Chapter 43 Dante
The night air was sharp with winter, the kind that bit at exposed skin and reminded humans how fragile they were.
Seraphine walked beside me, wrapped in the coat I’d bought her, hands tucked into the pockets like she was bracing herself against more than just the cold. The streetlights caught in her hair, turning the red into embers with every step.
She hadn’t looked at me once since we left the building.
I smirked.
Oh, she was absolutely thinking about that kitchen table.
Just like I was.
The thought was annoying. Distracting. Dangerous.
I forced my attention forward as we crossed the street toward the restaurant—Belladonna, a high-end Italian place that had a six-month waiting list and never, ever had open reservations. That problem had been easily solved years ago.
I’d bought the place.
Not for profit. For access.
For control.
And tonight, for privacy.
“You get your columns turned in?” I asked casually, glancing at her from the corner of my eye.
She nodded. “Barely. Three minutes to spare.”
“Cutting it close,” I said.
She exhaled, a little shaky. “I didn’t have a choice. But… Dante, something’s wrong.”
That got my full attention.
I slowed just slightly so we were walking in step.
“Explain.”
She hesitated, then spoke carefully, like she was piecing it together out loud. “Everyone at my workplace knows Stephen Vale is my brother. Everyone. Especially after James disappeared.”
My jaw tightened.
“And someone sent you that column anyway,” I said.
“Yes.” She looked down at the pavement. “About dirty cops. About him. About his partner. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t an accident. It felt like… a message.”
A test.
A warning.
Or bait.
I swore quietly under my breath and reached the door, pulling it open for her. “You’re right. That wasn’t coincidence.”
She stepped inside, warmth washing over us along with the smell of garlic, wine, and slow-simmered sauce. Belladonna was dimly lit, intimate—dark wood, flickering candles, soft music that made people lean closer to hear each other.
The hostess spotted me immediately.
Her eyes lit up.
“Mr. Vescari,” she said brightly, already grabbing two menus. “Your table is ready.”
Of course it was.
She led us toward the back, hips swaying just a bit too deliberately. I’d seen this routine a thousand times.
She kept glancing over her shoulder at me.
Not at Seraphine.
At me.
The night air was sharp with winter, the kind that bit at exposed skin and reminded humans how fragile they were.
Seraphine walked beside me, wrapped in the coat I’d bought her, hands tucked into the pockets like she was bracing herself against more than just the cold. The streetlights caught in her hair, turning the red into embers with every step.
She hadn’t looked at me once since we left the building.
I smirked.
Oh, she was absolutely thinking about that kitchen table.
Just like I was.
The thought was annoying. Distracting. Dangerous.
I forced my attention forward as we crossed the street toward the restaurant—Belladonna, a high-end Italian place that had a six-month waiting list and never, ever had open reservations. That problem had been easily solved years ago.
I’d bought the place.
Not for profit. For access.
For control.
And tonight, for privacy.
“You get your columns turned in?” I asked casually, glancing at her from the corner of my eye.
She nodded. “Barely. Three minutes to spare.”
“Cutting it close,” I said.
She exhaled, a little shaky. “I didn’t have a choice. But… Dante, something’s wrong.”
That got my full attention.
I slowed just slightly so we were walking in step.
“Explain.”
She hesitated, then spoke carefully, like she was piecing it together out loud. “Everyone at my workplace knows Stephen Vale is my brother. Everyone. Especially after James disappeared.”
My jaw tightened.
“And someone sent you that column anyway,” I said.
“Yes.” She looked down at the pavement. “About dirty cops. About him. About his partner. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t an accident. It felt like… a message.”
A test.
A warning.
Or bait.
I swore quietly under my breath and reached the door, pulling it open for her. “You’re right. That wasn’t coincidence.”
She stepped inside, warmth washing over us along with the smell of garlic, wine, and slow-simmered sauce. Belladonna was dimly lit, intimate—dark wood, flickering candles, soft music that made people lean closer to hear each other.
The hostess spotted me immediately.
Her eyes lit up.
“Mr. Vescari,” she said brightly, already grabbing two menus. “Your table is ready.”
Of course it was.
She led us toward the back, hips swaying just a bit too deliberately. I’d seen this routine a thousand times.
She kept glancing over her shoulder at me.
Not at Seraphine.
At me.
Something ugly flashed across her face—surprise, then judgment, then barely concealed disgust.
Seraphine stiffened.
She didn’t say anything.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t set anything on fire.
Progress.
But the embarrassment was there, rolling off her in waves.
I didn’t move toward the table.
I stayed standing.
“Get your manager,” I said calmly.
The hostess’s color drained instantly.
“I—I’m sorry?”
“Now,” I repeated, voice quiet and lethal.
She swallowed hard, nodded, and practically fled toward the back of the restaurant.
Seraphine looked up at me, confused. “Dante, you don’t have to—”
“I do,” I said simply, pulling out her chair myself. “Sit.”
She obeyed without realizing she was doing it.
Good.
Very good.
I took my seat across from her, eyes never leaving her face.
No one—no one—got to look at her like that.
Not in my presence.
Not ever.
And whoever thought they could send messages through her work, through her family, through petty cruelty and power plays?
They were going to learn something very quickly.
Seraphine Vale was not alone anymore.
And she was not unprotected.
Not on my watch.
The manager arrived quickly—too quickly for someone who didn’t already sense disaster.
He was middle-aged, neatly dressed, eyes sharp with the kind of awareness that came from running a place that catered to power. The hostess trailed behind him, her earlier confidence gone, face tight and uncertain.
“Mr. Vescari,” the manager said, forcing a polite smile. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes,” I replied calmly. “There is.”
Seraphine shifted in her chair, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, but I didn’t look away from the man standing in front of me.
“Fire her,” I said, nodding once toward the hostess. “Immediately. Or this restaurant will no longer exist.”
The manager’s smile vanished.