Deadly Devotion

Chapter Three: Deeper In

The second date was Sunday brunch.

Dante picked me up at eleven, this time in a different car. Still expensive, still black, still with the same quiet driver who never spoke.

"I thought we could do something more casual today," he said as I slid into the backseat beside him. "If that's okay."

"Casual sounds perfect."

He was dressed down. Well, his version of dressed down. Dark jeans, a perfectly fitted shirt, leather jacket. He looked good. Unfairly good.

We went to a place in the West Village. Small, cozy, the kind of neighborhood spot where everyone seemed to know him. The owner greeted him warmly, led us to a table in the back corner.

"You come here often," I observed.

"It's close to where I live. And Maria makes the best eggs in the city." He gestured to the older woman who'd seated us. "Her family is from the same village as my grandmother in Sicily. They've known each other for fifty years."

Family connections everywhere. The DeLuca web spread wide.

Brunch was relaxed. We talked about easier things than the night before. Favorite movies. Books. The best places we'd traveled. He was easy to talk to, genuinely interested in my answers.

I had to keep reminding myself that every word out of my mouth was a lie.

After we ate, we walked through Washington Square Park. The spring day was perfect. Warm sun, cool breeze, the park full of people enjoying the weather.

"Tell me about your work," Dante said as we walked. "What does an art consultant actually do?"

I'd practiced this. "I help private collectors acquire pieces. Sometimes I authenticate works, verify provenance. Sometimes I advise on building collections, what will appreciate in value, what fits their aesthetic."

"Sounds like you need to know people."

"The art world is all about connections. Dealers, auction houses, other collectors. You have to know who has what, who wants what, who's selling."

"Like any business."

"Exactly like any business."

We found a bench and sat. Dante stretched his arm along the back, not quite touching me but close enough that I felt the warmth of him.

"Can I ask you something personal?" he said.

"You can ask. I might not answer."

He smiled. "Fair enough. Last night, when I kissed you. Did you feel it too?"

Direct. Always so direct.

"Feel what?"

"Don't play games with me, Mia. You know what I mean."

I looked at him. At those dark eyes that saw too much. "Yes. I felt it."

"Good. Because I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."

Neither had I, which was the problem.

"Dante..."

"I know this is fast. We just met. But I'm not good at pretending I don't want something when I do." His hand moved to my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "And I want you."

The honesty was devastating. No games, no pretense. Just raw truth.

I should have deflected. Should have slowed this down. But instead I leaned into his touch.

"I want you too."

His eyes darkened. "Then come home with me."

My heart skipped. "Now?"

"Now."

This was moving fast. Faster than I'd planned. But fast meant access. Fast meant getting inside his world, his home, his life.

Fast meant doing my job.

"Okay," I said.

Dante lived in a penthouse in Tribeca. Of course he did.

The building was all glass and steel, modern and expensive. The doorman greeted him by name. The elevator required a key to access the top floor.

We rode up in silence, the air between us charged with anticipation. His hand found mine, fingers lacing together.

The elevator opened directly into his apartment.

It was stunning. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city. High ceilings, clean lines, tasteful furniture. And art. Everywhere. Paintings, sculptures, pieces I recognized from major artists.

"This is incredible," I said, walking to the windows. The view was breathtaking.

"I'm glad you like it." He came up behind me, close but not touching. "Can I get you something? Wine? Coffee?"

I turned to face him. We were inches apart. "I didn't come here for coffee."

Something shifted in his expression. Heat and hunger and intent.

"No," he agreed. "You didn't."

He kissed me like he'd been starving for it. His hands went to my waist, pulling me flush against him. I wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing him back just as hard.

This was the job, I told myself. This was getting close to the target. Building the connection. Creating intimacy and trust that I could exploit later.

But when his hands slid under my shirt, when I felt his body hard against mine, it didn't feel like work.

It felt like I was drowning and didn't want to be saved.

He walked me backward until my back hit the window. The glass was cool against my skin. His mouth moved to my neck, and I tilted my head to give him access.

"Bedroom," I managed to say.

"Here." His voice was rough against my throat. "I want you here. Against the window. With the whole city watching."

The idea should have made me hesitate. Instead it sent heat straight through me.

"Yes."

His hands were on the buttons of my shirt, undoing them quickly but carefully. I reached for his belt, fumbling slightly because my hands were shaking.

He caught my wrists, held them gently. "Slow down. We have time."

"I don't want slow."

"Too bad." He kissed me again, deeper this time. "I've been imagining this since the gallery. I'm not rushing it."

He finished with my shirt, pushed it off my shoulders. His eyes moved over me, dark and hungry, and I felt seen in a way that was almost too much.

"Beautiful," he said simply.

I reached for him again, and this time he let me. I got his shirt unbuttoned, pushed it off. His body was exactly what I'd expected. Lean muscle, strong shoulders, the kind of physique that came from discipline, not a gym.

I ran my hands over his chest, feeling his heart racing under my palm.

He made a low sound and pulled me against him, skin to skin. The sensation was electric. His hands went to the clasp of my bra, undid it with practiced ease.

"Dante."

"I know." He kissed down my throat, lower. "I know."

The rest of our clothes disappeared in a blur of desperate hands and hungry mouths. When we were both naked, he lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my back pressed against the cool glass.

"Tell me you want this," he said, his voice rough.

"I want this."

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

He entered me in one smooth thrust, and I cried out at the sensation. He stilled, giving me a moment to adjust.

"Okay?" he asked.

"More than okay. Move."

He did. Slow at first, each thrust deliberate and deep. I held onto his shoulders, lost in the feeling of him inside me, filling me completely.

The window behind me overlooked the city. Anyone with a telescope could probably see us. The thought should have bothered me. Instead it made everything hotter.

"Look at me," Dante said. "I want to see your face."

I met his eyes. The intimacy of it, the eye contact while he moved inside me, was almost too much.

His pace increased. Harder, faster, his hands gripping my hips. I could feel the pressure building, heat coiling low in my stomach.

"Touch yourself," he ordered. "I want to feel you come around me."

I slid my hand between us, found the bundle of nerves that was already sensitive and aching. A few quick circles and I was there, falling over the edge with a cry I couldn't hold back.

He followed seconds later, his grip tightening, my name on his lips as he came.

We stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, bodies still joined. His forehead rested against mine.

"That was..." he started.

"Yeah."

He carefully lowered me back to my feet. My legs were shaky. He kept his hands on my waist, steadying me.

"Come on," he said. "Let's move this to the bedroom before we scandalize the neighbors."

I laughed despite myself. "I think it's too late for that."

"Probably."

In his bedroom, we fell onto his bed, a tangle of limbs and still elevated heartbeats. He pulled me against his side, my head on his chest.

"Stay," he said quietly.

"I should probably go home."

"Stay anyway. Just for a while."

I knew I should leave. Maintain some distance. Keep this professional.

But his hand was moving slowly up and down my back, and his bed was comfortable, and I was suddenly exhausted from maintaining the lie.

"Okay," I said. "Just for a while."

I woke up two hours later to find Dante watching me.

"That's creepy," I said, my voice rough with sleep.

"You talk in your sleep."

My heart stopped. "What did I say?"

"Nothing coherent. Just sounds." He brushed hair off my face. "But you looked troubled. Bad dream?"

"I don't remember."

Please let that be true. Please let me not have said anything that would blow my cover.

"Are you hungry? I could order something."

"What time is it?"

"Almost five."

I'd slept for two hours in Dante DeLuca's bed. Chen would be furious if she knew. Or pleased. I wasn't sure which.

"I should probably go," I said, sitting up.

"Or you could stay. Have dinner with me. Spend the evening."

"Dante, this is moving really fast."

"I know. Does that bother you?"

Yes. No. I don't know.

"It's just... we barely know each other."

"So let's fix that. Stay. Talk to me. Let me know you."

The sincerity in his voice was dangerous. I should create distance. Should slow this down before I got in too deep.

But getting deep was the point. The whole point.

"Okay," I said. "I'll stay."

His smile was genuine and warm. "Good. Get dressed. I'll order food."

I found my clothes scattered across his living room. Got dressed while Dante called in an order for Thai food, wearing just his jeans, standing at the window where we'd just had s*x.

The domesticity of it was strange. Unsettling. This wasn't what undercover work usually looked like.

Dinner arrived. We ate on his couch, feet up on the coffee table, sharing containers of pad thai and spring rolls.

"Tell me about your family," I said. Gathering information, doing my job.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Siblings? Parents still together? Happy childhood?"

He smiled. "One brother, Marco. He's four years younger. We're... complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"He wants things I don't want. We have different ideas about the family business." He paused, choosing words carefully. "He thinks I'm too soft. Too concerned with appearances and legitimacy."

"Are you?"

"Maybe. My father built this empire from nothing. Came from Sicily with nothing, created all of this." He gestured around the apartment. "But the world is changing. The old ways don't work anymore. I want to move us into legitimate businesses. Real estate, restaurants, investments. Clean money."

Clean the dirty money, he meant. I heard what he wasn't saying.

"And your brother doesn't agree?"

"Marco likes the old ways. The respect that comes from fear. The power." Dante shook his head. "We fight about it constantly."

More information to file away. Tension between the brothers. Different visions for the family business. That could be useful.

"What about your parents?" I asked. "What do they think?"

"My father is old school, like Marco. But he's getting older. Tired. I think he sees the writing on the wall. That things have to change or we'll end up like the other families. Destroyed by the feds or by younger, hungrier organizations."

He had no idea how accurate that was. The FBI was coming for them. It was just a matter of time.

"My mother," he continued, "she just wants us all to survive. To be safe. She's lost too many people to this life. Friends, cousins. She's tired of going to funerals."

There was real pain in his voice. Real love for his mother. It made him human in a way that was deeply inconvenient.

"That must be hard for her," I said.

"It is. That's why I want to go legitimate. Give her peace. Let her stop worrying every time her phone rings that it's going to be bad news."

"That's a good reason."

"What about your family?" he asked. "You said they have a restaurant?"

Careful. Stay close to truth.

"Yeah. Small Italian place in New Jersey. My parents work there six days a week. Have for thirty years." All true. "They're good people. Hardworking. They wanted me to take over someday."

"But you didn't want that life."

"I wanted something different. Something that was mine, not just what was expected." Also true, ironically.

"I understand that." He pulled me closer, my back against his chest. "Sometimes I wonder what I'd be doing if I'd been born into a different family. What kind of life I'd have."

"What do you think you'd be?"

"I don't know. Something with art maybe. A curator. A professor. Something where I could spend my days surrounded by beautiful things instead of..." He trailed off.

"Instead of what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

But I knew what he meant. Instead of crime. Instead of violence. Instead of the family business that he clearly had complicated feelings about.

This would be so much easier if he was a monster. If he enjoyed the violence, embraced the criminality, had no conscience about any of it.

But Dante DeLuca was conflicted. Torn between loyalty and morality. Trapped by family and blood in a life he partially wanted out of.

It made him sympathetic. Relatable. Human.

It made my job so much harder.

We stayed on the couch for hours, talking about everything and nothing. He told me about his art collection, walked me through each piece and why he'd bought it. I told him stories about Paris that were half true, half fiction.

Around eleven, I finally forced myself to say I had to leave.

"When can I see you again?" he asked at the door.

"I don't know. I have work tomorrow."

"Dinner tomorrow night?"

"Dante..."

"Lunch? Coffee? Five minutes in a hallway somewhere?"

I laughed despite myself. "You're persistent."

"When I want something, I don't give up easily." He pulled me close, kissed me softly. "And I want you."

"Tomorrow night," I agreed. "Dinner."

"I'll pick you up at seven."

He kissed me one more time, then let me go.

In the car he'd called for me, I looked at my phone. Three missed calls from Chen. Two texts.

Chen: Check in. Need update.

Chen: Mia. Call me.

I waited until I was in my apartment, door locked, before calling back.

"Where have you been?" Chen demanded.

"With the target. Building rapport."

"For twelve hours?"

"He moves fast. So do I." I kept my voice professional, detached. "I'm in. He trusts me. We have another date tomorrow."

"Good. That's good." She paused. "How close are you getting?"

Close enough that I slept in his bed. Close enough that I know what he sounds like when he comes. Close enough that I'm starting to forget this is all a lie.

"Close enough," I said.

"Be careful, Mia. Don't let it get personal."

Too late, I thought. But I said, "I know what I'm doing."

After we hung up, I stood in my shower under water as hot as I could stand. Trying to wash away the feel of Dante's hands. The memory of his voice saying my name.

But when I closed my eyes, all I could see was his face. The way he looked at me. The trust in his eyes when he told me about his family.

Trust I was going to betray.

I got out of the shower and looked at myself in the mirror. Same face. Same eyes. But something felt different.

Something felt wrong.

I pushed the feeling down, locked it away. I had a job to do. Lives to protect. Justice to serve for Brian and all the other victims of the DeLuca family.

Dante DeLuca was charming and conflicted and human.

But he was still a criminal.

And I was still the person sent to destroy him.

I just had to keep reminding myself of that.

Even when every part of me was starting to wish it wasn't true.