Page 31 of Her Dark Salvation

“What?” Mr. DeVita asked.

“Nothing.” I hurried back into step alongside him. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“So demanding,” I said exasperated.

He raised an eyebrow.

I chewed my lip before answering, selecting my words, not wanting to give away too much. “I—I always thought I’d work down here when I was younger. That’s all.”

“You don’t strike me as the government and politics type,” he said dryly.

We darted across the busy street like good Bostonians, completely ignoring the crosswalk and traffic signals.

“I’m not,” I said, when we reached the other side. “I’m a researcher at a university.” I lifted my chin toward the cluster of buildings directly south of City Hall Plaza. “But a lot of the big financial consulting firms are headquartered there.”

“Ah. Still a far cry from academia.”

I huffed. Didn’t I know it.

The wind whipped down the corridor created by the tall buildings. I lowered my face to shield it from the icy blast, but struggled to keep up, my short steps more tentative than usual under the onslaught of gusting wind.

“Here,” Mr. DeVita said and held out his elbow.

I looked up at his handsome face, the clean lines of his shaved jaw, the dark lashes over darker eyes, and slid my hand inside the crook of his arm. His bicep bulged beneath the soft wool of his overcoat, and I squeezed it to steady myself, pulling his warmth closer. “Thank you.”

He nodded, and we continued down the block until the clean white façade of a French bakery materialized.

“I had no idea this was here,” I said.

He opened the glass door and ushered me inside. “I’m always on the lookout for decent caffè. And I like their croissants.”

The warmth of the bakery replaced the warmth of Mr. DeVita’s arm, but his absence was no less palpable. I ignored my unhinged desire to reclaim his arm and stepped up to the display case instead, placing my gloved hands on the glass. The pastries were perfectly shaped, and their buttery sheen glistened under the lights. My stomach growled. Loudly.

I laid my hand over the beast and looked up.

Amusement danced in Mr. DeVita’s obsidian eyes. “Hungry?”

“Apparently.”

“Order whatever you’d like.”

We ordered, he paid, and we carried our decadent mid-morning snack to a small table by the window.

I peeled off a swath of the flaky croissant and popped it in my mouth. It melted like butter on my tongue. I washed it down with a piping hot sip of cappuccino. The rich, soothing flavors and the quiet of the empty bakery did their best to calm my riotous nerves.

Coffee with Mr. DeVita. My stomach flipped, but I swatted at the butterflies, reminding myself I’d just witnessed an act of extortion.

“What about Mr. Balistreri?” I asked.

“What about him?”

“You left him there to intimidate that man.”

“Are we back on this again?”

“I don’t want to be involved in anything illegal,” I hissed under my breath, and a touch of the nausea that had gripped my stomach in the close confines of the commissioner’s office returned.

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