Page 39 of Of Murder and Matrimony

I looked around, realizing we were alone, with only two places set at the table. “Just you?”

“The others couldn’t make it,” he answered, taking the seat next to mine at the head of the table. It wasn’t lost on me that he sat in his father’s place. I wondered at the significance. Maybe I was reading into the action.

I placed my napkin on my lap and breathed a sigh of relief when Martina entered, placing a roast chicken, pasta, and salad on the table. “When you’re finished, I’ll bring the dessert.”

Dante offered his housekeeper a rare smile. “Thank you, Martina.”

“It looks delicious,” I added when she looked at me.

She nodded and waved her hands. “Eat! You’re too thin.”

I looked down at myself subconsciously when she raced away, no doubt to feed the small army at the kitchen table.

“She didn’t mean anything by it.” Dante reached over and covered my hand with his own. “You look amazing. Eat what you want.”

I couldn’t speak, too focused on where our bodies touched, the electrical current radiating from his fingers to mine. A shiver spread from my hand to the rest of my body, and I glanced around the room, hoping there was a vent blowing cold air on me. No such luck. Damnit.

Dante pulled away and bowed his head, saying a silent prayer over the food before crossing himself and reaching for his fork. “So, what did you do this morning?”

“Hasn’t Diego informed you?” I asked. He lifted a brow, and I smirked. “I frolicked around the grounds, naked as the day I was born. Then, I did an interpretive dance for the guards at the gate.”

He let out a surprised laugh, and I found myself giggling with him. He looked more like the Dante I remembered when he was relaxed. Some of the weight lifted from his shoulders, and his eyes sparkled when he looked at me.

“I think I would have heard about that, piccola fantasma.” He served me each dish before piling food on his plate. “You might have successfully hidden from me for a decade, but I guarantee you can’t hide a damn thing from me now.”

There was an edge to his meaning that I didn’t quite understand, so I busied myself with the food in front of me. Lemon and rosemary flavored the chicken, and the pasta added another dimension with fresh tomatoes, herbs, and parmesan. I only took a serving of the salad to be polite because I didn’t want Martina to complain about how I ate like a bird. If lunch was this good, I wondered what we’d have for dessert.

“You didn’t come this morning,” Dante uttered as he took a large bite of chicken. It was a question and a statement in one.

“I’m not really a church person,” I tried to explain, my free hand fisting the napkin in my lap. “After my mother died, my father and brothers rarely attended. That meant I didn’t go, either. I spent a lot of Sundays with patients instead of in the little church in Oak Ridge.”

When he stared at me with those chocolate eyes, I fumbled for a better explanation. “I’m not against it, per se. I just don’t know what to do with it all.”

“It’s an expectation that my family set an example for the others in the organization,” Dante said slowly, tapping his knife against his plate. “Would you consider coming with me next week?”

I wondered if it pained him to be kind to me. Did it matter? Maybe a little. I wasn’t done wanting him to hurt—at least a little. “I think I could do that.”

“Thank you.”

We finished our meal in awkward silence, and by the time Martina brought us slices of a cake made with candied oranges and served us espresso, it was clear Dante wanted to talk about something, but he couldn’t make himself speak.

I polished the cake off quickly, surprising myself. I would have taken a second slice had the cake been on the table. It tasted like summer.

When Dante made no move to get up, I pushed my chair back.

“Your brothers contacted me,” Dante blurted, his entire body tense.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked accusingly, leaning forward. “I want to speak to Adrik.”

“The message was clear. They refuse to recognize the marriage,” he explained, his jaw ticking.

“Did they call you?”

“No. The message was an eighteen-year-old boy with his left ring finger cut off,” Dante spat.

“Well, at least it’s only a finger.” I swallowed nervously, compelled to defend my brother’s actions. “He’ll still lead a normal life.”

“And his heart cut out,” Dante added.

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