Old Flame Dante’s Story (Morelli Family 8)

“I told you—” Adrian stopped dead and stared at Dante. “What are you doing here?”

Dante’s gaze flickered from the maid to the man who works for his family, generally cleaning up messes. Adrian is also an old friend of Mateo’s, so it wasn’t unusual for him to be at family dinner, even though he isn’t technically family. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? It’s Sunday. We’re here for dinner.”

Adrian sighed, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah, Christ.”

Dante’s voice hardened, his next words snapping like rubber bands. “What’s wrong?”

I stiffened at his tone, but it was nothing I hadn’t witnessed before. I was more distracted by Adrian’s clear dismay. In my limited interactions with the man, I had never seen an unguarded expression on his face. In that moment he was clearly alarmed, so I knew it must be bad.

Adrian’s distrustful gaze drifted to me before returning to Dante. “I need to talk to you in the study.”

Away from me. I wasn’t offended. I knew the traditional Morelli men were raised to keep the women out of business matters, and I wasn’t interested in those, anyway.

Glancing back at me, Dante told me, “Wait here.”

Touching Dante’s arm, I nodded. We didn’t exchange any words; we didn’t have to.

I felt bereft as soon as my fingertips left his well-muscled arm. Ordinarily I always felt insulated from the worst parts of their lifestyle, but with Adrian’s urgency, I had to wonder if there was danger lurking. Was it even safe to be there? I figured it must be. It was hard to imagine anywhere safer than Morelli mansion, with its gates and surveillance, not to mention the army of capable, merciless men either living there or visiting for Sunday night dinner. I always felt safe at Dante’s house knowing he would protect me, but I was probably even safer at Morelli mansion.

The maid rushed down the hall away from us. Adrian looked after her, but since Dante stood there waiting to be debriefed, Adrian didn’t chase her.

My mind raced with what could be wrong, but I told myself I’d know soon. Or I wouldn’t, but Dante would, and I’d be able to tell just being near him if the situation was under control or something worth worrying about.

All alone in the foyer, I considered taking a seat on the upholstered bench, but then my gaze drifted to the ornate double staircase. Imagining the men would be in the study for a while, I thought about going to find Beth so I could give her purse back. Beth was Mateo’s live-in girlfriend, the mother of his baby girl. If there was a threat, he was bound to make sure she and Isabella were safer than any of us.

Decision made, I cast a glance back at the study before heading up the stairs. Dante did tell me to stay put, but he knew I was bringing Beth’s purse back, so if he came out of the study before I made it back, he’d know where to find me.

It was a long walk to Mateo’s wing of the house. An errant wave of unease moved through me as I approached his closed bedroom door, but I wasn’t sure why. I paused outside and knocked lightly. No one called from the other side, but I figured Beth could be in the master bathroom or the walk-in closet getting dressed for dinner. She might not have heard me. Turning the knob, I pushed the door and eased it open slowly enough for someone to protest if I wasn’t invited—and slowly enough that, just in case Mateo had come upstairs for a pre-dinner fuck, I would hear them and be able to flee with no one the wiser.

No sex noises, no sharp warning not to come in, so I peeked my head inside. My gaze searched the room for Beth and promptly found her. In bed? It was nearly dinner time, what was she doing in bed? I didn’t want to wake her so I almost turned around and left, but before I could pull the door closed, I saw him.

Directly across from me, Mateo Morelli sat on the floor. I had never seen Mateo sit on the floor before and that alone jarred me, but everything about the sight before me was unsettling. Mateo always stands tall with broad shoulders that can easily carry the weight of the whole Morelli world—and it sure can be a heavy one. He is always well put-together in a stylish-without-trying suit. He always oozes an aura of capability and command with never so much as a whisper of vulnerability.

So it was an incredibly foreign sight, him sitting on the ground looking lost and disheveled. He was still wearing the black slacks and snowy white shirt he must have been wearing with his put-together suit, but his tie was gone, the top button of his shirt popped open and a little wrinkled, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His head was leaned back against the wall, his dark hair mussed like he’d run his fingers through it too many times, and there was an almost vacant look in his deep brown eyes. He was staring straight at me, but I felt like he couldn’t even see me.