Chapter 1 - THE MAN WITH THE SLEEPLESS EYES
“What does an up-late face look like?” he asked.
I leaned closer, studying him.
“Like a man who has enough money to buy a comfortable bed but too many regrets to sleep in it.”
His expression changed.
For a second, the stranger looked almost wounded.
Then his face closed again.
“That obvious?”
“Only to someone who knows what insomnia looks like.”
I straightened and picked up a jar of honey.
“Wildflower. Six dollars. Helps with tea, toast, and the general disappointment of being alive.”
The man looked at the jar.
“Does it help with sleep?”
“Not unless you hit yourself over the head with it.”
Behind him, his driver made a choking noise.
The stranger looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said, “I'll take all of them.”
I blinked.
“All eight?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, this isn't a hostage negotiation. You can buy one.”
“All eight.”
I studied him.
“Are you secretly a bear?”
His driver turned away.
The man almost smiled.
“Something like that.”
That was the first morning Dante Russo bought every jar of honey on my table.
And I didn't learn his name until three days later.
By then, he'd already become the strangest part of my morning routine.
He arrived before sunrise.
Always in an expensive coat.
Always with the same broad-shouldered driver.
Always looking as though he'd spent the night arguing with ghosts.
He bought my honey, paid in cash, and left.
On the fourth morning, I asked his name.
“Dante.”
“Dante what?”
“Russo.”
I stared at him.
Then I looked at his driver.
Then back at Dante.
“Oh.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You've heard of me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Marco looked alarmed.
I folded my arms.
“My neighbor says you're dangerous.”
Dante watched me.
“And what do you think?”
“I think you overpay for honey and need more sleep.”
Marco laughed.
Dante didn't.
But something softened in his eyes.
Over the following weeks, I learned that Dante was forty-one, owned several shipping and construction companies, and lived in a mansion outside Bellmont.
I also learned that people became extremely polite whenever he entered a room.
The coffee vendor stopped complaining about the weather.
The butcher lowered his voice.
Even the market manager suddenly remembered urgent business elsewhere.
I didn't understand why everyone behaved so strangely.
Dante was intimidating, certainly.
He had dark hair, broad shoulders, and the kind of quiet authority that made people instinctively move aside.
But he also looked lonely.
And loneliness was something I recognized.
My name was Emma Whitaker.
I was twenty-nine.
I lived alone on a struggling honey farm that had belonged to my parents.
My father died eleven years earlier.
My mother followed three years later.
Since then, I'd kept the farm alive through stubbornness, secondhand equipment, and an impressive ability to survive on peanut butter sandwiches.
I had forty-seven beehives.
A pickup truck that sounded like a dying lawn mower.
And a mortgage payment that made me nauseous every month.
I didn't have time to be frightened of wealthy strangers.
Especially wealthy strangers who bought honey.
By the sixth week, Dante had become almost familiar.
He still arrived at 6:17.
Still wore expensive coats.
Still looked exhausted.
But now he occasionally stayed long enough to help me unload crates.
One morning, I made him hold my crooked awning.
Another morning, I handed him a broom.
Marco looked ready to faint.
Dante simply took it.
“Does everyone at your house obey you?” I asked.
“Usually.”
“That must be boring.”
He looked at me.
“You have no idea.”
I laughed.
Then, on the forty-second morning, everything changed.
I asked him why he kept buying my honey.
He gave his usual ridiculous answer.
“I have people.”
I demanded an explanation.
He avoided the question.
Then a black SUV appeared at the edge of the market.
Dante noticed it before I did.
His expression changed instantly.
The sleepy man disappeared.
Something colder took his place.
“Emma,” he said quietly.
I looked up.
“What?”
“Pack your things.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Now.”
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
He stepped closer.
“Please.”
That frightened me more than an order would have.
Dante Russo didn't seem like a man who said please often.
I followed his gaze.
The SUV was parked near the market entrance.
Its windows were dark.
“Do you know them?” I asked.
Dante didn't answer.
Instead, he reached into his coat and removed a photograph.
He placed it on my table.
I looked down.
My heart stopped.
It showed my father standing beside Dante Russo.
The photograph was old.
At least fifteen years.
My father was smiling.
Dante looked younger.
And between them stood a woman I'd never seen.
I picked up the picture.
“Where did you get this?”
Dante's voice was quiet.
“Your father gave it to me.”
I looked up.
“My father has been dead for eleven years.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you have his photograph?”
Dante glanced toward the SUV.
“Because he made me promise something.”
My hands began trembling.
“What promise?”
Dante looked directly at me.
“That if the past ever found you, I wouldn't let you face it alone.”
Before I could speak, the SUV's rear door opened.
A man stepped out.
Dante moved in front of me.
And for the first time in six weeks, I understood why everyone in Bellmont feared him.
His voice became terrifyingly calm.
“Marco.”
The driver was already moving.
Dante reached for my hand.
“Emma, whatever happens next, stay behind me.”
I stared at the photograph.
Then at the stranger approaching us.
And suddenly I knew the honey had never been the reason Dante Russo came to my market.
He had been waiting for someone.
Someone connected to my father.
May you like
Someone dangerous.
And now that person had finally arrived.
