Deadly Devotion

Chapter Four: Meeting the Family

Monday was a blur of actual work.

I had to maintain my cover, which meant actually functioning as an art consultant. I spent the morning at a gallery in Chelsea, the afternoon on the phone with a supposed client in London, all while my mind kept drifting back to Sunday.

To Dante's apartment. His bed. His hands on my skin.

I couldn't afford to be distracted. But I was.

My phone buzzed around three.

Dante: Change of plans for tonight. Family dinner. My mother insists on meeting you.

My stomach dropped.

Me: That's moving fast.

Dante: I know. But she's relentless. And I told her about you.

Me: What did you tell her?

Dante: That I met someone interesting. Someone I want to keep seeing. She demanded to meet you immediately.

Meeting Isabella DeLuca. The matriarch. The woman who knew everything about the family business and enabled it all. This was actually good for my assignment. Access to the family meant access to information.

So why did my hands feel cold?

Me: What's the dress code for meeting your mother?

Dante: Conservative. Elegant. She's traditional. I'll pick you up at six.

I had three hours.

I called Chen.

"The mother wants to meet me," I said when she picked up.

"Isabella DeLuca? That's excellent. That means you're in."

"Or it means she's suspicious."

"Either way, it's access. Observe everything. Family dynamics, who's there, how they interact. This is exactly what we need."

After we hung up, I stood in front of my closet again. Conservative and elegant. Traditional.

I chose a navy dress. Knee length, modest neckline, classic cut. Pearl earrings. Hair pulled back. Makeup subtle.

I looked like someone you'd bring home to meet your mother.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

Dante picked me up exactly at six. He took one look at me and smiled.

"Perfect," he said. "She's going to love you."

"You sound confident."

"I am." He kissed my cheek. "Just be yourself."

Except myself was a lie. Every word, every gesture, every smile. All of it false.

"What should I know?" I asked as we drove. "Any topics to avoid?"

"Don't mention politics. Don't ask too many questions about the family business. Compliment her cooking." He thought for a moment. "And whatever you do, don't mention my ex girlfriend."

"You have an ex girlfriend I should know about?"

"Had. Past tense. It ended badly. My mother hated her."

"Why?"

"Because she was using me. Wanted the money, the lifestyle, not me." He glanced at me. "My mother has very good instincts about people."

Great. The woman whose son I was using had excellent instincts.

"Nervous?" Dante asked, noticing my expression.

"A little."

"Don't be. You're genuine. She'll see that."

Genuine. Right.

The DeLuca family estate was in a wealthy suburb outside the city. The kind of neighborhood with gates and security and houses that sprawled over multiple acres.

The house itself was massive. Mediterranean style, all stone and tile, surrounded by perfectly manicured gardens.

"You grew up here?" I asked as we pulled up the long driveway.

"Until I was eighteen and went to college. My parents still live here. Marco has his own place now, but he comes to family dinners."

The front door opened before we reached it. A woman in her sixties stood in the doorway. Elegant, perfectly dressed, her dark hair showing streaks of silver. She had Dante's eyes.

"Dante," she said warmly, embracing him. Then she turned to me, her gaze sharp and assessing. "And you must be Mia."

"Mrs. DeLuca. It's lovely to meet you." I extended my hand.

She took it, held it for a moment longer than necessary. Studying me.

"Call me Isabella. Come in, both of you. Dinner is almost ready."

The interior of the house was exactly what I expected. Expensive without being ostentatious. Old world elegance. More art on the walls. Family photos everywhere.

I caught a glimpse of a younger Dante in several of them. School photos, family gatherings, a teenage Dante in a suit at what looked like a wedding.

"Your home is beautiful," I said to Isabella.

"Thank you. We've been here thirty years. Raised both boys here." She led us through to a formal living room. "Salvatore will be down shortly. He's on a call. Marco should be here any minute."

As if summoned, the front door opened and a younger version of Dante walked in. Marco DeLuca. Same dark hair, same strong features, but something harder in his expression. Sharper edges.

"The prodigal brother returns," Marco said, his tone light but with an undercurrent I couldn't quite place. Then his eyes landed on me. "And who's this?"

"Marco, this is Mia Santos. Mia, my brother Marco."

"The new girlfriend." Marco's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Dante works fast."

"Marco," Isabella said, a warning in her tone.

"What? I'm just making conversation." He turned back to me. "So what do you do, Mia? Let me guess. Model? Actress?"

"Art consultant."

"Ah. That explains it. My brother has a type."

The tension in the room ratcheted up. Dante's jaw tightened.

"Marco, don't start," he said quietly.

"I'm not starting anything. Just getting to know your new friend."

Before anyone could respond, a voice boomed from the hallway. "Is everyone here?"

Don Salvatore DeLuca entered the room, and the energy shifted immediately. He was shorter than his sons but commanded space in a way that made him seem larger. Late sixties, silver hair, sharp eyes that missed nothing. He wore a casual sweater and slacks, but there was nothing casual about his presence.

This was a man used to being obeyed.

"Papa," Dante said, standing.

Salvatore embraced his son, then turned to me. His gaze was even more penetrating than his wife's.

"So. This is the girl my son can't stop talking about."

"Mia Santos, Mr. DeLuca. It's an honor to meet you."

"Salvatore. We're not formal here." But his handshake was firm, assessing. "Dante tells me you're an art consultant."

"Yes, sir."

"We have several galleries. Perhaps you've heard of them."

Of course I had. They were part of the money laundering operation.

"I have. Beautiful spaces."

"Maybe you could consult for us sometime. Give us your professional opinion on our collections."

It was a test. I could feel everyone watching.

"I'd be happy to."

Salvatore nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, Isabella, is dinner ready? I'm starving."

Dinner was in a formal dining room with a table that could easily seat twenty. Tonight it was just the five of us, but the table was set with china and crystal like we were hosting royalty.

The meal was elaborate. Multiple courses, all Italian, all clearly homemade. Isabella had either cooked all day or had help, but the food was incredible.

"This is amazing," I said honestly after the first bite of pasta.

Isabella smiled, pleased. "My grandmother's recipe. Dante's great grandmother, actually. I've been making it the same way for forty years."

"She's being modest," Salvatore said. "My wife is the best cook in New York. Maybe all of America."

"Papa, you're biased," Marco said.

"Of course I'm biased. Doesn't make it less true."

The conversation flowed through dinner. Isabella asked about my family, my background, my work. I gave the cover story, staying as close to truth as possible. They listened carefully. Too carefully.

"So your parents have a restaurant," Salvatore said. "What kind?"

"Italian. Small place, family owned."

"Where in New Jersey?"

I named the town. All verifiable information if they checked.

"I know that area," Salvatore said. "Good Italian community there. What's the restaurant called?"

I told him. Also true.

He nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe I know it. I'll have to stop by sometime."

A threat wrapped in politeness. He was going to check my story. Of course he was.

"They'd be honored," I said smoothly.

Marco had been quiet through most of the meal, but now he spoke up. "So Mia, how did you and Dante meet? He's been very mysterious about it."

"An art gallery opening. We started talking about a painting."

"How romantic." Marco's tone was mocking. "Love at first sight over abstract expressionism."

"Marco," Dante said sharply.

"What? I'm just asking questions. Getting to know the woman my brother is so serious about already." He looked at me. "It is serious, right? I mean, you're here meeting the family after what, a week?"

"Marco, that's enough," Isabella said.

But Marco wasn't done. "I'm just saying, Dante usually takes his time with women. This seems fast. Makes me wonder what's so special about this one."

The atmosphere at the table had gone tense. Salvatore was watching the exchange with hooded eyes. Isabella looked disapproving. Dante looked furious.

I needed to defuse this.

"You're right," I said calmly. "It is fast. But sometimes you meet someone and you just know. The timing feels right. The connection is there." I looked at Dante. "I've never felt this with anyone else."

The lie came easily. Too easily.

Dante's expression softened. He reached over and took my hand. "Neither have I."

Marco made a sound that might have been disgust. Salvatore's eyes narrowed slightly, still assessing.

But Isabella smiled. "I knew Salvatore for three weeks before he proposed. When you know, you know."

"Three weeks?" I said, surprised.

"Three weeks," Salvatore confirmed. "Saw her at a wedding, knew she was the one. Married six months later. Fifty years this October."

"That's beautiful," I said. And it was, in a twisted way. A crime boss and his wife, fifty years together.

"Family is everything," Salvatore said, his voice serious now. "Blood, loyalty, commitment. These are what matter. Not money, not power. Family."

It felt like a test. Like he was telling me something important about their values, their priorities.

"I agree," I said. "Family is everything."

He held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "Good."

After dinner, Isabella offered to show me the house while the men talked business in the study. Translation: while they discussed things she didn't want me to hear yet.

We walked through the sprawling home, Isabella pointing out family photos, pieces of furniture that had been in the family for generations, the room where the boys grew up.

"Dante was always the responsible one," she said, pausing at a photo of teenage Dante and Marco. "Even as a child. Always watching out for his brother, trying to keep him out of trouble."

"They seem very different."

"They are. Marco is more like his father. Passionate, quick to anger, traditional. Dante is more like..." She paused. "Dante thinks about the future. About consequences. Sometimes I think he feels too much."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"In this life?" She looked at me directly. "Sometimes yes. Feeling too much can get you hurt. Can make you weak."

There was a warning in her words. I wasn't sure if it was meant for me or for Dante.

"Mrs. DeLuca, can I ask you something?"

"Isabella. And yes."

"Do you approve? Of me and Dante?"

She studied me for a long moment. "I don't know you yet. But I see how he looks at you. How you look at him. That's not something that can be faked."

If only she knew.

"My son has been hurt before," she continued. "A woman who wanted what he could give her, not who he was. It made him careful. Guarded. But with you, he's different. More open."

Guilt twisted in my stomach. "I would never hurt him."

The biggest lie I'd told all night.

"I hope that's true." Isabella's gaze was sharp. "Because if you do hurt him, you'll answer to me. And I protect my children with everything I have."

It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.

"I understand," I said quietly.

We rejoined the men in the living room. Marco had apparently left while we were touring the house. Dante and his father were having what looked like a tense conversation that stopped when we entered.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Fine," Dante said, but his expression said otherwise. "Ready to go?"

I said my goodbyes to his parents. Isabella hugged me, which felt wrong in every way. Salvatore shook my hand again, his grip just a little too firm.

"Take care of my son," he said.

"I will."

Another lie to add to the pile.

In the car, Dante was quiet.

"Your brother doesn't like me," I said finally.

"Marco doesn't like anyone I date. He thinks everyone is trying to use me."

"Is he usually right?"

"More often than I'd like." He glanced at me. "But you're different."

"How do you know?"

"Because you don't care about the money or the lifestyle. You have your own career, your own life. You're not looking for me to give you anything."

Except evidence to destroy your family. Except information that will put you in prison. Except everything I need to complete my mission.

"Your mother is protective," I said, changing the subject.

"She's lost too many people. Friends, family. This life takes a toll." He was quiet for a moment. "She likes you, though. I can tell."

"Your father is harder to read."

"He's always harder to read. But if he didn't approve, you wouldn't have made it through dinner. He would have found a way to make you leave."

"That's comforting."

Dante reached over and took my hand. "I'm sorry about Marco. He's going through something right now. Taking it out on everyone."

"What's he going through?"

"Family business. Disagreements about direction." He clearly wasn't going to elaborate. "Don't worry about him. He'll come around."

We drove in silence for a while, his hand warm in mine.

"Thank you," he said finally. "For tonight. For meeting them. I know it was intense."

"It was fine."

"It was a test. And you passed." He brought my hand to his lips, kissed my knuckles. "My mother never hugs anyone on first meeting. She hugged you."

Because I lied convincingly enough. Because I played the part well enough.

Because I'm good at my job.

"Come home with me," Dante said. "Stay tonight."

I should have said no. Should have maintained some distance after the intensity of meeting his family.

But I said yes.

Because that was the job. Because getting closer meant getting more information.

And absolutely not because some part of me wanted to be in his bed again, wanted to feel his hands on me, wanted to pretend for a few more hours that this was real.

Not that at all.

We went back to his penthouse. He poured wine, we stood at the windows looking out at the city. Then we were kissing, and then we were in his bedroom, and then I was naked under him, his body moving in mine, his voice saying my name like a prayer.

And for those hours, I let myself forget.

Forget that everything was a lie. Forget that I was destroying him. Forget that this would all end in betrayal and heartbreak.

I just let myself feel.

It was the most dangerous thing I'd ever done.

I woke up at three in the morning to find Dante awake beside me, staring at the ceiling.

"Can't sleep?" I asked.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

"You. This." He turned his head to look at me. "How fast this is happening. How right it feels."

My chest tightened. "Dante..."

"I know it's crazy. I know we just met. But I feel like I've been waiting for you." His hand found mine under the covers. "Like everything before this was just killing time."

I should have deflected. Should have kept it light. But instead I said, "I feel it too."

Because I did. God help me, I did.

He pulled me closer, my head on his chest. His heartbeat steady under my ear.

"Stay," he said. "Tomorrow. Stay here. Work from my place. I want to wake up with you."

"Dante, I can't just move in."

"I'm not asking you to move in. Just stay tomorrow. One more day."

One more day of the lie. One more day of pretending.

"Okay," I said. "One more day."

He kissed the top of my head, and I felt him relax into sleep.

I stayed awake for a long time after, staring into the darkness.

Thinking about Brian, cold in his grave. About all the people the DeLuca family had hurt. About justice and duty and doing the right thing.

Trying not to think about how right it felt to be in Dante's arms.

Trying not to think about how much it was going to hurt when I destroyed him.

Trying not to think about the fact that I was falling in love with my target.

And failing at all of it.