Chapter 12
GINA
The next morning finds me sitting at the breakfast island in the kitchen.
I’m enjoying the fresh box of Cap’n Crunch cereal while perusing the Academy of Visual Arts website when I hear footsteps.
I look up. “Dante!”
He stands before me in black silk pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. My eyes gravitate to the V-cut of his abs and the goodies that lie below.
“Good morning,” I say, my gaze traveling over the muscled perfection of his chest and arms.
His cedar cologne, with its musky undertone, arouses me all over again. And reminds me of our activities late last night.
He stands looking at me a long moment. Whether it’s to prolong my pleasure in admiring his ripped torso or not, I have no idea.
“Yes. Good morning. What’s that you’re reading so intently?”
“Oh. Just the admission requirements for the Academy of Visual Arts,” I say, feeling caught. I had wanted to prepare a more formal request, but maybe this is the best way.
“Why is that?”
I hesitate. “You know I graduated from UC Irvine.”
“Yes. And?”
“Well, now that I’m in Manhattan, I was thinking of graduate school.”
“Graduate school? For what reason?”
“Well, I –”
“Gina,” he says, taking his forefinger to lift my chin towards him. “What is it you want from this academy? To get your Ph.D. and become a professor?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know, Dante. The Academy of Visual Arts is the best school in Manhattan for artists. And to have that name on my resume …”
“Ah, your resume,” he says, his tone like he’s placating a child. “Let’s talk about it some other time.”
“When?” Dante gives me a look of exasperation. “The distant future, okay? Let’s drop it for now.”
“Yes, Dante.”
A long silence passes between us. To break it, he picks up my box of cereal and reads the back label.
“What’s that you’re eating?”
“My favorite cereal. Want a bite?” I ask, offering him a spoonful.
“Hell no,” he says, jumping away as if he were a vampire and I had thrust a silver cross at him.
“According to the label, your favorite breakfast is fortified sugar. Try paying closer attention to what goes into your body.”
Then he strides to the refrigerator and removes some sort of green creation.
“Protein smoothie,” he explains, lifting it in the air like a television announcer. “Pure protein and a handful of spinach for iron. You should try it. I’ll have Ciro make an extra portion, if you like.”
“No thanks,” I say as he pulls out a chair. “Tell me about Silvio’s dinner party on Tuesday. Is it a small party, or some grand event?”
Dante shrugs. “Somewhere between the two. Silvio’s events are always formal. He relishes the opportunity for the minions to gather and kiss his proverbial ring.”
I nod. I met the same relatives and family friends at the wedding reception, but it will be different now.
I’ll be examined. I can already anticipate the stares and gossip, if the way the casino and club girls looked me over is any indication.
“What should I wear? That dress I wore yesterday when I visited you at the club is the only ‘fancy’ dress I own.”
“You can go ahead and burn that one.”
“If you wish. But I don’t understand what’s so wrong with it. I’ve heard that Mary had a closet full of dresses just like it and—”
For one horrifying moment, Dante’s intense black eyes fill with what looks like rage. Then he controls himself.
“You are not to compare yourself to my late wife. Do you understand this? The name of the late Mrs. Ricci is not to cross your lips. I’ll forgive you this one transgression, but I will not give you another warning.”
OMG. Angie and the others were right. He really is obsessed with Mary. I lower my eyes. “Apologies.”
“Accepted,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Which brings me to another point. Going forward, you are to conduct yourself as Mrs. Ricci.”
“But I am Mrs. Ricci. What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Ricci does not giggle like a schoolgirl. Mrs. Ricci does not flirt with men. Mrs. Ricci is modest and refined, as becomes the wife of New York’s most powerful don.”
“Understood, Dante,” I tell him. Though inside, I’m seething. How dare he tell me what to do and how to act? Angie was right about Dante. The whispers were real.
Once Dante finishes his protein shake, he finally looks at me again. “I’ve engaged Antoine LaRue to take you shopping.”
The way he says the name suggests that this Antoine is famous. And that I should know him. “Who is he?” I finally ask.
“An international stylist. Fashion consultant. He assembles my wardrobe and that of my brothers. He also has female clientele for the Oscars and Emmys.”
“Wow. Sounds like Tuesday night will be quite fancy.”
“Not exactly. But as Mrs. Ricci, you must be dressed in the appropriate manner.”
I stop myself from asking what that manner might be. I’m already getting the idea.
Seeing that I’m visibly upset, Dante reaches over for a bowl and spoon from the counter. He pours some cereal and peers down to examine it like a scientist.
“What’s that shape? With a name like Cap’n Crunch, I’d expect miniature treasure chests from some high-seas heist. This looks like a rum barrel.”
My shoulders release in relief. He’s trying to make up with his outburst. Success! He’s back to being the gorgeous Dante, rather than grumpy Don Ricci. “I never could figure that one out,” I tell him.
When he turns his attention back to his phone, I push my cereal bowl aside and take out my sketchpad.
Last night, he promised to think about the restaurant his brothers and I want him to purchase. But how long will he take?
Once someone sees the potential in that space, it will be off the market and out of our hands. While Lorenzo and Luca are crunching the numbers, I might as well make a sketch of the whimsical caricatures for the walls.
“What’s that on your sketchpad?” Dante says, briefly looking over as I work.
I slide the sketch across the table, feeling a twinge of nervousness as my fingertips leave the paper. There’s nothing much on it right now, just the outline of what will be five chefs.
“It’s just a doodle,” I say, trying to sound casual. Dante’s response will make or break the concept I’m hoping for.
But before I can explain my plans for the design, his phone rings and he turns away to answer the call.
Once he gets off the phone, Dante turns to me. “It’s the first sunny day all week. I propose we celebrate with a stroll in the park. Be ready in twenty minutes.”