Chapter 2 - THE REACH
The entire restaurant held its breath.
Leo’s small fingers opened and closed, grasping at the empty air between his father’s chest and my apron.
He didn't cry. He just stared at me with those serious, ancient gray eyes, demanding to be held.
Dante Rosselli looked down at his son, then slowly back up at me. The exhaustion in his face seemed to tighten into something dangerous.
"He doesn't like strangers," Dante said. His voice was a low rumble that barely carried over the jazz music, yet somehow commanded the space perfectly.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, taking a half-step back. "I'll go get your water."
"Wait."
Dante stood up. He was taller than I expected, a mountain of dark wool and quiet authority. He didn't ask for permission. He simply stepped forward and transferred the nine-month-old boy into my arms.
My breath hitched.
The moment Leo’s chest pressed against mine, a strange, electric jolt went through my heart. The baby instantly buried his face in the crook of my neck, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. His little fist grabbed a fistful of my cheap cotton shirt and held on for dear life.
It was as if he had been holding his breath for months, and I was the oxygen.
Mr. Carrillo was practically vibrating with terror behind the hostess stand. The two bodyguards shifted, their hands hovering near their jackets.
"What kind of perfume do you wear, Alina?" Dante asked softly.
"I don't wear perfume, Mr. Rosselli," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Just lavender soap. It's cheap. I buy it in bulk."
Dante’s jaw clenched so hard the scar along his cheekbone turned stark white.
"Lavender," he repeated. It wasn't a question. It sounded like a death sentence.
He reached out, his knuckles brushing against my collarbone. I flinched, but he wasn't touching me. He hooked his index finger under the thin silver chain around my neck and pulled it forward.
Hanging from the chain was a tarnished silver locket. It was shaped like a teardrop, heavy and old, with a distinct dent on the left side.
My mother had put it around my neck the night she disappeared. Never take it off, Lena. Never.
Dante stared at the locket. The air around us seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded.
"My mother," I said, my voice trembling. "She gave it to me."
"Your mother." Dante’s dark eyes locked onto mine. "Her name was Rosa."
I froze. "How do you know my mother's name?"
Dante didn't answer immediately. He looked at the baby, who was practically asleep against my shoulder, safe and secure.
"Because, Alina," Dante said, his voice dropping to a whisper that only I could hear. "Rosa didn't run away from the monsters eight months ago. She worked for them."
My stomach plummeted. "You're lying. My mother was a house cleaner. She was terrified of people like you."
"People with dragons on their skin?" Dante asked.
I gasped, stepping back, but Leo whimpered at the sudden movement, his tiny hands tightening their grip on me.
Dante reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. I braced myself, but he didn't pull out a weapon. He pulled out a piece of faded, worn paper.
He placed it on the crisp white tablecloth.
It was a train ticket. Boston to Montreal. Dated October 14th—the exact night she vanished.
"She bought two tickets that night," Dante said quietly. "One for her. One for you. But she never made it to the station."
He leaned closer, the scent of expensive cedar and cold rain washing over me.
"She was taken, Alina. And before they took her, she left something very important in my house."
May you like
I looked down at the sleeping baby in my arms. "Him?"
"No," Dante said, his eyes dropping to the silver locket resting against my chest. "That."
