I did not know what I had expected. Some movie version of a mafia boss, perhaps, aged and overweight with gaudy rings and a cigar.
The man before me was nothing like that.
Dante Russo was tall and powerfully built, maybe in his late 30s, with dark hair showing just a hint of silver at the temples. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His face was all sharp angles: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a straight nose that looked as though it had been broken at least once.
But it was his eyes that held me frozen in place.
They were deep-set and intensely blue, almost startling against his olive skin. Those eyes studied me now with the same calculating assessment his brother had shown, but there was something else there too.
A focus.
A presence that seemed to fill the room and make the air between us crackle with tension.
“Miss Morgan,” he said finally, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “Please sit.”
He gestured to one of the leather chairs positioned in front of the desk. I moved forward on autopilot, sinking into the chair and placing Marco’s backpack on my lap like a shield.
“I brought Marco’s things. And the money. I can’t accept it.”
My voice was embarrassingly small in the large room.
Dante walked around and sat in the chair opposite mine, rather than behind the desk as I had expected. It put us closer than I was comfortable with, no barrier between us.
He ignored my statement about the money.
“Marco told me what happened. How you found him in the rain and took care of him. He told me you were kind.”
I swallowed hard.
“Anyone would have done the same.”
He echoed his brother’s words from the coffee shop.
“No, they wouldn’t have.”
He said it without emotion.
“Most people would have walked past. Or called the police immediately.”
“I should have called the police,” I admitted. “But Marco had his emergency card, so I thought it would be faster to call the number directly.”
