Page 32 of Blood Orange Christmas
Afterward, the guests enjoy lunch. After they finish and the laughter and clinking glasses fade through the halls, what’s left behind are the faint scents of roasted fennel, saffron, and smoke. I return to the kitchen, which is spotless again, all but one corner—our corner. Dante promised me a plate after the summit crowd finished eating, and he keeps his word. He comes in still wearing the same shirt from the day, sleeves rolled, collar open, the fatigue in his face doing nothing to blunt how sharp he looks.
He nods toward the counter. “Sit. You’ve been on your feet all day.”
I laugh quietly and shake my head. “I could say the same to you.”
But I sit anyway.
He opens a small bottle of Amarone and pours it into two stemless glasses. “No speeches tonight,” he says. “No guests. Just food that tastes like food.”
On the plate is grilled sea bass with lemon and capers, left over from the feast but plated as though he’d planned it just for this. He adds a spoonful of the saffron risotto I made earlier, and the aroma fills the room again—bright, warm, almost forgiving.
We eat slowly. There’s something unspoken between us, the kind of quiet that feels more like holding one’s breath than relaxing. Each time I look up, his eyes are already on me. Not hungry. Just watchful.
“Does it feel strange,” I ask, “to have everyone gone?”
He wipes his mouth with the napkin, leans back in his chair, and looks toward the darkened hall. “It feels quieter than it should. I don’t trust quiet.”
I trace the rim of my glass. “You never did.”
“Because it usually means someone’s planning something,” he says. “Noise is safer.”
We share a small smile, the first real one of the night. It feels like the tiniest reprieve before the next storm.
Outside, the wind lifts through the vines. Somewhere beyond the courtyard, a shutter claps once and falls still again. Dante glances toward the sound instinctively, like a man who never stops keeping count of exits.
He checks his watch, then his phone. The screen lights his face briefly before he sets it back down on the table, expression unreadable.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer at once. He finishes his wine, sets the glass down carefully, and then says, “Paolo still hasn’t called.”
I know that name. His cousin. His fixer. The one he trusts when he doesn’t trust anyone else.
“I thought you said he was supposed to be here tonight,” I say.
“He was,” Dante answers. “He’s been off the grid since morning.”
My stomach twists. “Maybe he’s delayed.”
He shakes his head. “Paolo doesn’t get delayed. He’s the one who keeps others from getting delayed. And I told him not to step outside the route, not tonight. He knows better.”
His voice is calm, but I can hear the control in it—the kind that sits just over something darker. He gets up and takes his phone again, scrolling through something that looks like a map, then swears under his breath.
“He shut off his GPS,” he mutters. “Or someone did it for him.”
I rise, setting my napkin down. “Dante, maybe he just?—”
He cuts me off with a look. “No. If Paolo could reach me, he would. He’s not answering calls, he’s not sending signals, and he hasn’t checked in with the men on the southern route. That’s not a mistake. That’s a message.”
I can feel the tension in the air now, the way it thickens between us. He pulls his jacket from the back of the chair, slides it on, and looks around the room once—every surface, every shadow.
“I’ll be back as soon as I find him,” he says quietly.
I take a step forward. “You’re going now?”
“There’s no one else who can,” he replies. “I sent Luca to the west road, but Paolo’s last trace was in the hills. If someone’s using him to get to me, I need to know before they decide to come here.”
He checks the safety on the pistol holstered under his jacket. The click is soft but final.
