Chapter 39
GINA
Isit on the white living room sofa with my feet tucked under me, cradling Biscotti’s warm little body against my chest.
His breathing has finally evened out after the scare we had today. Each tiny snore vibrates against my arm, reminding me he’s okay.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun’s going down, turning all the skyscrapers into towers of orange fire.
The city looks peaceful from up here, like nothing bad could ever happen.
Though I know better now.
I hear Dante’s footsteps before I see him, that confident walk I’ve come to recognize. He stops in front of me, blocking my view of the sunset.
“Ciro’s made chicken soup. Let’s have dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” I tell him, keeping my eyes on Biscotti. I can’t bear to put him down after what happened today.
“You have to eat,” Dante says. His large hand wraps around mine, warm and insistent. He tugs gently, trying to pull me up from the couch. “Time to tuck Biscotti into bed for the night. If you like, I’ll do the honors.”
I look up at him, one eyebrow raised. This is new. The big, bad mob boss volunteering for puppy duty?
The same man who not long ago stood in the doorway of my bedroom with his arms crossed, declaring that “the dog stays contained.” Like Biscotti was some kind of biohazard?
Intrigued, I follow Dante as he takes Biscotti to my room.
When he opens the door, my hand flies to my mouth. For a second I wonder if I’m hallucinating.
Dante’s purchased more than a dozen plush animals and arranged them in a protective circle. I see fluffy dogs, sleek cats, lions, tigers, and even an oversized alligator.
They’re all facing inward, like guardians, around a circular doggy bed I’ve never seen before. It’s plush, with raised sides that look like they’d cradle Biscotti perfectly.
“Dante, this is so cute,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper as he lowers my precious puppy into the doggy bed, then pulls a soft blue blanket over him.
For effect, he arranges the nearest animals so it looks like they’re reaching out for Biscotti, guarding him from danger.
I laugh and take out my phone to snap a picture.
“If you’re satisfied he’s sleeping well, it’s time to get some chicken soup into you.”
Filled with warmth, I nod and follow Dante to the kitchen where we take our places at the island.
Ciro has dimmed the lights, so it feels like we’re in our own world. Two fancy silver domes I’ve only ever seen in movies or fancy restaurants sit before us.
“Here you are, my famous chicken soup,” Ciro announces with a flourish, lifting both domes at once.
A cloud of steam rushes up to my face, carrying the scent of herbs and chicken and old-fashioned comfort.
“Gina,” Dante says after Ciro leaves us with a bow. “I realize that what happened to you today was quite traumatic. I know how much you love Biscotti.”
I nod and blow on my steaming hot soup, watching the steam curl up in wisps as I take in what Dante is trying to say.
“Yes, I love Biscotti.” My throat tightens as I force myself to look up at Dante’s face. I take in that strong jaw, those dark eyes that miss nothing.
“But it’s nothing compared to my love for you.” I shake my head. “What if I got word you had been shot? Killed?”
The thought makes my stomach clench so hard I have to press my palm against it. I can’t form the words, can only see flashes of Dante bleeding, Dante not breathing, Dante gone forever.
“If something happened to you...” My voice cracks as I reach across the table to touch his hand.
I need to feel his warmth, his solidness, to chase away the horrible images in my head.
Dante’s eyes turn dark. “Gina, you have to prepare yourself for that day.” His fingers tighten around mine, warm and rough against my skin.
My heart races.
“I run the New York mob. I’m a very big target.” He leans in closer, his voice dropping. “And you should know, you’re a target yourself.”
My stomach twists as I remember finding Biscotti earlier, his tiny body shaking, foam at his mouth.
Dante’s jaw tightens. “In my world, poisoning a dog is a very low-level attack. It’s just a message. A warning.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “Something bigger is coming. Their next attempt will have far more serious ramifications.”
“Are they going to try to kill me?” I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the steam rising from my soup.
“It’s possible. You must be prepared for this mentally. And physically. Are you ready to defend yourself, Gina? I know you’ve been training every morning.”
I nod.
“I’ve watched you. I’ve seen how you handle yourself with a gun. I see you hit the bullseye with regularity. But I need to know. Do you feel comfortable defending yourself? Really comfortable?”
I hesitate.
He huffs. “That hesitation tells me everything I need to know. Gina, I didn’t give you gun lessons for entertainment. You have to be prepared to use the weapon to defend your life.”
I nod. “I know how to use a gun. But if the moment came that I must shoot, I’m not sure I could.”
Dante grips my shoulders, turning me to face him. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and I can feel the intensity radiating from him like heat.
“Listen very carefully,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous tone that makes my stomach tighten. “I want you to imagine someone with a gun to Biscotti’s head.”
My whole body recoils. I can actually see it. Some faceless man pressing cold metal against my puppy’s fur.
“No, no, I can’t do that,” I whisper, trying to look away.
But Dante’s grip keeps me facing him. “Yes,” he insists, his fingers pressing harder. “Imagine somebody with a gun to Biscotti’s head. Would you hesitate to shoot them if you knew it would save Biscotti’s life?”
I freeze. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too warm. My mouth opens but nothing comes out at first.
“What a question, Dante,” I finally manage to whisper.
His dark eyes never leave mine, waiting for an answer I’m not sure I want to give.
“You have to imagine,” he continues, “when somebody points a gun at you, what would you do if that person was pointing it at Biscotti instead. You might not shoot to save yourself, but you would for your dog, wouldn’t you?”
My hesitation vanishes. “Yes,” I say, my voice stronger now. “I would.”
Dante’s voice drops to a whisper, but his eyes burn into mine with an intensity that makes my chest tighten.
“You’re my Biscotti,” he says, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. His hand finds mine across the table with a grip that’s almost painful.
“My love for you is even stronger than yours for Biscotti. If somebody killed you, Gina...” He stops, and for a second I think I see moisture in his eyes before he blinks it away.
“I would die. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I’d failed to protect you.”
His fingers tighten until our knuckles turn white. “So please,” he continues, his voice rough with emotion, “be ready to pull that trigger. Kill your attacker if you get the chance. Do it for me, if not for yourself.”
“I’ll try,” I say to him. “But Dante, if I’m killed, don’t blame yourself. Everyone dies eventually.”
Dante’s face transforms before my eyes, his features hardening into something I barely recognize. “You don’t understand!”
The boom of his voice makes me flinch, and his fist comes down on the table, rattling the soup bowls between us.
“In our world, it’s not just a matter of being gunned down and ascending to heaven.”
My mouth goes dry as he continues.
“Do you understand what torture is? Do you understand what they would do to you for days, for weeks? Possibly months or years?”
I swallow hard, my hands suddenly cold and clammy in my lap.
He shakes his head. “You don’t know what they’re capable of, especially the Russians.”
My body goes rigid. Torture had never crossed my mind.
Now Dante has opened the possibility of enemy capture, of being abused for amusement, retribution, and to force Dante to yield to their demands.
My stomach turns over, and I taste bile at the back of my throat.
My mind fills with images I can’t stop. My screams echoing in some dark basement, my fingernails pulled out one by one while Dante receives videos of my suffering.
I imagine him pacing, sleepless, haunted by my cries, making desperate phone calls, offering everything he has.
The thought of him broken like that hurts worse than imagining my own pain.
I look down at my trembling hands, then back to his face, where worry has carved deep lines around his eyes.
“Yes, Dante,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I hadn’t thought it through that way. I’ll take my gun training more seriously. I’ll practice until it feels like an extension of my arm.”
But Dante only shakes his head. I can tell he’s not satisfied with my answer.
“I know you can shoot well, Gina,” he says, his voice gentler now. “More practice is always good, but it won’t solve the core problem.”
He leans closer, his dark eyes meeting mine. “At the shooting range, you must visualize yourself pulling that trigger without a moment’s hesitation. That’s what you must practice.”
The way he says it makes my stomach knot up again. But I know he’s right. “I will, Dante. I will.”
His shoulders drop. “Good,” he says, reaching for his spoon. “Now, let’s have some soup before it gets cold.”