“’Cause he’s the kinda man’d take the shirt off his own back for anyone,” he asserted in a voice that was nearly a shout. He thumped his fist over his heart and glared at me. “Even for the likes of me.”
I didn’t have a response to that, but luckily, the elevator pinged, and the doors slid open to reveal the reception area of Dante’s apartment. Forgetting about Bruno, I stepped into the room, transfixed by the moody ambiance of his space.
Everything was black, gray, or glass.
The round walls of the foyer were a charcoal plaster, Italianate and modern at the same time. A huge circular skylight cut into the ceiling spilled pale autumnal light onto the towering olive tree at the center of the small room. It perfumed the air with its green, rich aroma even though there was no fruit on its boughs. The fragrance instantly took me back to Naples, the trees in our neighbor Francesca Moretti’s yard, and the feel of the fruit bursting beneath my bare feet as I chased my siblings through the trees during the summer.
I blinked away the memories and the accompanying ache in my chest as I noticed the music swelling through the apartment through surround speakers.
Dean Martin was crooning about an evening in Roma, but that wasn’t what had me creeping forward to peer into what I assumed was the living room.
It was the swelling, robust sound of a vaguely familiar voice singing along to the music.
When I turned the corner, the open living and kitchen space sprawled before me, everything the same black, gray, and glass theme of the foyer, starkly masculine yet also comfortable. Dante himself was in the huge kitchen at the black marble island singing as he rolled gnocchi by hand.
I blinked.
Others in the room had paused what they were doing when they took notice of me, but my eyes were trained on the singing mafioso making delicate pasta with his man murdering hands.
I blinked again, at a loss for words.
Someone must have alerted him to my presence because Dante looked up from his work to lock eyes with me and a slow, liquid smile spilled across his face.
Something in my belly fluttered.
I cleared my throat, squared my shoulders, and moved through the living room toward the kitchen. “Well, if you’re trying to be a cliché, you’re certainly succeeding.”
Dante laughed, the sound just as musical as his prior singing. “Ah, Elena, I’m beginning to enjoy your wit.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I cautioned dryly as I placed my bag on one of the stools at the island and rounded it to check out his anklet. “Ah, I see they set you up.”
He presented his left leg, lifting the fabric of the worn jeans molded to his thick thigh to show me the device. “Pinched the hell out of my leg hair, the bastardo, but he got it done in ten minutes. I was surprised.”
“It doesn’t take long,” I agreed. “If you could just show me the system, I’ll be on my way.”
“You should stay for the party,” Dante decided, wiping his flour-coated hands on a dish towel before he crossed his arms, the muscles bulging dangerously beneath his tight black tee. He leaned a hip against the island and considered me. “You could use the fun, I think.”
“You don’t know me well enough to know what I could use,” I countered idly as I moved to the monitoring system I noticed set up on a sleek desk in one corner of the kitchen. “And honestly, it’s the first day of your house arrest. The probation office is probably surveilling the building. There is no way they will let you host a party.”
The smile he flashed me was all handsome arrogance. “It’s already taken care of.”
“You paid someone off,” I surmised with pursed lips, channeling my lack of approval through my narrowed eyes.
It only seemed to amuse him further, the creases beside his dancing eyes deepening. “Sometimes, Elena, charm is enough.”
I rolled my eyes at him before turning my back once more to actually check out the system they’d installed. It was a standard setup. The probation office would have a man set to monitor Dante’s movements through the GPS device in the living room. If he strayed too far from the tracking beacon at the apartment, an alarm would alert the office and the police to his violation.
Violating the terms of his bond could mean as many as fifteen years in prison regardless of whether he was found guilty of his original crime.
“You are Italian, a Neapolitan, certainly you realize what day it is,” he said, watching me as I looked over the system. “September nineteenth, the day of Saint Gennaro.”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t celebrate the saint days.”
He frowned at my flippancy. “You judge those who do? All of Little Italy and the Italians who revere such things?”