THE MAFIA'S PRICE
Dante,black cashmere sweater, dark jeans, sleeves pushed to his elbows, settled beside me, one hand resting casually on my thigh beneath the table the moment we knelt.
We ate slowly, deliberately: steamed tamagoyaki rolled into perfect golden layers, miso-glazed eggplant, tiny bowls of natto that I politely declined, fresh persimmon sliced into translucent moons. My stomach, mercifully calm, accepted everything without protest. Sakura kept sneaking glances at me, knowing, excited, like we shared the most delicious secret in the world.
Halfway through the meal Dante set his teacup down with soft finality and looked across at Haruto assistant standing behind.
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