Page 6 of The Capo & the Curator

"My apologies," Marco demurs, spreading his hands in an artfully conciliatory gesture. "I'll leave you to it, then."

With a final, lingering look at Evelyn, he pivots on his heel and strides toward the doors, leaving a weighted silence in his wake. I exhale a harsh breath, struggling to leash my simmering temper.

"Well," Evelyn murmurs at my side, startling me from my silent fuming. "He certainly knows how to make an entrance."

I glance at her sharply, searching her impassive expression for any sign of discomfort or dismay. Finding none, I force my rigid shoulders to relax a fraction. "My apologies. You didn't deserve to be subjected to his bravado."

"No need." She waves a dismissive hand, mouth curving in a wry half-smile. "I've dealt with far worse than overinflated egos before."

There's a spark of something in her gaze that gives me pause—amusement, perhaps? Emboldened, I find the words tumbling out before I can reconsider. "In that case, allow me to make it up to you another way. Dinner tonight?"

Her brows shoot upward, lips parting on what I suspect is a reflexive rejection. Pressing my advantage, I forge ahead with studied nonchalance. "A private club that I know. Excellent cuisine, better wine. We can discuss your findings and the next steps. My treat."

Evelyn's expression shutters briefly as her gaze searches mine. I meet it steadily, silently willing her to accept the olive branch, even if just for an evening.

At last, slowly, she inclines her head in a shallow nod. "Very well, Mr. Romano. You've piqued my interest."

Satisfaction uncurls in my chest, stark and undeniable. "Excellent," I murmur, gesturing toward the chapel's arched entrance with one hand. "Shall we?"

Chapter 5

Evelyn

The discreet entrance to the club is tucked away in an unassuming alleyway, its presence betrayed only by the subtly imposing figure stationed beside the nondescript door. As we approach, the burly man straightens imperceptibly, giving Dante a deferential nod.

My brow furrows as we're waved through without so much as a cursory pat-down—a stark contrast to the stringent security protocols I would have expected.

Dante merely shrugs, as if reading my mind. "Discretion is paramount here. Only a select few even know of this establishment's existence."

His words do little to settle the knot of trepidation coiling in my gut as the heavy door swings open, admitting us into a dimly lit vestibule. The plush carpet muffles our footsteps, the air thick with the mingled scents of aged wood and fine cigars. It's as if we've stepped through a portal into another world entirely.

A sharply dressed host appears. "Mr. Romano. Your usual table has been prepared."

Dante inclines his head in acknowledgment before gesturing for me to precede him. I hesitate, steeling myself with a steadying breath. Then, squaring my shoulders, I sweep forward into the main dining room.

The space is cavernous yet intimate, all rich mahogany paneling and flickering candlelight that casts a warm, burnished glow across the white linens. Clusters of well-heeled patrons lounge in the plush leather booths lining the perimeter, sipping expensive wines and engaging in hushed conversation. Their gazes flick dismissively over me before sharpening with unmistakable interest on Dante.

I can't quite suppress the unease that skitters down my spine at the weight of those stares. These people—whoever they are—clearly command a certain level of status and respect within this circle. And Dante, it seems, is at the very apex.

The realization settles like a leaden weight in the pit of my stomach as the implications dawn. This entire establishment, its air of exclusivity and privilege, is undeniably tied to Arcadia's underworld. A bastion of indulgence for the city's criminal elite.

And I've been ushered straight through the front door.

My steps falter briefly. What am I doing here? This is a world I want no part of, no matter how intriguing the mysteries surrounding Dante's journal may be. Perhaps this was a mistake—

"Everything all right?" Dante's low murmur beside me jolts me from my spiraling thoughts. I glance up to find his gaze trained on me, his intense focus now aimed squarely in my direction.

Rallying my composure, I force a tight smile and give a jerky nod. "Fine. Just taking it all in."

His lips quirk faintly at that, amusement flickering in those fathomless dark eyes. "I can see how it might be a bit overwhelming at first," he allows. "But I assure you, you're among the most elite company Arcadia has to offer."

The words, spoken so matter-of-factly, should set alarm bells ringing. Instead, I find my curiosity piqued despite myself as we're led to a secluded alcove tucked discreetly in the rear of the dining room. Dante's hand grazes the small of my back, guiding me toward the plush booth with a casual possessiveness that should be unsettling.

But it isn't. Not entirely, at least.

Dante's stare settles over me as the waiter pours a red wine into my glass. I fidget beneath his scrutiny, my fingers toying restlessly with the delicate stem.

"I imagine this is all rather out of your comfort zone," Dante says at last.

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