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Chapter 2

Author: Katerina
By Friday evening, I had handed over my New York assignments, copied my personal files off the house computer, and arranged somewhere to stay if I needed it. My best friend, Mia, had offered her spare room without asking me to explain twice.

“Just call,” she said. “Any hour.”

Dante came home at ten with Bianca beside him.

“Here.” He held out a narrow leather case.

Inside was a plain silver chain bracelet. Bianca leaned over my shoulder, close enough for me to smell her perfume. Emeralds circled her wrist in a broad gold cuff.

“It’s sweet, isn’t it?” she said.

“Very.” I closed the case and set it on the console. “Thank you.”

Dante studied me. “You’re quiet.”

“I’ve had a long day.”

Bianca was already settling into his usual chair. She pulled the wedding schedule from her bag and smoothed it across her knees.

“I changed the car for tomorrow. The vintage Bentley felt so stuffy, so Dante said we could use the open-top Aston.”

“We?” I asked.

“For the photographs before the ceremony. I’ll ride over with him, and they can send it back for you.”

Dante loosened his tie. “It’s only a car, Clara.”

“Then there’s nothing to discuss.”

His eyes moved to the suitcase by the stairs.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

He frowned. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

“That’s what I need to—”

A sharp clatter cut me off. Bianca’s elbow had caught the little ceramic dish on the side table. It hit the exposed stone beside the rug and broke in two.

“Oh, God.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry. I went dizzy.”

Dante was beside her before I could finish speaking.

“Sit still. Is your heart racing?”

“A little.” She leaned against him. “Don’t look so worried. You’ll frighten me.”

I crouched to gather the broken pieces.

Dante and I had made the dish at a pottery studio during our first year together. He had been terrible at it. There was a thumbprint near the edge where he had squeezed too hard, and a crooked C painted beside a D underneath.

We had laughed about it for days.

Now I held the two halves together and found they no longer quite met.

“Clara, leave that,” he said. “Get Bianca some water.”

I set the pieces on the table and filled a glass.

Bianca accepted it without moving out of his arms.

“You haven’t forgotten our dance tomorrow?” she asked him. “You promised.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“The first one?”

“The first one.”

I looked up.

Dante caught the movement and sighed. “Her father never got to see her dance at a family wedding. I promised her years ago.”

“And what did you promise me?”

He looked genuinely puzzled. “Clara.”

Bianca lowered the glass. “Please don’t fight because of me. I can just sit it out.”

“No.” Dante rubbed her shoulder. “You’re not sitting anything out.”

There it was. An answer, finally.

I brushed ceramic dust from my palms.

“Then you should have your dance.”

His face relaxed. “I knew you’d understand.”

Bianca smiled into her glass.

For another ten minutes, they talked about the summers they had spent at the Rinaldi estate, the night Dante had smuggled her out to see a fireworks display, the trouble he had taken on her behalf. I knew all the stories. I could have supplied the pauses.

Eventually, he helped her up.

“I’ll take her home and make sure she settles. Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“Dante.”

He stopped, one hand on the door.

“I tried to tell you something yesterday. I’m trying again now.”

“Can it wait? Look at her.”

Bianca had closed her eyes against his shoulder.

I stepped back. “Go.”

He did.

The house settled into silence. I took my passport from the safe and checked that the bank card in my wallet belonged to my own account. I had never let him close it, however often he said there was no need for me to work.

Then the pain struck.

It doubled me over so suddenly that I caught the stair rail to keep from falling. I tried to breathe through it. I had an ulcer and knew the dull warning ache, but this was different.

For years, the Rinaldi family’s legitimate charity dinners had been my second job. I remembered smoothing over an argument between two captains’ wives while gunmen waited outside, translating a toast for a shipping partner at midnight, smiling through meals I was too anxious to eat. My deadlines came afterward, when everyone else had gone home.

The doctor had told me stress and missed meals were not helping. I had kept promising to take better care of myself.

I reached the sofa, then slid to the floor. When I tried to stand, the room tilted.

I called Dante.

“Something’s wrong,” I said. “My stomach. I can’t get up.”

For a second, he said nothing.

Then Bianca spoke in the background.

“Dante, please don’t leave yet.”
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