Chapter 23
GRACE
Igiggle when dinner is served.
Dante smiles at me from across the table, understanding my amusement immediately.
“Is there a problem?” the French server snaps.
“No, no, everything’s perfect,” I say.
The server mutters something under his breath as he leaves.
Dante, Enzo, and I are having dinner in Paris. We were just served warm brioche bread and whipped salted butter. The bread and butter reminded me of the conversation I had with Dante earlier today.
A whole day of bread, butter, and chocolate.
I’m grinning from ear to ear as Dante hands me a piece of buttered bread. Enzo looks between us like he’s concerned for our mental health.
When the other appetizer is served, I can’t help but giggle again. It’s potato gratin, a dish made with potatoes, garlic, and butter.
“I don’t get it,” Enzo says. “Why is she smiling like that?”
“She really likes potatoes,” Dante says.
“Right,” Enzo says, returning to his meal.
Dante smiles at me from across the table. My entire body feels like it’s filled with butterflies ready to take flight.
We’re in a cozy, candlelit corner of the restaurant. The people around us speak in low, murmured foreign languages. And every bite of the food is so decadent.
Everything’s changing so rapidly.
The wine keeps flowing. I hate it at first sip, but it grows on me. It makes me bolder.
And Dante.
His eyes hold me hostage.
There’s something electric about tonight, like anything can happen.
“I’ve never been more uncomfortable in my life,” Enzo mutters. “I’ll have my dessert in my room.”
He leaves with his takeaway container a moment later. Neither Dante nor I stop him.
“Chocolate,” I say, glancing down at the plate of molten chocolate fondant between us. It’s paired with vanilla bean ice cream.
“I think we checked every food item off your mother’s restricted food list tonight,” Dante says.
I dig my spoon into the chocolate cake. The chocolate is so rich that it makes me moan a little. Dante’s eyes immediately darken.
Some of the chocolate gets on the corner of my lips. I wipe it with my thumb and then bring it to my lips. I fasten my eyes on his as I suck the chocolate off my thumb.
His eyes zero in on the movement.
I like teasing him.
Something about being in Paris and being drunk on wine makes me bold.
The lights of the city have made a home inside me. And this soft glow feels like it’s here to stay.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” I say. “But you have to promise you won’t get mad.”
His lips twitch in amusement. “I promise.”
“What are we doing in Paris?” I ask.
Some of the light fades from his eyes. He glances down at the dessert between us.
"We're here to meet some people," he says.
He looks deflated. I want to drop it, but I push through my instinct to be a people pleaser.
“What is it about?” I ask.
He keeps his eyes on the chocolate fondant.
"Does it have to do with your sister?" I ask.
His eyes snap to mine. "What did you say?"
"She's still alive, isn't she?"
DANTE
My blood starts pounding through my ears, nearly drowning out the question she just asked me.
There's an ache in my chest. I'm familiar with it. I learned to live with it. But it's back now, and it demands to be felt.
"What do you know about Ida?" I ask.
Grace blinks at me. “Ida. That’s the name tattooed over your chest.”
"Yes," I clip out.
"Have you been trying to find your sister all these years, Dante?" she asks. "Is that the reason you started working for your Don in the first place?"
Tension bubbles inside me.
I don't want to speak about this. I don't like being reminded of all the ways I have failed in this life.
But it's different with Grace. Everything's different with Grace.
"They took her the same day they killed my parents," I say. "I never saw her again, but I know she's alive. We’re twins. She’s the other half of me. I know she’s out there somewhere.”
My twin sister and I have always been in sync. Even as a kid, I had a gut feeling whenever she was in trouble. I felt her feelings as my own, and that remains to this day.
Grace is looking at me like she sees me for the first time.
“You think she was taken into human trafficking?” she asks softly.
I nod. “Summer of 2007, there were other girls in the same age group who went missing in London. Most of them were orphans who were taken from shelters."
“That’s so cruel,” Grace says, blinking rapidly.
“It is,” I say, looking into her brown eyes.
Something strange happens now. Every time I thought about what happened to my sister, I felt the need to escape. But I don't feel that urge right now.
The heaviness is there like always, but it doesn't feel paralyzing.
It doesn't feel as heavy.