Chapter Twenty Two #2
“We watch them, too,” I say. “But we do not provoke. We do not move toward them under Bellandi’s banner. If and when there is contact with Luca Conti, it will be on our terms. Not Emilio Bellandi’s.”
Dante nods once.
His eyes drop to the table for a moment, but his jaw remains tight.
Interesting.
I let the matter rest there.
For now.
“Are there any other issues we need to discuss?” I ask.
Dante looks up. “Actually, yes.”
I look at him, almost surprised.
“Go on,” I say.
“I heard you were looking for someone to fill a position in the company. Administrative support.”
“Why, Dante,” Tomasso teases. “Are you looking to be Papà’s new secretary?”
Dante’s stare slides to him. “No.”
“Well, let’s not be hasty,” Alessio says, leaning back in his chair. “I, for one, think Dante would make a great secretary.”
Matteo makes a sound into his glass.
Tomasso grins. “No, no. Let’s consider it. Dante at the front desk. Hair slicked back. Phone tucked between shoulder and ear. One of those sexy pencil skirts.”
“You think I have the legs for it?” Dante asks flatly.
Edoardo, without missing a beat, says, “Unfortunately, I think you do.”
Alessio laughs first, quick and bright, and even Lorenzo’s mouth twitches.
Dante looks at Edoardo. “I expected betrayal from them. Not you.”
“You should always expect betrayal from family,” Diego says. “It keeps the mind sharp.”
Ricardo sighs. “Can we return to the actual point before one of you starts discussing heel height?”
“Low heel,” Matteo says immediately. “Practical. Professional.”
If that had come from anyone but Matteo, it wouldn’t have caused the room to go silent for half a second.
Then Alessio breaks.
He laughs so hard he has to put his glass down.
Tomasso turns to his twin, delighted. “There he is.”
Dante points one finger at him. “You are the last person I expected to join this.”
Matteo takes a sip of wine, utterly unbothered. “What? I’m trying to help you succeed in your new career.”
“Can we please get back to the point?” Dante says.
“Let’s,” I say, though laughter in my home never fails to bring me joy.
“I may know someone,” he says. “To fill the position.”
Ricardo’s expression changes to one of suspicion.
Not because Dante is speaking, but because of the careful way he is speaking.
“A friend,” Dante adds.
“A friend,” Ricardo repeats.
“Yes.”
“What friend?”
Dante’s jaw moves once. “Julia O’Brien.”
Ricardo’s eyes narrow. “The one who spent a couple of semesters in Naples when you two were in college?”
Dante gives him a look. “You remember that?”
“I remember many things.”
“Apparently.”
Ricardo’s gaze hardens. “She is also the daughter of Judge Patrick O’Brien here in Chicago. And if I remember correctly, she is engaged to some wealthy politician in Connecticut.”
Lorenzo sits back slightly.
Diego’s brow lifts, interest sharpening.
Ricardo watches his son with open suspicion now, though not hostility. Ricardo is too intelligent to miss what Dante is not saying.
“Why,” Ricardo asks slowly, “is a woman known for running charities and attending political events with her politician fiancé in Connecticut looking for work as an administrative assistant in Chicago?”
Dante’s voice is tight. “Because she is not engaged anymore and has moved back here.”
“That begs more questions, Dante.”
Dante sets his glass down with deliberate care. “She’s just looking for a quiet job. She is more than qualified. If you’re not interested, Zio, then we can move on.”
Silence follows.
Matteo glances at Tomasso.
Alessio looks from Dante to Edoardo, and Edoardo gives the smallest shake of his head.
Close, yes.
Close enough to know when not to interfere.
I study Dante.
His shoulders are square. His face gives little away. But there is anger beneath the surface. Not loud and careless. Dante rarely is. This anger is protective.
More and more interesting.
Lorenzo folds his hands together. “Her father is not only a judge. He is a powerful one.”
“Yes,” Ricardo says, still watching Dante. “With influence.”
“And he has been known to do business with people like us,” Lorenzo adds.
Diego’s mouth curves faintly. “People like us. How polite.”
Lorenzo ignores him. “It would be useful to have someone like O’Brien on our side.”
“Useful,” Ricardo says, “if this is not a problem wearing opportunity’s clothes.”
Dante’s stare cuts to his father. “She is not a problem.”
Ricardo’s eyes narrow. “You do not know that.”
“I know her.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
Dante goes quiet.
For a second, I see the boy beneath the man. Not weakness. Something rawer. Younger.
Then it is gone.
I look at Ricardo.
Then at Lorenzo.
Then back to Dante.
“Does she know what kind of position this is?” I ask.
“I haven’t told her about it, but I will, if you agree.”
“Does she know who we are?”
Dante’s mouth tightens. “Must she?”
“Fair enough.”
“She lived in Naples,” Ricardo says. “She may know more than most.”
“That,” I say, “may be useful or dangerous.”
Dante does not argue.
Good.
He is not a fool.
Protective, perhaps. Too close to the matter, perhaps. But not a fool.
“Arrange a sit-down,” I tell him.
Dante looks at me.
“Next week,” I continue. “At the office. I will speak with her myself.”
He nods, tight and controlled. “I’ll arrange it.”
“And Dante.”
His eyes meet mine.
“You say she wants quiet. I want assurances that she, in fact, does. I’m not interested in political spectacle.”
Something flickers across his face.
“I will make sure,” he says.
There’s more going on there.
Dante may not be willing to say what now, but I will need to know the whole story. And soon.