Chapter 7 - DINNER WITH THE DEVIL
Dante invited me to dinner on a Thursday.
Not a business dinner.
Not a charity event.
A real date.
I stared at him.
“You're asking me out?”
He smiled faintly.
“Yes.”
I folded my arms.
“Why?”
His expression softened.
“Because I'd like to know you.”
I swallowed.
“Without bodyguards?”
He hesitated.
I laughed.
“That's what I thought.”
He smiled.
“Discreet security.”
I considered.
Then nodded.
“Fine.”
We ate at a small Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village.
Not one of his luxury properties.
A family-owned place with red-checkered tablecloths and candles in old wine bottles.
Dante ordered pasta.
I ordered lasagna.
We talked.
About childhood.
Family.
My mother.
His grandmother.
The strange loneliness of living in a city filled with millions of people.
At one point, I asked:
“Do you ever get tired of being feared?”
Dante looked at me.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then whispered:
“Every day.”
My heart tightened.
I reached across the table.
May you like
Took his hand.
And for the first time, Dante Moretti looked surprised by kindness.
