Chapter 6 - A Dangerous Dinner
The following Monday, Clara expected things to return to normal. Instead, when she arrived at the estate, Vance met her at the front door with an entirely new set of instructions.
“The Boss wants you in the main dining room for lunch,” Vance said, taking her coat.
Clara frowned. “Lunch? I usually have lunch with Leo in the parlor.”
“Leo is already there,” Vance replied. “Along with Uncle Vincenzo and a few of the capos from Brooklyn.”
Clara’s stomach knotted. “Uncle Vincenzo? Are you out of your mind? You want me to sit at a table with mob capos?”
“The Boss gave an order, Miss Bennett,” Vance said smoothly, gesturing toward the formal dining hall. “And trust me, you don’t want to keep him waiting.”
The formal dining room was vast, dominated by a mahogany table that could seat twenty people. Crystal chandeliers blazed overhead, and silver silverware gleamed against crisp white linen.
At the head of the table sat Dante. To his right sat Leo, wearing his noise-canceling headphones, quietly tracing patterns on a small tablet.
Further down the table sat three older men in expensive custom suits. One of them—Uncle Vincenzo—had a face like a bulldog, scarred, heavy-lidded, and chewing on an unlit cigar.
When Clara walked in, the conversation at the table died instantly. Every eye turned toward her.
“Ah,” Uncle Vincenzo rumbled, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Clara’s simple blue dress with open disdain. “So this is the music teacher. The one who thinks she can stop waltzes and lecture Don Moretti in public.”
Clara didn’t cower. She kept her chin high, walking steadily toward the empty chair to Dante’s left—the seat reserved for the hostess.
“And you must be Uncle Vincenzo,” Clara said sweetly, pulling out her chair and sitting down without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve heard so much about you. Mostly from federal prosecutors, but family is family, right?”
Silence dropped over the dining room so heavy you could hear a pin drop on the rug.
One of the Brooklyn capos choked on his wine.
Vance, standing near the door, pressed a hand over his mouth to hide a sudden, violent cough of laughter.
Uncle Vincenzo’s face turned the color of a bruised plum. He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the crystal glasses. “You cheeky little brat! Dante, are you going to let some nobody from Queens disrespect your blood?”
Dante didn’t flinch. He picked up his water glass, took a slow sip, and set it down before looking across the table at his uncle with eyes like shards of ice.
“She’s not disrespecting my blood, Vincenzo,” Dante said softly, every word weighted with lethal authority. “She’s correcting your manners. And in my house, nobody raises their voice at my table while my son is eating.”
Vincenzo’s jaw worked silently. He glared at Clara, then at Dante, before muttering something foul in Sicilian and turning back to his plate.
Clara felt her heart racing a mile a minute, but she kept her hands steady in her lap. She looked over at Leo. The boy hadn’t even looked up from his tablet, entirely insulated by his headphones and his digital world, completely safe because the alpha predator at the head of the table had just drawn a line in the blood-soaked sand.
May you like
Dante turned his head slightly toward Clara. Under the cover of the white tablecloth, his hand brushed against her knee, giving a brief, reassuring squeeze.
“Eat your lunch, Clara,” Dante murmured, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. “You earned your keep today.”
