Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO DIDN'T LIKE QUESTIONS
Dante took me to a small bakery in Brooklyn that stayed open past midnight.
There were no chandeliers.
No white tablecloths.
No expensive wine.
Just warm bread, bright lights, and a tired woman behind the counter who greeted him by name.
“Dante!”
He smiled.
“Signora Bellini.”
She came around the counter and kissed his cheek.
Then looked at me.
“Oh.”
I wanted to disappear.
Dante looked amused.
“Clare Murphy.”
The woman beamed.
“Finally.”
I stared.
“Finally?”
Dante cleared his throat.
“Signora Bellini.”
She waved him away.
“Sit. I'll bring food.”
I looked at him.
“What does ‘finally’ mean?”
“She's dramatic.”
“That's not an answer.”
He smiled faintly.
“No.”
We sat near the window.
A few minutes later, Signora Bellini brought sandwiches, soup, and two slices of lemon cake.
I stared at the food.
“This is too much.”
Dante looked at the plates.
“She's Italian.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains everything.”
I laughed.
For a while, we ate.
He asked about Queens.
My childhood.
My mother.
I told him about the tiny apartment where I'd grown up, the neighborhood library where I spent summers, and the way my mother used to sing while cooking.
He listened.
Really listened.
When I asked about his family, his expression changed.
“My father is dead.”
I swallowed.
“I'm sorry.”
He nodded.
“My mother too.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“One younger sister.”
“Where is she?”
He hesitated.
“Safe.”
I studied him.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is complicated.”
I looked down at my sandwich.
“Everything about you seems complicated.”
He smiled sadly.
“Yes.”
I took a breath.
“Dante, can I ask you something?”
“You've asked approximately forty questions already.”
“Forty-one.”
His mouth twitched.
I leaned forward.
“Are the things people say about you true?”
He didn't pretend not to understand.
“Some.”
My stomach tightened.
“Have you hurt people?”
He looked at me for a long time.
“Yes.”
The honesty frightened me more than a lie would have.
I swallowed.
“Why?”
“Because I inherited a world where violence was treated as currency.”
I stared.
“And you accepted that?”
His expression hardened.
“For too long.”
Silence settled between us.
Then I asked:
“Do you want to keep living that way?”
He looked out at the rain.
“No.”
I studied him.
“Then why do you?”
He turned back.
“Because leaving is harder than entering.”
I didn't know what to say.
He looked at my hands.
“Clare, I won't pretend to be a good man simply because I bought you dinner.”
I swallowed.
“Good.”
He nodded.
“But I would like the chance to become one.”
May you like
And for the first time, I realized the man sitting across from me was not asking for forgiveness.
He was asking whether change was still possible.
