Page 215 of Dante
She's calmer now. The tension that lived in her shoulders has eased. She sleeps through the night without waking up screaming. She smiles.
Christ, she smiles.
Not the polite smile she gave me that first day. Not the defensive smirk she uses as armour. Real smiles. The kind that transform her whole face and make my chest ache.
My phone buzzes. I check the screen.
Car arriving in five minutes.
I pocket the phone and turn toward the kitchen. Marina stands at the counter, pouring coffee into a travel mug. She's wearing jeans and a soft grey sweater. Her hair is down, falling past her shoulders. She looks like she belongs in a magazine, not fleeing a city with a man who's made deals with the devil.
"Car's here in five," I say.
She looks up.
"Already?"
"Already."
She caps the travel mug and sets it on the counter. Her right hand trembles slightly. She notices me noticing and curls it into a fist.
"Hey." I cross the room and take her hand. Uncurl her fingers. Press my thumb into her palm the way I've learned she likes. "You okay?"
"Nervous." She watches my hands work her muscles. "Stupid, right? I've been to Chicago my entire life."
"Not stupid."
I lift her hand to my mouth. Kiss her knuckles. Her breath catches.
She studies my face. Looking for something. I don't know if she finds it.
"This week," she says quietly. "It was good."
Good. Such a small word for what this week was. For the cooking and the talking and the way she curled against me every night like I was safe.
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "It was good."
My phone buzzes again. The car is downstairs.
"Time to go."
Marina nods. She grabs her travel mug and the small bag she packed. Everything she owns in Denver is still in her apartment. Lorenzo's people will handle it. Ship her things to Chicago or put them in storage. Whatever she decides.
We take the elevator down in silence. Her shoulder presses against my arm. I can feel her pulse racing through the contact.
The garage is cold and grey. A black SUV waits near the elevator bank, engine running. Nico leans against the driver's door, arms crossed.
"About time," he says when we approach.
"Traffic," I say.
Nico's mouth twitches.
Marina hesitates at the SUV door. Her hand finds mine.
"Dante."
"Yeah?"
