CHAPTER TWELVE
The late afternoon sun was beginning to bleed into a deep, bruised violet over the rolling hills of the Fazzari estate. On the grand stone terrace, the brunch was finally winding down, the air settling into a comfortable, lull in the aftermath of their shared laughter.
Giancarlo and Gabriella Angelini were the first to take their leave.
The suffocating mantle of grief that usually weighed down Gabriella’s shoulders seemed, if only fractionally, lighter.
She stopped by Cassia’s chair, taking both of the doctor’s hands in her own.
There were no grand, sweeping speeches—just a warm, remarkably sincere embrace and a murmur of gratitude before Giancarlo guided his wife toward the main house to prepare for their departure.
Concetta Fazzari stood near the head of the table, looking incredibly satisfied. She had brought the mountain to Muhammad. She leaned in, pressing a gentle, customary kiss to Cassia’s cheek.
"Thank you for indulging us, Dr. Thorn," Concetta said, her dark eyes shining with genuine warmth.
"Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Fazzari," Cassia replied smoothly.
It was a polite, practiced response. She checked her watch—a subtle, functional piece of silver on her wrist. The social obligation had been met.
The food had been exquisite, the company far less grating than she had anticipated, but her social battery was firmly empty.
She was a woman who guarded her solitude jealously, and it was time to retreat. "I should be heading back to the city."
She picked up her bag, preparing to make her exit.
A few feet away, Dante felt a sudden tightening in his chest.
He watched her smooth the fabric of her trousers, ready to walk away and leave him behind in the sprawling, echoing emptiness of his own home.
It was a violently unfamiliar sensation.
He was Dante Fazzari. He dictated the terms of every interaction he had ever had; people stayed until they were dismissed, and they left only when he allowed it.
But with Cassia, he possessed zero leverage.
If she walked through those glass doors, she would vanish back into the sterile, unreachable labyrinth of the hospital, and he had no guarantee she would ever return.
He couldn't let the day end. He needed more time, even if it was just five minutes.
Dante stepped forward, blocking her path to the doors.
His mind—usually a terrifyingly efficient, cold tactical engine— stalled.
He had no legitimate excuse to offer her.
He had no logical, pressing justification for wanting her to stay.
In his thirty-eight years of life, he had never once actively courted a woman.
Wealth, power, and fear usually did the lifting for him; women arrived, eager to please, eager to stay. He was out of his depth.
"Cassia," Dante said.
She stopped, looking up at him expectantly.
Dante cleared his throat, the sound incredibly out of place coming from him. "Before you go... would you want to take a walk? Or something?"
Cassia stared at him. She looked at him as though he had just suggested they set the terrace on fire for entertainment.
"A walk," Cassia repeated, her tone flat, examining the sheer absurdity of the request. "Through your gardens."
"Yes," Dante managed, holding her gaze, refusing to back down even as he felt like a fool. "It’s a pleasant evening."
Leaning against the stone balustrade behind them, Zoran Valente pressed a massive hand tightly over his mouth, biting down on his own knuckle to keep from laughing out loud.
The towering enforcer was finding the entire spectacle magnificent.
The undisputed king of the European underworld was currently fumbling for words, trying to ask a woman on a stroll like a nervous schoolboy.
Cassia let out a breath, immune to whatever awkward charm he was trying to project. "I have errands to run, Dante. And I have to be on the floor at six tomorrow morning. It’s time for me to go."
She tried to step around him.
"I'll drive you," Dante blurted out, shifting his weight to intercept her.
Cassia’s pale blue eyes narrowed with instant, professional exasperation. "No, you won't. You took a knife to the arm a few days ago, and you are barely a few weeks out from taking a bullet to the torso. You shouldn't even be straining your grip, let alone operating a steering wheel."
"It was a minor laceration," Dante argued, waving off the medical concern desperate to maintain the fragile connection. "I am perfectly capable of driving a car. And if you object to that, we have drivers available."
"I can drive you, Doctor," Zoran chimed in, stepping away from the balustrade, unable to resist throwing himself into the negotiation. He offered Cassia a bright, painfully innocent grin.
Cassia pivoted, pointing an accusing finger squarely at the enforcer’s leg. "You took a knife to the thigh, Zoran. You are actively limping."
Zoran waved a hand dismissively, mimicking Dante’s exact brand of mafia obstinance. "It’s a flesh wound. Barely a scratch. Driving you home is the least we can do to repay you for the alleyway."
Cassia looked back and forth between the two men.
The sheer immovable weight of their combined stubbornness was a force of nature.
She quickly calculated the energy it would take to argue her way into a taxi, versus the energy it would take to sit in a passenger seat and let them have their way.
Concetta was watching the entire exchange with a silent, expectant smile.
Refusing again would cross the line from pragmatic into outright rude.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a sigh of defeat.
"Fine," Cassia relented, her tone dripping with weary resignation. "But I am not riding in the back of a motorcade."
"Just one car," Dante promised instantly, the victory lighting up his pale green eyes. He looked over his shoulder at his second-in-command. "I will drive her. Zoran, you stay here. Rest your leg."
Zoran offered a solemn, mocking salute. "Whatever you say, Boss."
The drive back to the center of Rome was steeped in palpable silence.
The vehicle was a sleek, dark grey Aston Martin, its engine a low, restrained purr beneath the hood.
Dante sat behind the leather-wrapped steering wheel, driving with the effortless, fluid grace that defined him.
The fading sunlight illuminated the carved lines of his jaw and the faint shadow of stubble along his cheek.
Cassia sat in the passenger seat, gazing out the window as the lush, rolling hills of the countryside gradually gave way to the ancient, crowded architecture of the city.
For Cassia, the silence in the insulated cabin was comfortable. She had spent the morning navigating a social minefield; she was perfectly content to watch the world blur by without having to perform or dissect it.
For Dante, however, the silence was agonizing.
He was hyper-aware of her. He could smell the faint, clean scent of her soap and the lingering aroma of the espresso she had drank at brunch.
He kept glancing at her profile, searching for an opening, a topic of conversation, a way to ensure that this wasn't the last time she would sit beside him.
But every time he opened his mouth, his mind drew a blank.
They navigated the winding, narrow streets of Cassia's neighborhood, the Aston Martin feeling too large and expensive for the modest, working-class avenue. Dante pulled the car smoothly up to the curb, parking directly in front of the bakery that occupied the ground floor of her building.
He shifted the car into park. He killed the engine.
But he didn't press the button to unlock the doors.
Cassia turned her head, looking at him expectantly in the dimming light of the cabin. Dante turned his body toward her, resting his uninjured arm on the steering wheel.
He looked at her, and the mask of the Don slipped.
It wasn't his usual look of cold command.
It wasn't the practiced, dangerous gaze he used to intimidate his rivals.
It was an expression that bordered on pathetic—a silent, transparent, deeply hopeful question burning in his icy green eyes, asking if she might, against all logic and reason, invite him inside.
Cassia stared at him. She was looking at the most ruthless man in the European underworld, and he looked like a stray dog hoping to be let in out of the rain.
She knew she shouldn't. The golden rule of her carefully constructed, intensely pragmatic life was to keep the chaos out. Allowing a mob boss into her sanctuary was a violation of every survival instinct she had ever honed.
But as she looked at him, she felt the rigid walls of her discipline give way. Just a fraction.
Against her better judgment, Cassia let out a soft breath. "Do you want to come up?"
"Yes," Dante answered instantly.
The word left his mouth before she had even finished the sentence. He accepted without a single heartbeat of hesitation.
Cassia shook her head, thoroughly amused by her own foolishness, and popped her car door open.
They walked up the two flights of narrow, dimly lit stairs in silence. Cassia pulled her keys from her pocket, unlocked the wooden door, and pushed it open, stepping aside to let him enter first.
The apartment was as Dante remembered it. It was a sanctuary of minimalist control. Soft grey walls, immaculate hardwood floors, and sparse, highly functional furniture. It was a space devoid of unnecessary clutter or pretense.
Dante stepped into the entryway. As he turned to wait for Cassia to lock the door behind them, his eyes dropped to the small, white ceramic tray sitting on the narrow console table.
Cassia tossed her keys into the tray with a clatter.
Right next to the keys, sitting in the exact same spot where Zoran had placed it weeks earlier, was Dante’s, matte-black and gold business card.