Page 60 of My Dark Ever After

Martina raised a brow at me from where she sat across from me. “Do you want me to handle the meetings you have booked?”

“Reschedule to teleconferences,” I said. “The ones that want to meet in person can come to the office next week.”

She nodded, already pulling out her cell phone to make the changes for me.

“You don’t have to change your plans for me,” Guinevere said softly, her pinky finger nudging mine on the leather seat between us. “I know you’re busy. I was just going to walk around and take in the sights I missed so much. Maybe treat myself to a gelato.”

Her cheeks burned at the mention of gelato, no doubt thinking, as I was, of the time I had licked the sweet, cold cream from her chest in a back alley.

“I wanted to take you to this place before,” I admitted, looking away from her gorgeous face to stare out the window. “But we ran out of time.”

Or really, she ran away before I could.

She was silent after that until we pulled up to the mouth of a narrow, pedestrian-only street and I ushered her out of the car.

“Five o’clock,” I said by way of goodbye to mysoldati.

“Philippe is in the car behind us,” Martina said. “He’ll follow behind you and then drive you to the meeting when it is time. Carmine is already on his way to Drita to sweep the space and discuss preliminaries.”

“He is there to fuck her,” I responded. “But I am sure he will find time do those too.”

Martina grinned at me, then softened to say quietly, “Stai attento, fratello.”

“I always am,” I replied, knocking on the roof of the car once before I shut the door and watched them take off.

When I turned to face Guinevere, her long, rippling sheets of dark hair were stirring in the cool autumn breeze, her mouth pinker and eyes darker from the all-black ensemble with the bright slash of red ribbons she wore. She looked just as fey as she always did, but dire, like something that only came out at night to play with unsuspecting victims.

I swallowed thickly as my heart rate quickened with desire.

“Vieni. You will like this.”

She fell in next to me without hesitation, our steps syncing up instantly. It should not have made my pulse hitch, but the little act of synchronicity only seemed to underscore what I honestly believed to be true.

Guinevere and I belonged together.

I could only hope that fate would not conspire to keep us apart as it had so many other great Italian love stories: Dante and Beatrice, Romeo and Juliet, Petrarch and Laura.

This was my last-ditch attempt to show her how deeply I knew and admired her.

“Oh,” Guinevere said, stopping in her tracks as she saw the plaque by the inconspicuous stone building we were walking toward.

Chiesa di Santa Margherita de’ Cerchi.

Otherwise known as La Chiesa di Dante.

“Dante and Beatrice’s church,” she breathed, turning to look at me with eyes filled with starlight. “You know, I kicked myself when I went home for not making the time to visit.”

“Well, we are here now,” I said through a dry throat. “It is not much, really, but I think the historian in you will love it nonetheless.”

She followed mutely as I held the heavy wooden door open for her to slip inside. It was midafternoon on a Wednesday in the offseason, so the small, humble church was not busy. Only three other people gathered at the back of the last pew, an elderly woman in mourning black with two preteen boys.

I shifted a hand to Guinevere’s low back as we walked down the aisle to the front of the church. It was very minimal, as many small Italian churches were: whitewashed walls, small wooden pews, scant decor with only a stone tomb and tall wood cross to mark the altar. It meant the eye was drawn immediately to the painting done by a British artist of a scene from Dante’sInfernothat hung on the back wall.

The true item of note, though, was the large wicker basket beside the stone tomb that readPietra Tombale di Beatrice Portinari.

The tomb of Dante’s beloved Beatrice.

The basket was filled with handwritten letters locals and tourists alike had been leaving for centuries.