Page 6 of Code Name: Dante

He shook his head. “Trust me on this, Dante. Some battles can’t be won by charging in.”

My chest tightened as I watched her disappear onto the moonlit patio, wishing we were one of the couples still dancing in each other’s arms. “I’m not trying to win a battle,” I said under my breath.

“No.” Admiral’s voice held a hint of amusement. “You’re trying to win something much more complicated.” He released my arm and turned to face me fully. “The question is, are you ready for what that means?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, because the truth was, I didn’t know. After years of maintaining my cover, of being Vincent’s enforcer, I wasn’t sure I remembered how to be anything else. How to be someone worthy of trust, of connection, of her.

The next fewdays passed in a blur of security briefings and trial preparations. Underlying it all was the memory of how Lark had felt in my arms for that brief moment when she’d lowered her walls.

Each afternoon when I returned to Canada Lake, I went through downtown Gloversville, even though it meant taking a longer route, so I could drive by her grandmother’s coffee shop, telling myself I was just making sure all appeared okay.

The first two times, I saw Lark through the windows—serving customers, laughing with an elderly woman who had to be her grandmother, and moving around the space with the same grace that had first caught my attention.

On the third day, I parked where I could see her but doubted she could see me. It was dusk, almost time for the shop to close, and I hated what I saw. She rolled her shoulders more than once, rubbing one as though the tension she carried made it hurt.

My routine changed on the fourth day when I pulled up outside the Perfect Fit Coffee & Tea and parked rather than continuing my commute. The shop’s name was painted in elegant gold letters on the front window, a subtle nod to the town’s glove-making history. The bell above the door chimed when I entered, bringing with it the rich aroma of freshly ground beans and memories of another coffee shop, another time when I’d watched her from afar.

“We’re actually closing,” Lark called out without looking up from the counter she was wiping down. The setting sun slanted through the windows, catching the silver-white strands in her hair, reminding me of how she’d looked in the moonlight when she fled from our dance.

“I was wondering if I could get that Matcha lesson you promised me.” I kept my voice deliberately gentle, like I had at the wedding, rather than the usual gruffness New Yorkers were known for.

Her head snapped up, and her eyes narrowed. “Mr. Castellano.”

“Still not Alessandro?” I tried for a smile, though her frosty demeanor made it difficult.

“I didn’t promise anything, and we’re closed.” She turned away, but not before I noticed her trembling hands.

“The sign says you close at six.” I gestured to the window. “It’s only five thirty.”

She threw the cleaning rag into a bin with more force than necessary. “Fine. What can I get you? Other than a lesson.”

I approached the counter slowly, noting how she tensed with each step. My training kicked in automatically, cataloging details, like how she’d positioned herself near the back counter, where I knew a panic button had been installed by one of the K19 guys, and how her eyes darted to the windows, checking sight lines. Both were signs of someone who’d learned to be cautious, to anticipate threats.

The shop itself was a study in contrasts—modern coffee equipment alongside vintage photographs of Gloversville’s glory days. One showed this very building in the forties, when it had been a glove factory’s showroom before Lark’s grandmother had transformed it into a coffee shop decades ago.

“I’m serious about learning how to make Matcha. Alice says you’re the best teacher.”

“She talks too much,” she snapped, but I also noticed her posture relax before she raised her head. “Why are you really here?”

“We got off on the wrong foot at the wedding.”

She snorted. “The wrong foot? Is that what you call it when someone’s family terrorizes your hometown?”

“No.” I kept my voice level. “That’s what I call it when someone judges you based on assumptions rather than facts.”

The challenge in my words hit home. I saw it in how her chin lifted, pride warring with curiosity in her expression. “Fine. One lesson. Then you leave me alone.”

I grinned, which only made her frown and shake her head before motioning for me to join her behind the counter. “Traditional preparation requires several specialized tools.” Her professional voice was back. “The chasen, or bamboo whisk. The chawan, or tea bowl. The chashaku for measuring.”

I watched her hands as she worked, noting how they’d stopped trembling. This was her element, where she felt in control.

I glanced out the window at the main drag’s mix of empty storefronts and struggling businesses, a shadow of the bustling commercial district it had once been. The Castellanos had played their part in that decline, something that wasn’t lost on me as I stood in this shop that had risen from the area’s decline and made a go of it. I was about to lower my gaze and focus back on Lark when I noticed a black sedan with tinted windows, the kind favored by certain organizations for surveillance, drive by, going too slow, given the speed limit. While I couldn’t see the driver, my gut told me it was someone who shouldn’t be here. Someone who represented the kind of danger I’d witnessed all my life.

“The water temperature is crucial,” she said, drawing my attention back to her. “Too hot, and you’ll burn the tea, making it bitter. Too cool, and it won’t develop properly.”

“Like many things in life,” I said quietly. “Timing matters.”

Her eyes met mine briefly before darting away. “The goal is to create a smooth, frothy consistency without any clumps.” She continued her demonstration, but I could tell my presence was affecting her focus. “You have to be patient, consistent.”

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