Chapter 2 - THE MAN WAITING IN ROME
Leo slept for three hours.
Dante did not.
He sat across from Clare while the Atlantic disappeared beneath them, watching his son breathe against the chest of a woman he had met less than an hour earlier.
Clare had eventually moved Leo into the empty seat beside her.
Dante had offered his private suite.
She refused.
He offered food.
She accepted coffee and a sandwich.
He offered money.
That was when her expression changed.
“No.”
“You helped my son.”
“I fed a hungry baby.”
“I repay debts.”
“Then consider this one free.”
Nobody spoke to Dante Salvatore that way.
Marco watched from across the aisle with the expression of a man waiting for lightning to strike.
Instead, Dante almost smiled.
Then Maya woke.
The three-year-old stared at Dante with enormous brown eyes.
“Who are you?”
“Dante.”
She considered this.
“You look angry.”
Marco coughed violently into his fist.
Clare closed her eyes.
“Maya.”
“What? He does.”
Dante glanced at Marco.
“Apparently my security team has been withholding important information.”
Maya climbed into her mother’s lap.
Then she noticed Leo.
“Baby.”
“Yes.”
“Is he yours?”
Dante nodded.
“Where’s his mommy?”
The question landed with brutal innocence.
Clare immediately touched Maya’s hair.
“Honey—”
“She died,” Dante said.
Maya stared at him.
Then, without asking permission, she reached into the tiny backpack beneath Clare’s seat and removed a battered stuffed rabbit.
One ear was nearly detached.
She placed it beside Leo.
“He can borrow Bun.”
Dante looked at the rabbit.
Marco looked at Dante.
Clare looked horrified.
“Maya sleeps with that every night.”
“He’s sadder.”
Three words.
That was all.
Dante looked away toward the dark window.
When the aircraft landed in Rome, he returned the rabbit personally.
Maya pushed it back.
“Not yet.”
Dante was still holding it when Marco approached.
“We have a problem.”
Something in Marco’s voice erased the softness from Dante’s face.
“What?”
Marco showed him his phone.
A photograph had arrived from New York.
Clare.
Maya.
Taken at JFK.
The message beneath it contained five words.
SEND MY WIFE BACK HOME.
Dante’s gaze hardened.
“Who sent this?”
“Burner number.”
Clare had seen his expression.
“What happened?”
“Who is Richard Peterson?”
Every trace of color disappeared from her face.
Dante had his answer before she spoke.
“My husband.”
“Your husband knows where you are.”
“No.”
“He knew you were at JFK.”
Her hands began trembling.
“That’s impossible.”
“Apparently not.”
Clare grabbed Maya.
“We need to go.”
“Where?”
“My cousin is meeting us.”
“Clare.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re being followed.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know exactly what being followed looks like.”
She stared at him.
The arrivals terminal moved around them in a blur of luggage carts, tired families and impatient drivers.
Then Maya whispered, “Mommy.”
A man stood beyond the glass doors.
Baseball cap.
Gray jacket.
Phone pointed toward them.
Clare froze.
The man turned.
Marco moved immediately.
But the stranger disappeared into the crowd.
Dante made his decision.
“You’re coming with me.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
Clare’s fear became anger.
“You don’t get to order me around because you have bodyguards.”
“No. I get to order my bodyguards around.”
Dante pointed toward Marco.
“He’s going to find the man who photographed you.”
Then he lowered his voice.
“You get to decide what happens to you.”
That stopped her.
It was a distinction Richard had never made.
Dante continued.
“My villa is forty minutes outside Rome. Security, cameras, private grounds. Stay one night. Tomorrow, if you still want to leave, I’ll arrange transportation anywhere you choose.”
Clare studied him.
“Why?”
Dante looked toward Leo.
His son had awakened.
He was searching the terminal, restless again.
Then Leo saw Clare.
His entire little body relaxed.
“That,” Dante said quietly.
Clare followed his gaze.
Leo reached toward her.
She hesitated.
Then took him.
For one strange second, the four of them stood together beneath the airport lights.
Dante.
Clare.
Maya.
Leo.
Like a family assembled by accident.
Marco returned ten minutes later.
“The photographer got away.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“But he dropped this.”
Marco handed him a hotel key card.
The logo belonged to a luxury hotel near Piazza Navona.
On the back, someone had written a room number.
Clare stared at it.
“I know that handwriting.”
Dante turned.
“Richard?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Her voice became barely audible.
“My cousin’s.”
The cousin who was supposed to meet Clare at the airport never arrived.
And suddenly Dante understood something Clare did not.
May you like
Richard Peterson had not simply followed his wife to Rome.
Someone had helped him find her.
