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I stagger back from the window, my throat closing as I claw at the bodice of my gown.
I need to breathe.
I yank the door open and go tumbling into the hallway. One of Dante’s men is right outside, and he frowns as he jumps to his feet.
“Ms. Black?—”
“I need some air.”
I shove past him, ignoring him blurting something about the ceremony starting soon. I plow down one giant, gilded hallway of Dante’s massive estate after another. I almost trip on my train and my heels when I go rushing down a curved staircase, when suddenly, a wall of a man steps quietly in front of me.
Lorenzo, Dante’s head of security.
He frowns deeply. “Ms. Black, is everything?—”
“I just…I…I need—” My head starts to spin, my breath becoming ragged as my eyes dart around. “I just…I need to?—”
“Come with me,” he says gently. He doesn’t touch me at all, just sort of gestures, and herds me down a side hallway and through a door into a large, room full of bookcases with a vaulted ceiling and big, airy windows.
Okay, it’s not outside, but it’s pretty close. It’s so airy and bright in here that it feels like the noose around my neck is loosening.
I turn to smile weakly at Lorenzo. “Thank you,” I murmur quietly.
He nods with a small, understanding smile. “Not a problem, ma’am. The ceremony will be starting soon, but I’ll let Mr. Sartorre know that you need a minute.”
After he exits and closes the door behind him, I look around. Then it hits me: I’m in Dante’s office. My eyes slide acrossthe very masculine and tastefully decorated room—a mix of old money wealth, midcentury rat-pack style complete with framed pictures of Sammy Davis Junior and Frank Sinatra on the walls, and modern chic.
I mean, the man has killer taste, that’s for sure.
I prowl the perimeter of the room, tracing my fingers over the pristine shelves of leather books and trinkets. Suddenly, I stop cold when my eyes land on something sitting on the shelf.
A small, sad smile creeps over my lips as I take in the pack of American Spirit cigarettes.
“I knew you’d come.”
I’m not religious, and not very spiritual, either. But sometimes, I like to think I see signs from Nina. A bluebird—her favorite—outside my window on my birthday. Her favorite song, Velvet Guillotine’sExorcise My Love, playing on the radio when I’m having a bad day.
Or this: the pack of American Spirits—light blues, of course—on my wedding day.
Nina wasn’t even really a smoker. But sometimes when we were together she’d have one, probably just because she thought she looked cool. And I mean,she did. And sometimes, I’d take a puff or two, probably also to look cool, even though I’m sure I didn’t.
I grin as I pick the pack up off Dante’s shelf, curious about why this is even here. He doesn’t smoke, does he? It’s open, and I take one out and bring it to my nose.
Holy shit, even though these are a little stale, sometimes Ilovethe smell of tobacco. I bite my lip, thinking it over for a second before I shrug.
Fuck it.
I slip the cigarette between my lips with a giggle. “This is for you, Nina.”
Then I frown. Crap, I don’t have anything to light this dumb thing with. I glance around the shelves, but there’s nothing. The bar cart is the same, not even matches.
I amnotasking Lorenzo for a light. Frowning, I head over to Dante’s desk and start pawing around. The top of it, like his desk in the city, isimmaculatelyneat and tidy. It’s also devoid of a lighter. So I start poking around in the drawers.
File folders. Legal documents. An ancient, dead iPhone. Suddenly, I pause as I push aside a stack of papers and see a wooden box. It looks like the kind of thing you’d keep cigars in, and cigars mean a lighter, or at least matches. I haul it out and lay it on the desk.
Grinning with anticipation, I flip the lid open.
…And my whole universe stills.
