An hour later, after I’ve changed into a gorgeous black dress to suit Falcone’s taste in women, I’m getting into the car with Dante, which feels like a betrayal of self.
The car is obscenely comfortable—leather seats that cost more than my wardrobe and enough legroom to host a party, plus that new car smell mixed with expensive cologne. Basically a rolling advertisement for "look how rich and morally questionable we are."
Dante sits beside me instead of across, which feels like a deliberate power move or possibly just a preference for violating personal space.
He's on his phone typing with the kind of focus that suggests either critical business negotiations or a really competitive game of Candy Crush. I'm betting on the former, but honestly, even criminal masterminds need hobbies.
I've been quiet for four minutes, which might be a personal record considering my usual inability to leave uncomfortable silences alone. But the question burning in my brain finally reaches critical mass.
"So," I turn to face him, watching his profile in the dim light filtering through tinted windows. "Dante Romano or Dante Falcone?"
His fingers pause mid-text—just for a second, barely noticeable unless you're watching for it like I am—then continue like I didn't just drop a conversational grenade in his lap. "Excuse me?"
"Five years ago you were Dante Romano. Soldier. Nobody important—your words, not mine, though I'm inclined to agree now." I cross my arms, settling into this confrontation like it's a comfortable chair I've been saving for exactly this moment.
"Now you're Dante Falcone, Don who supposedly killed the previous head to take power. People don't just change their last name and become mafia royalty. That's not how surnames work. You can't swap them out like Netflix subscriptions or order a new identity from a catalog."
I pause, letting the silence stretch. "So which is it? Were you lying then or are you lying now?"
He pockets his phone with deliberate slowness, turning those dark eyes on me with an expression that gives away absolutely nothing. Professional poker player levels of blank. "It's complicated."
"Complicated. That's your answer?" I laugh, and it comes out sharper than intended, echoing in the confined space. "Complicated. Well, lucky for you, I have time. Captive audience, literally. We've got, what, at least another ten minutes of drive time? So uncomplicate it for me."
His jaw tightens—the only crack in his controlled exterior. "You don't have clearance for that conversation."
"Clearance?" My voice rises. "I almost married you. I stood at an altar waiting. I walked home in the rain while your men drove away laughing. Now I'm here, working for you, living in your house, apparently getting tied up in my sleep—" I stop before that rant derails completely. "I think I've earned clearance."
"That's not how this works." His tone is final, door-slamming.
"Then explain how it works, because from where I'm sitting, I almost married a complete stranger." I lean back, studying his profile. "Actually, I did work for a complete stranger. Same difference."
He studies me for a long moment, expression unreadable, then glances out the window. "We're here."
I glance at the upscale restaurant—valet parking, doorman judging net worth. "This conversation isn't over."
"It is for now." The driver opens my door and Dante's already moving.
Inside is all dark wood and dim lighting. Men in suits occupy tables with women who either look voluntarily present or like they're mentally calculating escape routes. I'm definitely in the second category. A hostess leads us to a private room where three men sit with their companions.
Dante pulls out my chair. "Dante," one man says—fifties, silver hair, bulldog face. He raises his glass. "Good to see you."
"Antonio." Dante's tone is cordial ice.
We order something forgettable. I'm too busy decoding the tension, which is thick enough to weaponize. The conversation flows—territory, shipments, normal dinner discussion among totally legitimate businessmen.
Then Antonio's eyes land on me and the table goes quiet. "I see a new face! Will you finally marry this one, Falcone?"
I open my mouth—probably to say something fatal—but Dante speaks first, his voice dropping to hell-freezing temperatures. "She belongs to me. That's all anyone needs to know."
The temperature plummets. My internal temperature rises instead.
Antonio's smile falters as he realizes he's miscalculated. "Of course. My apologies. No offense meant."
Dante doesn't acknowledge it, just returns to his meal like verbal evisceration is standard dinner protocol. The rest passes in awkward silence. I eat without tasting anything, processing those words on repeat: She belongs to me.
Not "she's with me" or anything normal. Belongs. Like property. I should be furious—I am furious—but underneath that anger is something warm and unwanted responding to the possessiveness in his voice. My body is a traitor. We've established this.
When dinner finally ends—thank God—we return to the car and the doors close with that expensive soundproof thunk. I round on him immediately because subtlety isn't my style. "Dante Romano or Dante Falcone?"
He sighs, exhaustion bleeding through. "You're not going to let this go."
"Nope. Not until you explain how someone just changes their entire identity and becomes a mob boss. Unless you were always Falcone and Romano was the lie? Were you pretending to be a soldier when you were actually secret mafia royalty?"
"Asking questions in front of others could get you killed," he says quietly, something almost like concern in his voice.
"I don't care about danger—"
"You should."
"I care about the fact that apparently I almost married a complete stranger. I thought I knew you. I thought I loved you.” My voice cracks despite efforts to sound strong.
“But I don't even know your real name. You don't owe me an explanation—you made that clear five years ago. But I need to know. Was any of it real? Or was I just some stupid girl who fell for a lie?"
Silence stretches between us, filling the car with weight. He turns to the window, jaw tight, watching the city blur past—lights and normal lives just beyond reach. When he finally speaks, it's barely audible. "It's complicated."
That's all he gives me. No denial. No confirmation. Just complicated, like that single word explains five years of questions. The silence that follows feels like confirmation anyway—an admission without admitting.
* * *
That night, alone with shadows dancing on the ceiling, I call the hospital from the burner phone Enzo gave me. Mama answers on the third ring, voice stronger than last time. "Hello?"
"Hi, Mama. How are you feeling?"
"Better!" She sounds genuinely happy. "The treatment is working, tesoro. The doctors say I'm responding well. Can you believe it?"
Relief hits hard. "That's amazing. I'm so happy."
"How is your new job?" That maternal concern bleeds through. "You never told me where you're working, how come I’m finding it out from my doctor, huh?"
I swallow the lie before speaking. "It's good. The hours are long but the pay is decent. Everything's fine." What am I supposed to say? That I sold myself to the mafia? That I'm developing complicated feelings for the man who destroyed me? None of those conversations need to happen.
"You sound tired. Are you sleeping enough?"
"Yeah. Just busy." Another lie for the collection. "I should let you rest. Love you, Mama."
"Love you too, figlia."
I hang up and stare at the ceiling, watching shadows dance while wind rustles through expensive trees outside. Everything's fine, I told her, like fine is a real thing that exists in my current reality rather than a convenient fiction. I wonder what fine even means anymore.