Chapter 2 - The Ring He Never Intended to Give Away
I did not call Dante Caruso.
That was the first mistake.
The second was assuming he would forget me.
By ten the following morning, I had searched his name exactly once.
Once was enough.
Caruso Development Group owned hotels, apartment towers, restaurants, and warehouses from Boston to Providence. Newspapers called Dante a private investor. Business magazines called him ruthless.
Other websites used different words.
Crime family.
Underworld.
Organized crime.
Alleged.
That last word appeared frequently.
Nothing had ever been proven.
I closed my laptop.
“No.”
The black card lay beside it.
I picked it up.
Put it down.
Picked it up again.
My phone rang.
I nearly threw it.
It was my supervisor.
“Emma, please tell me you’re sitting down.”
“What happened?”
“The Sterling wants you back tonight.”
I frowned.
“I’m not scheduled.”
“You are now.”
“I can’t.”
“They specifically requested you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who specifically?”
Silence.
“Table Seven.”
Of course.
I looked at the black card.
“No.”
“Emma—”
“No.”
I hung up.
At six forty-five that evening, someone knocked on my apartment door.
Three slow knocks.
I froze.
Another knock.
“Ms. Bennett?”
A woman’s voice.
I opened the door two inches.
A gray-haired woman in an elegant navy coat stood outside holding a garment bag.
“Yes?”
“Delivery.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“I know.”
She handed me the bag.
There was an envelope attached.
Inside was a handwritten note.
Dinner is still dinner. No obligation. No debt. If you choose not to come, the car leaves at eight. — D.C.
I stared at it.
Then at the garment bag.
“No.”
The woman smiled.
“I was told you might say that.”
“What is it?”
“A dress.”
“Take it back.”
“Mr. Caruso expected that too.”
She reached into her purse and produced another note.
I almost laughed despite myself.
Then wear your own dress.
At seven fifty-five, I was standing at my window wearing the only decent black dress I owned.
I hated myself a little.
At eight, a black sedan stopped outside.
Dante was not inside.
That surprised me.
The driver took me to a small Italian restaurant in Beacon Hill.
No cameras.
No velvet ropes.
No ballroom.
Dante was waiting at a corner table.
He stood when I approached.
That surprised me too.
His black suit tonight was simpler. The top button of his white shirt was open. Without the Sterling’s chandeliers and frightened executives around him, he almost looked ordinary.
Almost.
“You came.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I was.”
I sat opposite him.
“You’re Dante Caruso.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You could have mentioned that.”
“You asked my name. I gave it to you.”
“You neglected the part where people stop breathing when you stand up.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
“Would that have improved my invitation?”
“No.”
“Then I saved time.”
I fought a smile.
He noticed.
That was irritating.
Dinner came slowly.
He did not ask about Marcus.
Not immediately.
Instead, he asked what I liked to read.
Where I grew up.
Why I worked catering.
When I admitted I had studied interior architecture before marriage, something in his expression changed.
“Why did you stop?”
“Life.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He leaned back.
“All right.”
No pressure.
No interrogation.
That unsettled me more than questions would have.
Eventually, I asked, “Why me?”
His eyes lifted.
“Why you what?”
“Why did you interfere last night?”
“Because he put his hand on you.”
“You didn’t know me.”
“I didn’t need to.”
The answer came without hesitation.
I looked down.
Dante’s fingers rested beside his untouched wineglass.
There was a thin white scar across his knuckle.
“Marcus wasn’t always like that,” I said.
Dante remained silent.
“He was charming when we met. Then little things started changing. Who I saw. What I wore. Whether my job was embarrassing him.”
My throat tightened.
“I quit architecture because he said his wife didn’t need to work.”
“And after you quit?”
“I became financially dependent on him.”
Dante’s jaw hardened almost imperceptibly.
“When I finally left, he told everyone I was unstable.”
Dante looked at me for several seconds.
“Were you?”
I blinked.
Then I realized he was not accusing me.
He was asking.
“No.”
“I believe you.”
Three words.
Ridiculously simple.
My eyes burned.
I hated that.
I reached for water.
That was when shouting erupted outside.
Dante moved before I understood what was happening.
He was beside me.
One hand gently touched my shoulder.
“Stay here.”
Two men entered the restaurant.
One whispered something into his ear.
Dante’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
That was worse.
All warmth vanished.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Don’t do that.”
His gaze returned to mine.
“Do what?”
“Decide what I can handle.”
Something almost like regret crossed his face.
Then the restaurant door opened again.
Marcus walked inside.
Sober this time.
And furious.
He looked from me to Dante.
“You.”
I stood.
“Marcus, how did you know I was here?”
He ignored me.
“You think you can humiliate me?”
Dante remained perfectly still.
“You humiliated yourself.”
Marcus laughed.
Then he looked at me.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
My stomach dropped.
“Know what?”
Marcus reached into his pocket.
Dante’s men moved.
“Easy,” Marcus snapped.
He pulled out his phone.
Then turned the screen toward me.
A photograph filled it.
Dante.
Marcus.
Standing together.
The timestamp was from eleven months earlier.
While Marcus and I were still married.
I stared at Dante.
“What is this?”
Dante’s expression did not change.
May you like
Marcus smiled.
“Ask your new boyfriend why he was investigating you before your divorce.”
