Page 34 of Code Name: Dante

His laugh was quiet but genuine. “Is that what your grandmother taught you?”

“Among other things.” I steeped the tea, aware of his eyes on me. The familiar ritual of preparing my favorite beverage helped calm the flutter in my stomach that his attention always seemed to cause. “She has very strong opinions about proper brewing techniques.”

“I’ve noticed she has strong opinions about a lot of things.” His voice carried easily across the space between us. “Especially Castellanos.”

“Alessandro…” My hands stilled on the ceramic cups.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to start something.” There was no judgment in his tone. “I know she has her reasons.”

“And yet, here you are, protecting us anyway.”

“Yes, here I am,” he agreed softly.

I looked at him from the corner of my eye. His brow was furrowed as he gazed out the window into the darkness.

“The tea’s going to get cold if you keep staring.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I wasn’t...I was just?—”

He put his hand on my arm and, when I set the infuser down, turned me so I faced him. “Is this okay?” he asked, drawing my body close to his.

I nodded once, wrapped my arms around his waist, and rested my head against his chest.

“You feel so good,” he said, rubbing small circles on my back with his powerful hand.

“You do too.” I bit my lip, but curiosity got the better of me. “Why do they call you Dante?”

“It was the code name given to me by the DOJ, so not a name my family ever used.” He looked beyond me to where the tea steeped. “Is it ready?”

“It is. Should we go upstairs or stay down here?”

“Down here, if that’s all right with you.”

I poured two cups, then carried them to the seating area, settling next to him on the couch, close enough to feel his presence, but not quite touching.

He took a sip and made an appreciative sound that sent warmth through me unrelated to the beverage. “Perfect, as always.”

“Anything interesting?” I asked, motioning to the papers he’d brought down with him and set in a pile on the coffee table.

“I’m just reviewing notes, looking for patterns I might have missed.”

“And?”

“Nothing concrete.” He pulled out what looked like surveillance photos. “I spoke to the prosecutor earlier. Vincent’s been moved into solitary, and new guards have been brought in that she said she personally vetted. I hope that means that whatever he’s orchestrating stops. I don’t know why I thought his arrest would mean he was cut off from communicating with his enforcers.” He shook his head. “It was naive of me.”

“Maybe it was just hopeful.”

He nodded. “What’s been happening is Vincent’s doing, though. I’m sure of it. Everything has been too coordinated. Too precise.”

“Like someone is following a script they’ve enacted before?” I suggested.

“Exactly. Vincent likes his plans to be elaborate. Multiple pieces moving at once, each step precisely timed.”

“Like chess?”

“Exactly like chess.” His hand found mine, warm and solid. “The problem is, I can’t tell if we’re the players or the pieces.”

I looked up at him. “You look tired.”

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