Chapter 3: The First Piece

Sera's POV

Grant was humming when I got home.

He stood at the kitchen counter in his grey coat, pouring himself a whiskey with the calm of someone who had nothing on his conscience. "There she is," he said, and kissed my cheek.

His lips were warm. I smiled anyway, because I had decided on the drive home that I would.

"Hi, honey," I said.

The word tasted like ash. I set my bag down carefully, because my hands wanted to break something.

"You look tired," he said.

"Long day."

"I have a supplier meeting tonight. The Don's people want the new numbers by morning." He checked his watch, already halfway out the door in his mind. "Might run late. Don't wait up."

Supplier meeting. I nearly laughed. "That's fine," I said. "I'm having dinner with an old friend."

"Mm. Have fun," he said. He did not ask who. He did not ask where. Fourteen months, and he had stopped looking at me long ago.

Then my phone buzzed on the counter. Dante.

I snatched it up and stepped into the hallway, turning my back to the kitchen. "Hello?"

"I am at the end of your street," Dante said, low and calm. "Take your time."

"Ten minutes," I whispered. "Maybe less."

When I turned around, Grant stood in the doorway with his coat half on. His eyes had narrowed to slits.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"The friend I'm having dinner with."

"A friend who calls at this hour?"

"Don't wait up," I said sweetly, and handed his own line back to him.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out. He left without another word, and the front door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame.

For the first time in six years, I had made my husband wonder.

I climbed the stairs and opened my closet. I chose the black dress, the one Grant had called "too much."

Dante's sedan waited at the end of the street. The driver stepped out to open my door before I reached it, and he did not meet my eyes.

Inside, Dante sat with his jacket folded beside him, his shirt sleeves rolled to the forearm. He looked at me once, from my shoes to my face, then looked away quickly, as if he had meant to be polite and failed.

"You look," he said. "Fine."

"Fine?" I repeated.

"Convincing," he said.

I bit back a smile. "Thank you, I think."

The restaurant was called Lucca's, tucked into a quiet corner of the old district. Candlelight glowed behind the windows, and the sign was small enough to miss.

The moment we walked in, the room changed. A waiter froze with a tray in his hands. The hostess straightened like a soldier. Near the back, a glass was set down very carefully.

Then the owner hurried out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. "Mr. Rivers," he said, his voice trembling. "What an honor. Your usual table is ready."

The word usual snagged in my mind. Vivienne said Dante never went anywhere. She said he came home at six and watched the news.

"Thank you, Enzo," Dante said. "We would like some privacy tonight."

"Of course. Anything. Anything at all."

I leaned toward Dante as we walked. "Do you come here often?"

"Rarely," he said.

"Then why does that man look about to faint?"

"He is nervous." The corner of Dante's mouth twitched. "I tip well."

It was not an answer, and we both knew it. Before I could press him, his hand settled lightly at my waist. I went still. The heat of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, and I caught myself hoping he would not move it.

"For the audience," he murmured near my ear.

"What audience?" I whispered.

"There is always an audience."

He guided me to a table half hidden behind a pillar. I sat, and I told myself this was an act. No complications. You promised. The rule was getting harder to hold, and I was no longer sure which of us I was reminding.

"Relax," Dante said, pouring wine into my glass. "You are glaring at the bread."

"I am not glaring," I said.

"You are plotting its murder," he said.

A laugh escaped me, sharp and surprised. It felt strange, like a muscle I had forgotten how to use. His eyes softened, only for a moment.

"There it is," he said quietly.

For a while we simply talked. Not about Grant. Not about Vivienne. He asked about the novels I used to read in university. I asked why he never corrected people who called him boring.

"It is useful," he said. "People say honest things around a man they think is harmless."

"Are you harmless?" I asked.

He turned his wine glass slowly. "That depends who is asking."

The answer should have unsettled me. Instead I felt an odd urge to lean closer.

I was reaching for my glass when I noticed the man at the bar. Thick necked, gold watch, cheap suit. He had been staring at us since we sat down.

I knew him. "Dante, that's Marco. He works with Grant," I said.

"I know," Dante said.

"He's taking a picture."

He was. He held his phone low beneath the bar, angled toward our table, thumb tapping fast.

Panic rushed through me. "He's sending it to Grant. He'll know. He'll think..."

"Yes," Dante said.

"Dante!"

"Sera." His hand slid across the table and covered mine. "Look at me."

I looked.

"Let him send it," he said.

"But it is too soon. We are not ready."

"We are exactly ready," he said, his thumb brushing my knuckles, slow and deliberate. "A piece at a time. Remember?"

My breath caught. The candle trembled between us.

Across the room, Marco stood, hurried out of the restaurant, and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Now," Dante said softly, "we let them wonder."

I stared at our joined hands. His skin was warm and rough, and he was not letting go. My phone buzzed against the tablecloth. I pulled free and glanced at the screen.

It was Vivienne. Where are you?? Grant just called me in a panic and Dante isn't answering his phone. Did something happen? Call me!!

"She's looking for you," I said.

"Good," Dante said. He did not even glance at my screen. "Let her look."

A second buzz. Then a third. This time the name on the screen was Grant.

Who is that man with you?

I went cold all over. Another message arrived, then another, each faster than the last.

Answer me, Sera.

I mean it.

I am coming to you.

I looked up. "He's coming here."

For the first time all night, Dante smiled. It was slow and quiet, and it lifted the hair along my arms. "Then we had better not waste the candlelight," he said.

Behind us, the restaurant door chimed.

I turned.

My husband stood in the doorway, his face white with fury, his breathing ragged as if he had run the whole way. At his side, clutching his arm in a dress I had helped her choose, stood my sister.