Chapter 38
GINA
“Why is it that every time I enter this cafeteria I feel like I’m locked in a Harry Potter movie?”
Chelsea, sitting beside me at one of the Academy cafeteria’s few window tables, laughs so hard she almost chokes on her iced tea.
“Love your way of looking at our East Coast architecture, California Girl. You’re right. It’s so Gothic. Vaulted ceilings, stone arches. I keep expecting gargoyles to come to life and eat me alive.”
Biscotti yips in my lap, his tiny frame squirming with excitement. He loves coming to school with me.
Chelsea reaches over to stroke his sleek black head, her fingers gentle on the white spot of fur between his eyes.
“Biscotti is so cute,” she says. “When you walked in that first day, carrying him in that fancy Louis Vuitton bag, I figured you for one of those Paris Hilton, Upper East Side types. But you’re not like that at all.”
I smile and fight the urge to ask Chelsea what I am like. Since I moved east, I feel like I’ve lost my identity. I’m still getting used to the art-student version of myself.
The one who wears jeans and oversized sweaters instead of the tailored pieces Antoine selected for my Mrs. Ricci persona.
“Do you like it here?” Chelsea asks.
“I love this academy,” I say honestly. “This Gothic fortress of creativity has become one of the best things that’s happened to me, aside from the restaurant.”
“Where’d you go to school before?” Chelsea asks.
“UC Irvine. Majored in Art History. I was close enough to the Pacific to surf between classes.”
“Ah, don’t torture me! That would be my dream life.”
Chelsea doesn’t know about Dante or what my life really is. For these few hours every week, I get to pretend I’m normal. But who am I kidding? Normal girls don’t carry a Beretta Jetfire in their schoolbag.
The cafeteria bustles around us. Chelsea shifts gears and dips a spoon into her black fudge cake.
“One thing I’ll say for the Academy is that the food is divine. Did you know it’s prepared by a celebrity chef? His test kitchen is next door. We’re basically his guinea pigs.”
“Good to know. We’re looking for a chef.”
“We?” Chelsea asks.
My gut twists. I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about my other life.
“Slip of the tongue. I meant that I’m trying to keep up with the Manhattan food scene.”
A man dressed in the uniform of a prep chef emerges from the kitchen carrying a small plate. He walks directly to our table.
“Gina Ricci?”
I look up at him. “Yes?”
“Our chef prepared this for your dog.” He sets down a plate of shredded chicken and rice arranged with incredible care. “He hopes he likes it.”
“How did the chef even know I brought my dog?”
“Oh, word gets around,” he says with a grin.
“Look, Biscotti, you’re so famous you have your own personal chef,” I say, setting him down to nibble. He takes delicate bites with his tiny teeth.
Chelsea and I turn back to our conversation, discussing the upcoming art competition. Then, Biscotti makes a choking sound.
“Biscotti?”
When I look down, he’s staring up at me, his brown eyes filled with pain. He collapses onto his side. Drool pours from his open mouth as his muscles tremble.
“Oh my God. Chelsea, we need to get him to a vet!”
She stabs at her phone. “Looks like the nearest vet is a half-mile away. Let’s go!”
I look out the Academy’s Gothic window and see the limo parked at the curb. Thomas is still at the wheel. “I…have a car. Follow me.”
I scoop Biscotti into my arms and rush outside. “Thomas!” I nearly scream. “We need to get to the vet!”
“Right away, Mrs. Ricci.”
Chelsea shouts out the address to Thomas, then turns to me. “Mrs. Ricci?” she asks beside me in the backseat.
“It’s...complicated,” I say quietly.
“You’re married? And you have a fancy limo? You’re full of surprises, Gina.”
All I can focus on is Biscotti’s labored breathing. Please don’t let him die. In under five minutes, Thomas pulls up in front of a small clinic. I rush inside.
“Please help me! My dog was eating lunch, and suddenly he became sick—”
The receptionist looks at Biscotti, her face going pale. “Dr. Reynolds! Emergency!”
A man in blue scrubs appears, takes Biscotti from my arms, and disappears.
I’m left standing there, terrified. “Will he be okay?”
“Dr. Reynolds is an excellent veterinarian,” the receptionist assures me.
I take out my phone. Dante warned me never to call him at work, but this is an emergency.
To my surprise, his assistant puts me through immediately.
“Gina?” His voice is sharp.
“Dante, it’s Biscotti. He had a violent reaction after eating something at school. Thomas drove us to the vet.”
“Text me the address,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
Twenty minutes later, Dante appears in a charcoal suit, his presence filling the small waiting room. Thomas hovers by the door. I stand and embrace Dante. His powerful arms and his scent soothe me.
Chelsea picks up her bag. “Now that you’re in good hands, I’ll leave you two alone.”
As she waves goodbye, I catch her looking at Dante, her eyes lingering over the outline of the gun beneath his suit.
“What happened?” Dante demands.
I tell him about the sous chef delivering the meal. His eyes darken with every word.
The vet finally emerges, but Biscotti is not in his arms.
My stomach sinks.
“Your dog will pull through,” Dr. Reynolds says. “We had to pump his stomach. He was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Dante’s voice drops.
The vet nods. “Initial signs point to rat poison.”
The room tilts. Dante paces with caged energy, his fury barely contained.
He stops in front of me.
“Dante, do you think someone intentionally poisoned him?”
“Like I’ve told you, some people want you dead. They want everyone near me dead. The poisoning wasn’t just meant to kill Biscotti. It was an attempt to weaken me.”
“But who?”
“The Petrovs,” Dante says quietly. “They just made this personal.”
I sink into a chair. The Petrovs.
They attacked the happiness Dante has given me. And that changes everything.