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“My mother was murdered,” he says flatly, and I blink.
“Dante, I’m so sorry—”
“And my father was murdered,” he continues, popping a shrimp into his mouth like he isn’t talking about his parents being violently killed. “And I think it was by the same person.”
“Who?” I whisper, leaning forward, but Dante just shakes his head.
“That’s business,” he says. “And you don’t want to be involved in my business, pretty girl.”
I sit back in my seat, my head spinning. Does that mean that Dante has some kind of vengeance plot against whoever murdered his parents? That sounds dangerous, and I’m instantly worried.
“You’ll take care of yourself, Dante?”
“I’ll always protect you,” he says, almost robotically.
“That’s not what I asked,” I say with a huff, and Dante brings one of my hands to his mouth to kiss it.
“I always look out for myself,” he says, and it only makes me feel a little better.
The stuffed flounder that I order is wonderful, and Dante gets steak at a seafood restaurant, which makes me laugh.
“You should have gotten lobster with it,” I suggest, and Dante makes a face.
“Crab is so much better than lobster,” he argues, and I stare at him.
“There’s no way you actually think that,” I say, in awe.
“I do,” he says, smiling so that the little lines around his eyes crinkle. “Is that a dealbreaker?”
“You’re entitled to your wrong opinion,” I say matter-of-factly, and Dante laughs. It sounds loud and open, from his belly, and I’m not sure I’ve heard him laugh like that before.
“Dante?” I ask, and he looks over at me. “I know that you’ve had a hard time since your father died,” I start, and Dante’s face changes, his brows drawing together.
“Let’s not talk about such things at dinner,” he says, as if he hadn’t brought it up himself earlier.
It’s something my father commonly said, and I sigh, thinking about how alike they are sometimes.
“Fine,” I mutter, and the rest of dinner goes by easily, with us talking and laughing and Dante eventually coming over to sit next to me, grabbing the underside of my chair and pulling it to him.
It’s a move that makes me squeak and makes heat flood my lower stomach.
“I think we should get out of here,” I say. “Go back to the hotel.”
Dante shakes his head. “No way. I’m taking you dancing.”
I raise an eyebrow, grinning.
“You dance?”
He takes my hand, raising it to his lips and kissing my knuckles.
“I’ll sweep you off your feet.”
I can’t help thinking that he already has.
11
DANTE
