Deadly Devotion

Chapter Two: The First Date

I spent all of Saturday preparing for a dinner that shouldn't have mattered as much as it did.

It was just an assignment. Just the next step in getting close to Dante DeLuca. I'd done undercover work before. I knew how to play a role, how to become someone else, how to make a target believe whatever I needed them to believe.

But standing in front of my closet at six in the evening, I'd changed outfits three times and still wasn't satisfied.

Too formal. Too casual. Too obviously trying. Not trying enough.

"Get it together, Santos," I muttered to myself, finally settling on a black dress that was elegant without being over the top. Simple jewelry. Hair down in loose waves. Makeup that looked natural but took forty minutes to achieve.

I looked like Mia Santos, successful art consultant. Sophisticated, cultured, the kind of woman who belonged in expensive restaurants with powerful men.

Not like Mia Santos, FBI agent, who usually wore jeans and kept her gun within reach.

My phone buzzed at exactly seven.

Dante: I'm downstairs.

Of course he was exactly on time. Punctual. Professional. Even in his personal life.

I grabbed my clutch, took one last look in the mirror, and headed down.

The doorman opened the building's front door with a knowing smile, and I stepped out onto the sidewalk.

A black car sat at the curb. Expensive, sleek, the kind of car that cost more than most people made in a year. The back door opened and Dante stepped out.

He looked even better than he had at the gallery. Dark suit, perfectly tailored, no tie. The top button of his shirt undone. Casual elegance that probably took as much effort as my own carefully constructed appearance but looked effortless on him.

His eyes moved over me, slow and appreciative, and I felt the look like a physical touch.

"You look beautiful," he said simply.

"Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself."

He smiled and gestured to the open car door. "Shall we?"

I slid into the backseat. The interior was all leather and luxury. Dante got in beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something expensive and subtle. Woodsy with a hint of spice.

The driver pulled away from the curb smoothly, and we merged into the New York evening traffic.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"A place in Tribeca. Italian. The chef is from Sicily, makes everything the old way. My mother approves, which is saying something."

"Your mother has strong opinions about food?"

"My mother has strong opinions about everything." He said it with affection, not complaint. "But especially food. She thinks most restaurants in America don't understand Italian cuisine."

"And this one does?"

"This one is owned by a family friend. So she makes an exception."

Family friend. Which probably meant connected to his family's business in some way. I filed that information away.

"Do you take all your dates to places your mother approves of?" I asked.

"Only the ones I want to impress."

The comment hung in the air between us, loaded with intention. I met his eyes, held his gaze.

"Am I someone you want to impress?"

"Very much."

The driver navigated through the city while Dante and I talked about safe things. The art at the gallery opening. His collection. My supposed work in Paris. He asked intelligent questions, listened carefully to my answers. I'd memorized my cover story so thoroughly that the lies came easily, naturally.

But underneath the pleasant conversation, I was aware of him. The way he sat, relaxed but attentive. The way his eyes never quite left my face. The heat building in the small space between us.

This was dangerous. Not the assignment. Not the family. This. The pull I felt toward him that had nothing to do with the job.

The restaurant was small and intimate. The kind of place that didn't advertise, didn't need to. The host greeted Dante by name, led us to a corner table that offered both privacy and a view of the entire room.

Dante held my chair. His hand brushed my shoulder as I sat, and I felt the touch all the way down my spine.

A waiter appeared immediately with wine. Dante ordered in Italian, fluid and natural, and the waiter nodded approvingly.

"You speak Italian," I observed.

"My grandmother insisted we learn. She was born in Sicily, came here when she was sixteen. Never lost her accent, never stopped speaking Italian at home." He smiled at the memory. "She said if we were going to carry the family name, we needed to carry the language too."

"That's sweet."

"She was formidable. Still is. Ninety two years old and still tells my father what to do."

I filed away more information. Grandmother, ninety two, Sicily, still alive. Family matriarch with influence over Don Salvatore.

"What about your family?" Dante asked. "Are you close with them?"

Careful. Stay close to the truth when possible.

"My parents run a restaurant. Small place, nothing fancy. They work hard." All true, just leaving out that it was in New Jersey and I visited them regularly. "I'm an only child. They wanted me to take over the business, but I had other plans."

"Art history?"

"I wanted something beautiful. Something that mattered beyond just making money." The irony of saying this to a man whose family fortune was built on crime wasn't lost on me. "Art felt like it meant something."

"It does mean something. Beauty matters. Culture matters." He leaned forward slightly. "People think my family is only about business. Money. Power. But my father collects art. My mother patronizes the opera. We understand that life is more than just profit."

I wanted to laugh at the absurdity. The DeLuca family, patrons of the arts, while they laundered money and ran protection rackets.

But I just smiled. "That's a lovely way to look at it."

The wine arrived. Dante tasted it, approved, and the waiter poured for both of us.

"To new beginnings," Dante said, raising his glass.

"To new beginnings," I echoed.

We touched glasses. The wine was excellent. Probably cost more per bottle than my actual monthly rent.

Dinner was a production. Multiple courses, each one better than the last. Dante ordered for both of us, checking first if I had any preferences or allergies. The food was incredible. Rich, complex, the kind of cooking that took hours and real skill.

We talked through the entire meal. About art, about the city, about travel. He'd been to Europe dozens of times. Studied at Harvard. Spoke three languages. He was educated, well read, genuinely interesting.

It would have been easier if he'd been stupid. Easier if he'd been the stereotype. The brutal mobster with no refinement, no depth.

But Dante DeLuca was possibly the most intelligent man I'd ever had a conversation with. He challenged my opinions, asked thoughtful questions, made me laugh with dry observations about the art world's pretensions.

"You're smiling," he said at one point.

"Am I not allowed to smile?"

"You are. I like it. But you seemed surprised."

"I am, a little."

"Why?"

Because you're not what I expected. Because the file on you didn't mention that you're charming and funny. Because it's hard to remember you're a criminal when you're quoting Dante Alighieri and making me laugh.

"I didn't expect to enjoy myself this much," I said honestly.

"Good. That was the goal." He refilled my wine glass. "Can I confess something?"

"Please."

"I don't usually do this. Ask women out after meeting them once. I'm not very good at the casual dating thing."

"Why not?"

He considered the question seriously. "My life is complicated. My family, my responsibilities. It's hard to find someone who understands that world. Or who I'd want to bring into it."

"And yet you asked me."

"Because when I saw you at the gallery, standing in front of that painting, you looked like you actually saw it. Not just looked at it. Saw it." He met my eyes. "I wanted to know someone who sees things that way."

The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn't a line. This was real.

And that made it so much worse.

"I'm glad you asked," I said. Also honest, which was a mistake.

After dinner, we walked. The Tribeca streets were quiet, the spring air cool and pleasant. Dante's driver followed at a discreet distance.

"Do you always have a driver?" I asked.

"Usually. I don't like dealing with parking. And it's safer."

"Safer how?"

He glanced at me, something careful in his expression. "My family has enemies. Business rivals. It's easier to have someone watching."

Business rivals. What a polite way to say other crime families.

"That sounds stressful."

"It is what it is. I was born into it. You learn to adapt."

We walked in silence for a moment. I was hyperaware of him beside me. The way he shortened his stride to match mine. The way his hand occasionally brushed my arm when we turned a corner.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Sure."

"Why did you really move to New York? Most art consultants in Paris stay in Paris. Better market, more connections."

Careful. He was testing me.

"I wanted something different. Paris was beautiful but it felt like I was living someone else's life. Going to the same events, meeting the same people, having the same conversations." I looked up at the buildings around us. "New York feels more real. More alive."

"It is alive. Chaotic, sometimes brutal, but alive." He stopped walking and turned to face me. "I'm glad you came here. Glad I met you."

We stood on the sidewalk, the city moving around us, and the moment stretched between us. His eyes dropped to my mouth. I knew what was coming. Knew I should let it happen because that was the assignment.

But when he stepped closer, when his hand came up to cup my face, when his thumb brushed my lower lip, it didn't feel like an assignment.

It felt like something I wanted.

He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away. I didn't. His lips met mine, soft at first, questioning. I answered by leaning into him, my hands finding his chest.

The kiss deepened. His other hand went to my waist, pulling me closer. I opened my mouth to him, and the kiss went from soft to something else entirely. Heat and want and a connection that felt electric.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing harder.

"I've been wanting to do that all night," he said, his voice rough.

"Just all night?"

"Since the gallery. Since the moment you turned around and looked at me."

He kissed me again, and I let myself get lost in it. Let myself forget, just for a moment, that everything about this was a lie.

When we pulled apart the second time, his driver had pulled up beside us.

"I should get you home," Dante said, but he didn't sound happy about it.

"Probably."

In the car, he kept my hand in his, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm. The drive back to my apartment was too short and too long at the same time.

The car stopped in front of my building.

"Can I see you again?" Dante asked.

"I'd like that."

"Tomorrow?"

"You don't believe in playing hard to get?"

"I'm too old for games. When I know what I want, I go after it." He raised my hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to my knuckles. "And I want to see you again."

The directness was disarming. Most men played it cool, pretended to be less interested than they were. Dante just said exactly what he meant.

"Tomorrow," I agreed.

He got out, walked me to my building entrance. Kissed me one more time, slower this time, like he was memorizing the feel of it.

"Goodnight, Mia."

"Goodnight, Dante."

I walked into my building without looking back, but I could feel him watching until the door closed behind me.

In the elevator, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall. Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips. Eyes that looked too bright.

I looked like a woman who'd just been thoroughly kissed.

I looked like a woman falling for someone.

In my apartment, I locked the door and leaned against it.

My phone buzzed. Chen.

Chen: Check in. How did it go?

I stared at the message. How did it go? It went perfectly. I made contact, built rapport, established attraction. He asked me out again. Everything according to plan.

Me: Good. Second date tomorrow.

Chen: Excellent work. Keep building the connection. We need access to his personal life, his associates, his habits. This is exactly what we needed.

I put the phone down and walked to the window. Looked out at the New York skyline, the lights of the city stretching endlessly.

Dante's kiss was still warm on my lips. His words still echoing in my head. When I know what I want, I go after it.

He wanted me. The fake me. The lie I was selling.

And God help me, I wanted him too.

I touched my lips, remembering the kiss.

This was a problem. A serious problem.

But tomorrow I'd see him again. And the day after that. And the day after that. I'd get closer, gather evidence, do my job.

I just had to remember it was a job.

Even if tonight, for a few perfect hours, it had felt like so much more.