I expected him to leave by morning. Dante Moretti usually answered humiliation with retaliation.
But when my car swept up to the curb the next morning, he was there.
A cold London drizzle spotted his plain black coat, the kind his own foot soldiers wore. He had put away the bespoke suits and shaved, but his face was gaunt from another sleepless night.
He stayed across the street with his hands in his pockets. He made no move toward me.
In New York, men had crossed the street to avoid him. In London, people passed without knowing his name.
“Ma’am?” Julian, my head of security, held the car door open, his own gaze fixed warily on the figure across the street.
I slid into the leather backseat without a word. Julian watched Dante until we turned the corner.
The same thing happened every
