Page 5 of Code Name: Dante

“Or it might be a silly way of attempting to figure out why I avoid him,” I muttered. The thought of being in close proximity to Alessandro, teaching him the precise movements of whisking Matcha, made my pulse quicken in a way I refused to analyze.

I followed her out of the bedroom, shaking my head. But as we descended the stairs to rejoin the reception, I couldn’t help glancing around for the man.

I found him standing with Grit near the fireplace, his dark suit making him look more like a GQ model than a mob enforcer. When our eyes met, he smiled—not the cold smirk I’d seen in newspaper photos of the fearsome Castellano brothers, but something warmer. Actually, not warmer. Downright hot.

My stomach did that annoying flutter again, and I silently cursed my traitorous body’s reaction to him. It didn’t matter how good he looked or how genuine that smile seemed. I knew better than most how appearances could deceive.

I quickly looked away, reminding myself that smiles could be weapons too. That charm could hide the deadliest intentions. I had a good life in Gloversville, running Gram’s shop and taking care of her. I didn’t need complications. Especially not complications named Alessandro Castellano.

No matter how good he looked in a suit or how much a tiny, rebellious part of me wondered what it would be like to trust that smile, just once.

3

DANTE

The jazz quartet’s rendition of “The Way You Look Tonight” filled the great room as I watched Lark help Alice arrange the dessert table. She managed to avoid me for most of the reception, but I noticed how her eyes kept finding me across the room, only to quickly dart away when I caught her looking. Each time it happened, I felt that same pull I’d experienced the first time I saw her—a recognition of something I couldn’t quite name.

The strung lights cast shifting patterns across the hardwood floor, and outside, the sun was setting over Canada Lake, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that reminded me of the blush that had colored Lark’s cheeks during our brief conversation earlier.

“Just ask her to dance,” Grit muttered, appearing at my side with a fresh whiskey. “Worst she can say is no.”

The music shifted to something slower—“At Last”—and I saw my opening. The song choice felt pointed, almost prophetic, though I tried not to read too much into it.

“Miss Gregory.” I kept my voice soft as I approached, noting how her fingers tightened on the edge of the dessert table. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

She tensed, then surprised me by turning slowly to face me. “One,” she finally said. “For Alice’s sake.”

I guided her to the dance floor, where the bride and groom swayed to the music, hyperaware of how she held herself slightly away from me, as though she was ready to bolt at any moment. My hand, while light on her waist, respecting the careful distance she maintained even as we moved together, still sent a jolt through my system that I tried hard to ignore.

“You’re a good dancer,” she said almost begrudgingly.

“My mother insisted on lessons.” I kept my tone casual, though the memory of those Sunday afternoons, learning to waltz in our family’s ballroom, still ached. How she’d hum along with the instructor’s counting, her smile when I finally mastered a complicated step. That was, of course, before she disappeared, vanishing in the night when I was only six years old. It was also before my father died and my brother took over the family business, and everything changed. “She believed every gentleman should know how to dance properly.”

“Is that what you are? A gentleman?”

The challenge in her voice made me smile despite myself. “I’m trying to be.”

She was quiet for a moment as we turned across the floor. I caught a hint of her perfume—something light and floral that reminded me of early spring mornings. “You were at the coffee shop,” she said finally. “In Manhattan.”

“Yes.” There was no point denying it. “Though I didn’t know who you were then.”

“Just another target to surveil?”

“No.” I spun her gently under my arm, bringing her fractionally closer when she returned. Close enough to see the faint silver threads in her cornflower-blue eyes. “No, but you intrigued me.”

Her breath caught slightly. I wasn’t sure whether it was from my words or our increased proximity, but for a moment, the tension in her shoulders eased, and she moved with me naturally, gracefully, just like she’d moved behind the counter at Method.

When the music shifted to “Moon River,” something in the melody triggered a change in her expression. I saw the moment her eyes grew distant and her walls went firmly back in place. She stiffened and took a step away. “I can’t do this.”

“Lark—”

“No.” She shook her head, already retreating. “I’m sorry. I just…I can’t.”

She turned and fled toward the French doors. I moved to follow, but a firm hand gripped my arm.

“Let her go,” said Admiral.

“But—”

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