“What time is it?” I say.

“Five forty-two.”

I’m all too aware that the last time something blew up in close proximity to me, I was late to meet Simone.

That’s not happening again. Not even if the whole city goes up in flames.

“We’ll just stop at a store,” I tell Seb.

“What kind of store?” he says.

I grimace.

“One with pliers and alcohol.”

35

Simone

I wait for Dante out in front of the hotel. I’m so nervous I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I spent over an hour getting ready. The pathetic part of me hopes that if I look beautiful enough, he might forgive me. I know it’s ridiculous, but when you spend your whole life trading off your looks, what else can you turn to in your most desperate moment?

I would do anything to go back in time and change the decisions I made.

But that’s impossible. All I can do now is tell Dante the truth. The whole, entire, ugly truth.

I left Henry with my parents. They’re playing board games.

I got Henry all ready for bed before I left, in clean pajamas, teeth brushed.

“Where are you going?” he asked, eyeing my dress, heels, and earrings.

“I’ve got to go out for a couple hours,” I told him.

“Are you going to see him?” he asked. “My father?”

I hesitated, then answered honestly: “Yes.”

“I want to come with you,” Henry said at once.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I have to have . . . an adult conversation with him. Just the two of us. But I think—I hope—you’ll be able to meet him soon.”

“I already met him,” Henry said, his voice muffled by the toothbrush.

“I mean, meet him properly.”

Henry spat into the sink, looking cross. “I want to come with you now.”

“You can’t,” I said again, more firmly that time.

I kissed him on the cheek, smoothing his hair. “Please be good for Grandma and Grandpa.”

“I always am,” he said.

As I walked toward the elevators, I heard the hotel room door crack open behind me. Henry poked his head out in the hall. I shot a look at him, and he retreated into the room, slamming the door behind him.

I hoped he wouldn’t say anything to my parents about Dante, but at this point, it hardly matters. I know they want to keep Henry a secret from the Gallos. But that’s not their decision anymore.

Dante pulls up in front of the hotel. He’s driving a vintage convertible—probably one of Nero’s—and he looks freshly showered. There’s a couple folded blankets in his backseat, the kind you lay out on the ground for a picnic, or a nighttime visit to the beach. He dressed up and made plans for us, like it’s a date. My heart clenches in my chest.

He jumps out to open the car door for me. I see he’s moving stiffly, like his back is sore. Still, he pulls the door open, stepping aside to let me get in.

As he climbs back in the driver’s side, I notice that his right ear is bright red, and so is the back of his neck, like he got a nasty sunburn, despite the fact that it’s fall. A white bandage covers his bicep, only half-concealed by the sleeve of his t-shirt.

“What happened to you?” I cry.

“Noth—”

He was about to say “nothing,” before he stopped himself. He doesn’t want to lie to me.

“I found out who’s been shooting at us,” he says. “His name is Christian Du Pont.”

“Who’s that?” I say, mystified. “Did Kenwood hire him?”

“No,” Dante shakes his head. “Actually, he wasn’t shooting at your father at all. It was Callum he wanted. And possibly me too—I’m still figuring that part out.”

“What?” This makes no sense to me.

“It’s a long story,” Dante sighs. “Basically, he blames the Griffins and the Gallos for the death of his cousin. And he’s not exactly wrong.”

“Did you find him today?”

“No. I found where he was staying. Found his little stalker journal. But then the whole place, uh, sort of blew up.”

“WHAT!?”

Dante winces. I know this is exactly the kind of thing he doesn’t want to tell me. But, unlike me, he’s never shied away from the truth about who he is, and what he does.

“Are you okay?” I ask him, trying to recover my calm.

“Yes. Completely okay.”

That probably wasn’t true, but he’s trying to make me feel better. My heart is going a million miles a minute. This isn’t how I expected to start our conversation.

“Anyway,” Dante says, “I can tell you all about it over dinner.”

“Actually—” I swallow hard. “Maybe we could just . . . go for a walk or something.”

I don’t want to be around other people for this. I don’t want anyone to overhear us.

“Oh . . . sure,” Dante says. “There’s a park about a block down the street . . .”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll pull the car over here.”

He parks alongside the curb, then we climb back out again.

I’m not really dressed for walking. God, I really didn’t think this through. I’m wearing strappy sandals and a black cocktail dress with a light blazer over top. The air is chilly now that the sun has gone down. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering a little.

“Hold on,” Dante says. He jogs back to the car, grabs his leather jacket out of the backseat, and puts it around my shoulders. “Better?” he says.

“Yes,” I nod, miserably. I don’t want Dante to be kind to me right now. I can’t stand it.

He can sense my nerves. He can tell something’s wrong. As we turn into the park, he says, “So what did you want to talk about? Is it about your job? Because I could—”

“No,” I interrupt him. “It’s not that.”

“What, then?”

His huge frame walks heavily alongside me, each step audible on the paved path. I can feel his body heat even through the leather jacket wrapped round my shoulders. When I glance over at him, his black eyes are fixed on me with surprising gentleness.

I can’t do it.

But I have to do it.

“Dante,” I say, my voice shaking. “I love you . . .”

No, that’s wrong, I can’t start like that. It’s manipulative.

He’s about to respond in kind, but I cut him off.

“No, wait, just listen—I’ve done something. Something awful.”

He’s watching me. Waiting. He thinks that whatever I’ve done, it doesn’t matter. He’s probably picturing violence or theft or betrayal, something he’s familiar with from his world. Something he would perceive as forgivable.

As always happens when I’m stressed, my senses become heightened. I can smell his cologne, his aftershave, his soap and deodorant, even the pomade in his hair. Under that, his skin and his breath, and that hint of raw testosterone he produces in excess of a normal man. These scents don’t clash—they blend together to make, what to me, is the epitome of masculine fragrance.