have him call me at home.”
Three years had gone by. So what? Someone had once said that revenge was a dish best served cold.
A tight smile curved Dante’s hard mouth.
He couldn’t have agreed more.
IT WAS A LONG WEEKEND.
Charlotte left endless messages on his voice mail. They ranged from weepy to demanding, and he erased them all.
Saturday morning, he heard from the detective his attorney had contacted. The man asked for everything Dante knew about Taylor.
“Her name,” he said, “is Taylor Sommers. She lived in the Stanhope, on Gramercy Park. She’s an interior decorator.”
There was a silence.
“And?” the man said.
“And what? Isn’t that enough?”
; “Well, I could use the names of her parents. Her friends. Date of birth. Where she grew up. What schools she attended.”
“I’ve told you everything I know,” Dante said coldly.
He hung up the phone, then walked through his bedroom and onto the wraparound terrace that surrounded his Central Park West penthouse. It was cold; the wind had a way of whipping around the building at this height. And it had snowed overnight, not heavily, just enough to turn the park a pristine white.
Dante frowned.
The detective had seemed surprised he knew so little about Taylor, but why would he have known more? She pleased his eye; she was passionate and intelligent.
What more would a man want from a woman?
There had been moments, though. Like the time he’d brought her here for a late supper. It had snowed that night, too. He’d excused himself, gone to make a brief but necessary phone call. When he came back, he’d found the terrace door open and Taylor standing out here, just as he was now.
She’d been wearing a silk dress, a little slip of a thing. He’d taken off his jacket, stepped outside and put it around her shoulders.
“What are you doing, cara? It’s much too cold for you out here.”
“I know,” she’d answered, snuggling into his jacket and into the curve of his arm, “but it’s so beautiful, Dante.” She’d turned her face up to his and smiled. “I love nights like this, don’t you?”
Cold nights reminded him of the frigid winters in Palermo, the way he’d padded his shoes with newspaper in a useless attempt to keep warm.
