Chapter 2 - The Visitor at Midnight
Mia stood frozen, her fingers inching toward the brass deadbolt.
He knows my address.
Of course he knew her address. He was Dante Moretti. It had probably taken his intelligence chief four minutes to pull her employment file, verify her lease, and track her to this third-floor walkup in East Boston.
“Mia,” Nina whimpered from the kitchen doorway, clutching the skillet to her chest like a shield. “Don't open it.”
“If he wanted to break the door down, Nina, it would already be off its hinges,” Mia said quietly.
She turned the lock and pulled the heavy oak door open.
Dante Moretti stood in the hallway.
He was alone, though Mia caught a glimpse of a broad-shouldered man in a dark overcoat stationed down by the second-floor landing. Dante had removed his gloves, holding them in one large, tanned hand. He looked massive in the cramped, dimly lit hallway, his presence filling the space until the air itself felt heavy.
His hazel eyes locked onto her face, scanning her pale skin, the faint dark circles under her eyes, and the oversized sweater she had thrown on over her clothes.
“You run fast,” Dante observed softly. “Especially for someone who looked like she was about to faint behind booth four.”
“What do you want, Mr. Moretti?” Mia demanded, keeping her shoulder wedged against the frame. “It’s past one in the morning.”
Dante didn't answer immediately. His eyes drifted downward, taking in her loose sweater, before returning to her face. “In Sicilian culture, when a woman insults a man’s intelligence, he usually demands an apology. When she calls him attractive, he usually buys her a drink.”
“I’m off the clock,” Mia said flatly. “And I don't drink.”
Dante’s left eyebrow rose slightly. “I noticed. You poured whiskey for my table for three years without ever touching a drop of house wine. You also speak an obscure, nineteenth-century dialect of West Sicilian that hasn't been heard in Palermo since my great-grandfather’s era.”
He stepped forward. He didn't force his way in, but his posture invited no argument. “Can we speak inside? Or would you prefer my men keep guard outside your window all night?”
Mia stared at him, feeling the sharp edge of his authority pressing against her resolve. She looked back at Nina, who was wide-eyed and shaking in the kitchen, then stepped back, opening the door wider.
“Five minutes,” Mia said. “And tell your bodyguard to stop standing on the radiator on the second floor. Mrs. Higgins next door will call the precinct if he scratches the paint.”
A faint, genuine flicker of amusement crossed Dante’s features—a brief crack in his lethal composure. He stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
He took off his charcoal overcoat, laying it neatly over the back of a wooden chair, and looked around the cramped apartment. It was clean, smelled of chamomile tea and faint lemon bleach, and was furnished with hand-me-down furniture.
“Miss Bell,” Dante began, turning his intense gaze back to her. “Or should I say, Mrs. Bell?”
Mia’s spine went rigid. “My personal life is not your business.”
Dante reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out a sleek silver cigarette case, then paused, looking at her before putting it back. “Three years ago, you applied at Bellafiore’s. You listed yourself as a widow. No prior references in Boston. A Social Security number registered six months prior in New York.”
He took a step toward her, his heavy leather shoes silent against the worn floorboards. “For three years, you were a ghost in my restaurant. Quiet. Efficient. Never looked anyone in the eye. And tonight, you suddenly decide to speak to me in the language of my ancestors.”
“It was a mistake,” Mia said tightly, folding her arms across her chest to protect her stomach. “I was exhausted. I spoke without thinking.”
“No,” Dante countered softly, stopping two feet in front of her. “You spoke with absolute honesty. You called me an idiot.”
“Because you were talking about me like I wasn't standing right there!” Mia snapped, her temper flaring again. “You were treating me like an object on a menu!”
Dante stared down at her, his hazel eyes darkening with an unreadable intensity. He reached out, his hand hovering inches from her cheek, his knuckles almost brushing her heated skin.
“I was talking about you,” Dante admitted, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper, “because I’ve watched you for three years, Mia. And tonight was the first night you didn't look like you were hiding from the world.”
Mia’s breath hitched in her throat. The proximity of him—his scent of tobacco, rain, and expensive sandalwood—was overwhelming.
“You need to leave,” Mia whispered, forcing herself to maintain eye contact.
Before Dante could respond, a sudden, sharp spasm racked Mia’s lower abdomen. She gasped, her face draining of color as she stumbled backward against the wall, her hand clutching her stomach tightly.
Dante’s instincts kicked in instantly. He stepped forward, his large, warm hands catching her by the waist before her knees could buckle.
“Mia!” Nina yelled from the kitchen, dropping the skillet with a loud crash.
“I’m fine,” Mia wheezed, her forehead resting against the crisp cotton of Dante’s shirt. “I just... I felt sick.”
Dante didn't let go. His hands held her firmly, his thumbs brushing against her ribs. As he held her, his palm settled over the lower curve of her belly.
He froze.
His eyes widened slightly as he felt the slight, firm swelling beneath her sweater—a physical reality that no oversized garment could entirely hide from a man paying close attention.
May you like
He looked down at her pale, sweating face, then back down at his own hand resting against her abdomen.
“Mia,” Dante said, his voice dropping all trace of charm, replaced by a sudden, dangerous gravity. “Are you pregnant?”
