Page 13 of The Capo & the Curator

Dante sees it, too.

"We've got company," he murmurs. His expression is unreadable as those piercing dark eyes take in our unwanted shadow.

Then, without a word, he guns the engine, sending the Maserati surging forward with a burst of speed that leaves my heart in my throat.

Instinctively, I grip the door handle, my knuckles blanching with the force of my grip as the world outside blurs. The trailing sedan accelerates to match our speed, the distance between us rapidly closing.

"Dante..." I can't quite conceal the waver of uncertainty in my voice.

"Easy, tesoro." His tone is calm, the complete antithesis to the adrenaline spiking through my veins. Reaching across the console, he settles his free hand over mine in a silent gesture of reassurance. "Just stay low and let me handle this."

Before I can so much as draw another shuddering breath, the unmistakable crack of gunfire splits the air behind us. My entire body goes rigid, every nerve ending alight with terror.

Dante, however, doesn't miss a beat. Twisting the wheel with one hand, he sends the Maserati hurtling around a sharp bend, the tires shrieking in protest as they struggle for purchase. The sedan follows suit a heartbeat later, the staccato pop of more gunshots ringing out in its wake.

I flinch instinctively, ducking lower in my seat. "Christ, Dante, they're shooting at us!"

"I'd noticed." The dry response is accompanied by another dizzying maneuver. The powerful engine howls as the speedometer needle edges ever higher.

Somehow, his unflappable calm steadies me, anchoring me against the surging tide of panic threatening to drag me under. My fingers tighten around his in a silent gesture of gratitude—and a bone-deep trust that he knows precisely what he's doing.

Sure enough, the instant we break free of the winding backroads, he floors the accelerator. Daring a glance behind us, I can just make out the pursuing sedan, its dark silhouette rapidly receding in the rearview mirror.

The engine's roar fades to a dull thrum as Dante eases off the gas, the Maserati coasting along a quiet residential street lined with stately brownstones. I chance another glance over my shoulder, but the sedan is nowhere in sight.

Relief washes over me. "I think... I think we're clear."

The adrenaline ebbs, leaving me lightheaded in the aftermath of the harrowing chase. My hands tremble faintly as I glance at Dante, searching for any hint of reassurance or comfort in those rugged features.

But the man beside me is utterly unrecognizable.

His jaw is set in an unyielding line, those dark eyes narrowed to flinty slits as he barks orders into the phone pressed to his ear. The words are clipped, laced with a hardness that sends an involuntary shiver rippling down my spine.

"...I want every possible angle covered." A muscle ticks in his cheek as he listens to the response, his knuckles whitening around the phone's sleek casing. "And find me something concrete on Valtieri's involvement while you're at it."

My breath hitches at that name—Marco Valtieri, the man from the chapel. Is that who orchestrated the brazen attack? A fresh surge of unease swirls through me, curdling into a knot of dread in the pit of my stomach.

As if sensing my disquiet, Dante cuts a glance my way, his expression as unreadable as chiseled stone. "Secure the north perimeter first and double the guard rotations. I don't want so much as a stray cat getting through unchecked until we have this handled."

With that final, brusque command, he disconnects the call and tosses the phone onto the console with a sharp clatter.

"Dante..." I begin tentatively, my throat dry as a bone. I reach for him again, desperate to bridge the sudden, cavernous distance that seems to have sprung up between us. "What's going on? Talk to me."

His only response is a low, rumbling exhale that could almost be mistaken for a growl. He doesn't so much as spare me a second glance, his jaw still rigid with tension as he maneuvers the Maserati through Arcadia's familiar streets.

Finally, the car glides to a smooth halt in the circular drive of the Romano estate. Before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, Dante is already uncoiling from the driver's seat, his movements sharp as he exits the vehicle without so much as a backward glance in my direction.

This is all wrong. The man I've come to know is nowhere to be found.

In his place is someone else entirely. Someone hard and unreachable, utterly entrenched in the cold brutality of the underworld that spawned him.

The driver's side door slams shut with a resounding thud, the sound like a death knell for whatever fragile thing had blossomed between Dante and me. Throat tight, I force myself to exit the car, trailing numbly in his wake as a familiar figure emerges from the estate's gaping maw.

Aldo, Dante's second. His gaze slides over me with an indifference bordering on disdain as he exchanges a few terse words with Dante in rapid-fire Italian. Then, without preamble, Dante pivots on his heel and strides toward the front door.

My heart stutters in my chest as Aldo turns his attention to me, his gaze as cold and assessing as I've come to expect from Dante's inner circle. "You're free to go, Miss Hughes."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "What?"

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