Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Table
By the third day, Clara had stopped sleeping on the floor, though she still preferred the corner of the massive guest bedroom to the center of the king-sized bed.
The estate’s private physician had treated her malnutrition and the minor infections on her skin, but he had told Dante that the deepest wounds were the ones he couldn't see. Her mind had spent six years in survival mode, and it would take time for her to realize she was no longer prey.
At 8:00 p.m., the dining room table was set for two.
A silver platter of seared ribeye steak, roasted potatoes, and fresh asparagus sat in the center of the mahogany wood. Dante sat at the head of the table, dressed in a clean black shirt, his bandage hidden beneath his collar.
The door opened, and Clara walked in.
She was wearing a dark blue silk dress that had been delivered that afternoon. The color made her violet eyes pop, and the clean lines of the fabric highlighted a natural elegance that six years of homelessness hadn't been able to completely erase. Her short hair had been styled into a neat, modern pixie cut. She looked beautiful, but she walked as if the silk dress were a heavy set of armor.
She sat down opposite him, looking at the silver forks and crystal glasses with a look of suspicion.
"You don't have to use the proper fork," Dante said, offering her a small, rare smile. "You can eat with your hands if you want. I've seen worse manners in the syndicate meetings."
Clara didn't smile. She picked up the knife and fork, her movements precise, an instinctive remnant of her childhood in elite boarding schools. She took a small bite of the steak, chewing slowly.
"My father used to have dinners like this," she said, her voice stronger now, the raspiness fading. "Every Sunday. All the Capos would come. They would kiss his ring, eat his meat, and then go into the study to plan who they were going to kill that week. The luxury always smelled like blood to me."
"It’s the nature of the life," Dante said, cutting his own meat. "We build walls of gold so the lead can't reach us."
"But the lead always finds a way in, doesn't it?" Clara asked, her eyes locking onto his. "You were shot three times, Dante. You are the Don of the Serrano family, and you were bleeding out in a maintenance tunnel under the West Side Highway. Your gold didn't save you."
"No," Dante admitted, his gaze steady. "You did."
Before Clara could answer, the heavy oak doors of the dining room opened.
Marco, Dante’s second-in-command and childhood friend, walked in. He was a large man with a scarred jaw and a perennially tense expression. He stopped when he saw Clara, his eyes widening slightly before he recovered his composure and walked over to Dante, leaning down to whisper in his ear.
"We have a problem, Boss," Marco whispered, his voice low but loud enough to carry in the silent room. "Maroni’s men are shaking down the docks in Brooklyn. They’re looking for someone. Word on the street is they found out about the salon. They know Julian closed his place for seventy grand, and they know he did it for a woman."
Dante’s hand tightened around his wine glass. "Did Julian talk?"
"No," Marco said. "He’s too terrified of you. But one of his assistants bought a new car yesterday with the triple-pay tip you left. The Maronis noticed. They’re putting the pieces together."
Dante looked across the table at Clara. She had stopped eating. Her fork was suspended in the air, her face pale, the animal fear returning to her eyes.
"They know," she whispered.
"They don't know anything yet," Dante countered, standing up from the table. "They’re guessing. And as long as you are in this tower, you are untouchable."
He looked back at Marco. "Double the guard at the entrance. Bring the street teams in. If a single Maroni soldier so much as crosses the bridge into Manhattan, I want to know about it."
"Understood, Boss," Marco said, turning and leaving the room.
May you like
Dante walked over to Clara’s side of the table. He stood beside her, his hand resting on the back of her chair. "I won't let them touch you, Clara. I swear it on my mother’s grave."
Clara looked up at him, her lips trembling. "You don't know them, Dante. They don't just kill. They break things until there’s nothing left. They did it to my father. They will do it to you."
