Chapter 2 - The Velvet Box
Twenty minutes later, I returned to Table Seven with a silver tray bearing a crystal decanter and two polished glasses.
The two bodyguards had moved away from the booth, taking up positions near the service corridor entrance. Dante sat completely alone in the sprawling corner booth, the dim overhead amber lighting casting sharp shadows across his high cheekbones.
And resting beside his right hand sat an open black velvet box.
Inside the box rested a diamond ring so massive, so blindingly refractive under the restaurant lights, that it looked less like a piece of jewelry and more like a captured star.
Dante didn't look up as I set the tray down on the mahogany surface. He was staring fixedly at the glittering stones.
“Do you think she’ll like it?” he asked, his voice flat, devoid of romantic warmth.
I nearly dropped the heavy silver corkscrew against the edge of the table. I caught it clumsily, my heart doing a strange, unwarranted flutter.
“I’m sure,” I managed to say, clearing my throat, “any woman in the world would.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
I paused, looking down at the ring, then back up at his unyielding face. The sheer honesty required to answer him felt dangerous, but the silence demanded a reply.
“It’s beautiful,” I said carefully.
“But?” he prompted, catching the hesitation in my cadence.
“It’s intimidating.”
His dark eyebrow rose, a flicker of genuine curiosity breaking through his glacial exterior.
“It looks like someone took a building and shrunk it down into a ring,” I added before I could stop myself.
Silence stretched between us. For three agonizing seconds, I was entirely certain I had just crossed a fatal line, insulting a multi-million-dollar token of affection belonging to a man who allegedly disposed of enemies in shipping containers.
Then Dante Russo laughed.
It was a rich, deep, resonant sound. Across the dining room, several patrons whipped their heads around, staring in open shock. Apparently, the most feared man in East Harbor laughing out loud in public was an extremely rare event.
“Intimidating,” he repeated, shaking his head with a faint, amused smirk.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, my face burning hot. “That was entirely out of line. I’m just a server, it’s not my place to judge your—or your fiancée's—taste.”
“Don't be sorry,” Dante said, closing the velvet box with a crisp snap. “Most people tell me what they think I want to hear. You just told me a building was sitting on my ring.”
“I’ll leave you to your wine, Mr. Russo.”
“You're new here,” he observed, ignoring my attempt to retreat.
“Six months.”
“What did you do before?”
“I took care of my father.”
His expression shifted subtly, the dark amusement vanishing, replaced by something heavier and more grounded. “He was sick?”
“For four years. Parkinson’s, then a cascade of secondary failures.”
“And now?”
“He died in January.”
Dante looked at me, his gaze softening in a way that felt entirely disarming. “I’m sorry.”
There was no empty, practiced politeness in his voice. It sounded raw, heavy with an understanding I hadn't expected from a waterfront kingpin.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“And now you're alone.”
Something about the flat certainty of that statement rubbed against my rawest nerves. I had spent four years fighting to keep my head above water, and hearing it summarized so clinically felt invasive.
“How do you know that?” I asked, my voice tightening.
Dante didn't answer immediately. His slate-grey eyes drifted past my shoulder, locking onto the swinging double doors of the kitchen.
I frowned, turning around.
Marco walked out of the kitchen, carrying a silver tray laden with the chef’s recommended appetizers.
My stomach plummeted.
Marco wasn't working tonight. His shift had ended hours ago, and he had explicitly told us in the breakroom that he was heading across town to visit his sister. Furthermore, as he drew closer, I noticed something deeply wrong.
He was smiling. But it wasn't his usual easygoing grin; it was a tight, wide, manic stretch of the lips. And his familiar, citrus-scented cologne had been completely replaced by a sharp, clinical chemical smell—the unmistakable odor of sterile hospital antiseptic.
Marco approached the corner booth.
“Compliments of the chef,” Marco said, his voice pitched an octave higher than normal.
Dante didn't look up, his attention still fixed on me. “Leave it on the table.”
Marco stopped directly beside Dante’s left shoulder.
His right hand abruptly disappeared inside the deep pocket of his service jacket.
Through the thin black fabric, I caught the unmistakable glint of hard, metallic length. A flash of pure, primal instinct tore through my chest.
Dante hadn't noticed. Neither had his bodyguards, who were currently distracted by a commotion near the main bar across the room.
Marco’s fingers tightened around the hidden object, pulling it free.
I didn't think. I didn't calculate the risk or weigh my options.
May you like
I lunged forward, dropping to one knee beside Dante’s chair. My lips came within an inch of his ear, urgent and breathless.
“Keep still.”
