She did not stay.
That was the first thing.
After the corridor and the kiss and the forehead resting against forehead and the silence that had said more than either of them had words for — she had pulled back, looked at him once with those brown eyes that always saw more than they let on, and said —
I need to think.
He had nodded. Said nothing. Let her go.
That was the second thing. That he had let her go without reaching for her. Without the control that usually showed up when something moved out of his hands.
He was still thinking about both things the next morning when Marco appeared in his office at eight fifteen with coffee and the expression of someone who had information and was deciding how to deliver it.
Dante looked at him.
Marco set the coffee down.
Luca Marchetti, he s
