Page 2 of Code Name: Dante

Sadly, she didn’t appear impressed. It shouldn’t surprise me, given the fragments of conversation I’d caught earlier—something about her grandmother’s hatred of organized crime. The older woman’s opinion wasn’t unfounded. The Castellanos had left deep scars in Gloversville, wounds that decades hadn’t healed. Given my family name and reputation, I couldn’t blame either woman for their prejudice.

“You could try talking to her,” Grit suggested.

“She’d probably throw one of those vases of flowers at my head.” Given they appeared to be made of oil-rubbed bronze, it would likely hurt like hell too.

“You’re right.” Grit chuckled. “But at least then you’d know where you stand, meaning exactly how hard it will be to get her to give you the time of day.”

I straightened my tie and smoothed down my tailored suit jacket. The formal attire felt foreign after years of deliberately dressing down to maintain my cover. The fabric felt like armor, another kind of costume to hide behind. But Admiral had insisted this was a suit-and-tie affair. He wanted everything to be perfect for Alice, a woman I respected almost more than any other. Without her, it might have taken years longer to expose the corruption my evidence had only hinted at and to put Vincent behind bars, where he deserved to be.

“Your brother’s trial starts next week,” Grit said quietly, reading my thoughts. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” It was originally scheduled to begin last month but had been delayed like these things so often were. “At least something good came from all of it. The corruption exposed, the guilty facing justice.” I watched Lark adjust another arrangement.

“And maybe something else good too?” Grit nodded toward her. “Serendipitous that you wound up here, only twenty minutes from where she lives. It’s almost as if you planned it that way.”

“I didn’t,” I snapped.

Grit laughed. “Settle down, Dante. You won’t get any extra points with her, wearing the scowl that’s on your face.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said to him. “I believe I’m about to get a vase thrown at my head.”

Lark tensed as I approached, her fingers tightening around the delicate flowers she held. The late-afternoon sun streaming through the windows caught her white-blonde hair, making her look like an angel. The soft elegance of her sage-green velvet dress suited her far better than the crisp black uniform I’d seen her wear at the coffee shop her grandmother owned and she now ran. Though no matter what she wore, she was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

“Miss Gregory.” I kept my voice soft, deliberately gentle—the opposite of the tone I’d used as Vincent’s enforcer. “The flowers are beautiful.”

“Alice chose them.” Her voice was clipped. Nowhere near as friendly as it had always been at the coffee shop in Manhattan’s Midtown. “I’m just helping arrange them.”

The lilt of her voice, even sharp with distrust, brought back memories of the mornings watching her make tea and eavesdropping on quiet conversations across the counter. Back when she hadn’t known who—what—I was.

“Still, you have an artist’s eye for composition.”

She set the vase down with perhaps more force than necessary. “Is there something you need, Mr. Castellano?”

My name—like it was something bitter on her tongue—made me wince internally. But I maintained my calm exterior. “Alessandro, please. Or Dante. It’s what my friends call me, and I’d like to think we could be friends.”

“I prefer Mr. Castellano.”

“As you wish.” I breathed in deeply. “I was hoping we might start fresh. Now that?—”

“Now that you’re working with Admiral and Alice?” She finally met my eyes directly. They were deep blue like the lake water when the sun’s rays hit it just right. Their fierce intelligence reminded me of the reason I’d been drawn to her even before I knew her name. “A convenient career change.”

“There’s nothing convenient about any of this, Miss Gregory.”

Something flickered in her expression—uncertainty maybe, or curiosity. But it was quickly replaced by that professional mask again. The one I’d seen her use with difficult customers, hoping she’d never have occasion to use it on me, like she just had.

“Please excuse me,” she said. “Alice needs help with the rest of the arrangements.”

I watched her walk away, the velvet of her dress swishing around her ankles. As she walked past a window, light danced in her hair, making her seem almost ethereal. But there was nothing delicate about Lark Gregory. Everything from her squared shoulders to her lifted chin spoke of strength and determination.

“That went well,” Grit said, rejoining me.

I didn’t respond. I was too busy watching Lark deliberately position herself on the opposite side of the room, as far from me as possible. She threw herself into a conversation with Bryar, Diesel’s wife, but I caught her glancing my way when she thought I wasn’t looking.

“You know,” Grit continued. “I’ve seen you in surveillance footage, negotiate with crime bosses and corrupt politicians, but I’ve never seen you this rattled by anyone. Most men would take that as a clear rejection and move on.”

“Most men aren’t me.”

“No,” he agreed. “Most men didn’t spend years pretending to be something they’re not while secretly working to bring down one of the most powerful crime families in New York.”

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