Page 91 of Bound in Promise
“Could you just turn him in?” I ask. “I’d rather you didn’t go anywhere near him.”
Dante rubs his thumb and index finger together on top of the table. “What if he came to me?”
My brows knit in a frown. “How would you do that?”
“I know his schedule for the next two weeks. It wouldn’t take much to arrange an accident.”
I exhale an unsteady breath. Dante is right. The less I know, the better.
“I’m not sure I could sleep at night if I gave you the green light. But I don’t know if I’d be able to sleep any easier knowing he’s walking around looking for his next victim.”
Dante smiles at me. “Such a sweet girl, princess. I’ll make sure it’s handled.”
“Discreetly,” I hedge. “No suicide missions.”
“Noted.”
“No,” I retort. “Not noted. Make sure it happens that way.”
“Yes, my love.”
Butterflies dance in my stomach at the endearment, but I refuse to lose sight of where this is likely leading. “What happens afterward?”
My husband points to the plate in front of me. “Take a bite and I’ll tell you.”
This man…
Raising my fork, I spin a few noodles around the tines and shove the pasta in my mouth, glowering at him the whole time.
Meanwhile, he keeps his haughty smirk in place as I stab at the rest of my meal.
“It appears that remaining here would be the best way to protect everything you’ve worked so hard for. I would hate to see some of your credits not transfer and, if you graduate?—”
“What do you mean, if?”
Dante narrows his brown eyes. “You know what I mean, princess.” I bristle at the set down. I do know, but that doesn’t mean I won’t give him hell for his poor choice of words. “After you graduate, you can do whatever you’d like. However, I’d like to see if you can finish within a year.”
“Because?”
“Because I already have a property lined up for your bakery. I couldn’t pass it up.”
What the hell?
Dante fishes his phone from his suit jacket, tapping at the screen before turning it to face me.
A small shop tucked underneath what looks to be apartments or condos fills the display. A few metal chairs and small tables sit in front of it, but it’s definitely a bakery.
One with large windows to give onlookers a peek at the tempting pastries and cakes inside.
“The owner wanted to sell quickly. He’s going to New Zealand to be with his grandchildren. I bought it sight unseen, so we run the risk that it’s a shithole. Although, if it is, I have the means to make him regret misleading me about the state of the property.”
I glance up from his phone, not believing what my eyes and ears are telling me. “You bought this?”
“We bought it,” he replies. “Isn’t that what married couples do? Share shit?”
“No,” I retort. “My generation doesn’t typically share our finances.”
Dante rolls his eyes. “Well, we do. And it’s yours.”
