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DANTE

T he jazz quartet’s rendition of “The Way You Look Tonight” filled the great room as I watched Lark help Alice arrange the dessert table. She managed to avoid me for most of the reception, but I noticed how her eyes kept finding me across the room, only to quickly dart away when I caught her looking. Each time it happened, I felt that same pull I’d experienced the first time I saw her—a recognition of something I couldn’t quite name.

The strung lights cast shifting patterns across the hardwood floor, and outside, the sun was setting over Canada Lake, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that reminded me of the blush that had colored Lark’s cheeks during our brief conversation earlier.

“Just ask her to dance,” Grit muttered, appearing at my side with a fresh whiskey. “Worst she can say is no.”

The music shifted to something slower—“At Last”—and I saw my opening. The song choice felt pointed, almost prophetic, though I tried not to read too much into it.

“Miss Gregory.” I kept my voice soft as I approached, noting how her fingers tightened on the edge of the dessert table. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

She tensed, then surprised me by turning slowly to face me. “One,” she finally said. “For Alice’s sake.”

I guided her to the dance floor, where the bride and groom swayed to the music, hyperaware of how she held herself slightly away from me, as though she was ready to bolt at any moment. My hand, while light on her waist, respecting the careful distance she maintained even as we moved together, still sent a jolt through my system that I tried hard to ignore.

“You’re a good dancer,” she said almost begrudgingly.

“My mother insisted on lessons.” I kept my tone casual, though the memory of those Sunday afternoons, learning to waltz in our family’s ballroom, still ached. How she’d hum along with the instructor’s counting, her smile when I finally mastered a complicated step. That was, of course, before she disappeared, vanishing in the night when I was only six years old. It was also before my father died and my brother took over the family business, and everything changed. “She believed every gentleman should know how to dance properly.”

“Is that what you are? A gentleman?”

The challenge in her voice made me smile despite myself. “I’m trying to be.”

She was quiet for a moment as we turned across the floor. I caught a hint of her perfume—something light and floral that reminded me of early spring mornings. “You were at the coffee shop,” she said finally. “In Manhattan.”

“Yes.” There was no point denying it. “Though I didn’t know who you were then.”

“Just another target to surveil?”

“No.” I spun her gently under my arm, bringing her fractionally closer when she returned. Close enough to see the faint silver threads in her cornflower-blue eyes. “No, but you intrigued me.”

Her breath caught slightly. I wasn’t sure whether it was from my words or our increased proximity, but for a moment, the tension in her shoulders eased, and she moved with me naturally, gracefully, just like she’d moved behind the counter at Method.

When the music shifted to “Moon River,” something in the melody triggered a change in her expression. I saw the moment her eyes grew distant and her walls went firmly back in place. She stiffened and took a step away. “I can’t do this.”

“Lark—”

“No.” She shook her head, already retreating. “I’m sorry. I just…I can’t.”

She turned and fled toward the French doors. I moved to follow, but a firm hand gripped my arm.

“Let her go,” said Admiral.

“But—”

He shook his head. “Trust me on this, Dante. Some battles can’t be won by charging in.”

My chest tightened as I watched her disappear onto the moonlit patio, wishing we were one of the couples still dancing in each other’s arms. “I’m not trying to win a battle,” I said under my breath.

“No.” Admiral’s voice held a hint of amusement. “You’re trying to win something much more complicated.” He released my arm and turned to face me fully. “The question is, are you ready for what that means?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, because the truth was, I didn’t know. After years of maintaining my cover, of being Vincent’s enforcer, I wasn’t sure I remembered how to be anything else. How to be someone worthy of trust, of connection, of her.

The next few days passed in a blur of security briefings and trial preparations. Underlying it all was the memory of how Lark had felt in my arms for that brief moment when she’d lowered her walls.

Each afternoon when I returned to Canada Lake, I went through downtown Gloversville, even though it meant taking a longer route, so I could drive by her grandmother’s coffee shop, telling myself I was just making sure all appeared okay.

The first two times, I saw Lark through the windows—serving customers, laughing with an elderly woman who had to be her grandmother, and moving around the space with the same grace that had first caught my attention.

On the third day, I parked where I could see her but doubted she could see me. It was dusk, almost time for the shop to close, and I hated what I saw. She rolled her shoulders more than once, rubbing one as though the tension she carried made it hurt.

My routine changed on the fourth day when I pulled up outside the Perfect Fit Coffee & Tea and parked rather than continuing my commute. The shop’s name was painted in elegant gold letters on the front window, a subtle nod to the town’s glove-making history. The bell above the door chimed when I entered, bringing with it the rich aroma of freshly ground beans and memories of another coffee shop, another time when I’d watched her from afar.

“We’re actually closing,” Lark called out without looking up from the counter she was wiping down. The setting sun slanted through the windows, catching the silver-white strands in her hair, reminding me of how she’d looked in the moonlight when she fled from our dance.

“I was wondering if I could get that Matcha lesson you promised me.” I kept my voice deliberately gentle, like I had at the wedding, rather than the usual gruffness New Yorkers were known for.

Her head snapped up, and her eyes narrowed. “Mr. Castellano.”

“Still not Alessandro?” I tried for a smile, though her frosty demeanor made it difficult.

“I didn’t promise anything, and we’re closed.” She turned away, but not before I noticed her trembling hands.

“The sign says you close at six.” I gestured to the window. “It’s only five thirty.”

She threw the cleaning rag into a bin with more force than necessary. “Fine. What can I get you? Other than a lesson.”

I approached the counter slowly, noting how she tensed with each step. My training kicked in automatically, cataloging details, like how she’d positioned herself near the back counter, where I knew a panic button had been installed by one of the K19 guys, and how her eyes darted to the windows, checking sight lines. Both were signs of someone who’d learned to be cautious, to anticipate threats.

The shop itself was a study in contrasts—modern coffee equipment alongside vintage photographs of Gloversville’s glory days. One showed this very building in the forties, when it had been a glove factory’s showroom before Lark’s grandmother had transformed it into a coffee shop decades ago.

“I’m serious about learning how to make Matcha. Alice says you’re the best teacher.”

“She talks too much,” she snapped, but I also noticed her posture relax before she raised her head. “Why are you really here?”

“We got off on the wrong foot at the wedding.”

She snorted. “The wrong foot? Is that what you call it when someone’s family terrorizes your hometown?”

“No.” I kept my voice level. “That’s what I call it when someone judges you based on assumptions rather than facts.”

The challenge in my words hit home. I saw it in how her chin lifted, pride warring with curiosity in her expression. “Fine. One lesson. Then you leave me alone.”

I grinned, which only made her frown and shake her head before motioning for me to join her behind the counter. “Traditional preparation requires several specialized tools.” Her professional voice was back. “The chasen, or bamboo whisk. The chawan, or tea bowl. The chashaku for measuring.”

I watched her hands as she worked, noting how they’d stopped trembling. This was her element, where she felt in control.

I glanced out the window at the main drag’s mix of empty storefronts and struggling businesses, a shadow of the bustling commercial district it had once been. The Castellanos had played their part in that decline, something that wasn’t lost on me as I stood in this shop that had risen from the area’s decline and made a go of it. I was about to lower my gaze and focus back on Lark when I noticed a black sedan with tinted windows, the kind favored by certain organizations for surveillance, drive by, going too slow, given the speed limit. While I couldn’t see the driver, my gut told me it was someone who shouldn’t be here. Someone who represented the kind of danger I’d witnessed all my life.

“The water temperature is crucial,” she said, drawing my attention back to her. “Too hot, and you’ll burn the tea, making it bitter. Too cool, and it won’t develop properly.”

“Like many things in life,” I said quietly. “Timing matters.”

Her eyes met mine briefly before darting away. “The goal is to create a smooth, frothy consistency without any clumps.” She continued her demonstration, but I could tell my presence was affecting her focus. “You have to be patient, consistent.”

“I can be very patient.” The double meaning wasn’t lost on her, and a slight flush crept up her neck.

“Your turn.” She pushed the tools toward me, careful to avoid making contact.

I mimicked her movements, though my attention was split between the task and monitoring the street through the front windows, especially when I saw the sedan pass by again.

“Your grip is too tight. You’ll snap the whisk.”

“Sorry.” I loosened my hold, trying to focus solely on the delicate bamboo between my fingers rather than my growing concern about her safety. “Better?”

“Yes. You’re actually not terrible at this.” Was that surprise in her voice?

“High praise.” I smiled. “I’ll admit I did some research before stopping in.”

“Of course you did.” The words were sharp, but lacking their earlier bite. “Intelligence gathering is your specialty, isn’t it?”

“Among other things.” I set the whisk down when something hidden partially under a cleaning rag caught my eye. “What is that?”

She stiffened, then pulled an envelope out and stuffed it in the back pocket of her jeans.

“You said intelligence gathering is my specialty, and right now, my intuition is telling me that you’re hiding something from me that you shouldn’t.”

Her mouth gaped. “You…I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered.

“What’s in that envelope, Lark? The one you don’t want me to see?”

“None of your business.”

I reached around and grabbed it from her pocket before she could stop me. That it was unopened was telling.

“High-end paper,” I said quietly, studying it. “Cream-colored with a watermark. No return address, and not the first you’ve received.”

“Get out.” Her voice was low as she took two steps away from me.

“Lark—”

“No.” Her arms crossed. “I don’t need your protection, and I don’t need any other Castellano telling me what’s best for my family’s business.”

Her words hit hard, but I kept my expression neutral. “Any other Castellano?” I started to open the envelope, but she snatched it away the same way I had from her. “Lark, you should know that I’ve dedicated my life to stopping exactly the kind of threats in that letter.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I stepped forward and grabbed her arm tighter than I meant to. “All I want to do is help you, Lark. Why can’t you see that?”

I caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Because you’re Vincent Castellano’s brother.”

“Estranged brother,” I corrected gently. “Current DOJ informant and future K19 Sentinel Cyber partner. And someone who’s seen too many people hurt by staying silent about threats like what’s in that envelope that you don’t want me to see.”

Something outside caught my attention. I grimaced when the black sedan parked across the street.

“We need to leave.”

Her eyes opened wide, and her mouth gaped a second time. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“I’m going to make sure you get home safely, Lark.” And as soon as I had, all hell was going to rain down on whoever was behind the wheel of that fucking car.

A noise from the basement made her start. It was just the building settling, but her reaction confirmed my suspicions that she’d received threats from someone.

“What else do you need to do to close up?”

She raised her chin. “A few things.”

“What things , Lark?”

“There’s a list.”

“Show me.”

I sensed she was about to refuse until she looked past me and out the window. “It’s over here,” she said, motioning to the back counter.

Most everything appeared to be in the kitchen rather than the front of the place. “Turn off the lights in the table area,” I said, crowding her in the direction of the kitchen.

Just as the swinging door closed behind us, my cell vibrated. “Excuse me,” I muttered, pulling it out to read what was on the screen.

Black sedan out front, read the message.

Take care of it, I responded.

Roger that.

“What’s going on?” Lark asked.

“Have you seen that vehicle before?” I motioned in the direction of the street.

She tightened her folded arms. “Yes,” she responded, raising her chin like she had earlier.

“How many times?”

“It’s probably just someone who lives?—”

“How many times, Lark?” I snapped at her, hating that it would only push her further away, but right now, I cared about her safety more than anything else.

“I don’t know.”

“More than five?”

“Maybe.”

I raised the phone that was still in my hand, punched the screen, and brought it to my ear.

“Lark and her grandmother need to be relocated.”

“What? No! No way.” She tried to grab the phone from my hand, but I was taller, stronger, and quicker. “We aren’t going anywhere. Do you hear me?”

“Thanks, Admiral.” My eyes bored into hers as I ended the call.

“How would you feel if something happened to Gram?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t call her that.”

I stepped closer, hating that she flinched when I cupped her cheek with my palm. “How would you feel, Lark?” I asked, keeping my voice soft and low.

“I’d be devastated,” she whispered.

“That’s exactly how I’d feel if anything happened to you.”