A week crawled by, each day filled with the silent accusation of my unused workshop. Then, a black, polished sedan pulled up to my curb. Dante Moretti, a man I hadn’t seen in over a decade, emerged. He was impeccably dressed, his eyes sharp and assessing.
“Maria,” he said, his voice a low rumble, nodding slightly. “It’s been a while.”
He didn’t mention the bankruptcy, or my former life. He just surveyed the frozen workshop, a slight frown touching his lips. He knew.
“Dante,” I managed, surprised. “What brings you here?”
“A mutual acquaintance mentioned… recent unpleasantness,” he replied, his gaze settling on me. “About your boy. And your business.”
My stomach clenched. He clearly knew Veronica was behind it.
“Veronica Caldwell,” he continued, a note of quiet disapproval in his voice. “She has… poor judgment. Involving a child. Some lines, Maria, are not to be crossed.”
He walked slowly around my silent workbenches, tracing a finger over a discarded carving tool. “People forget. Even those who think they’re above it all.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, a mix of apprehension and hope churning inside me.
He turned, his eyes meeting mine. “Consider it a professional courtesy. Some lessons need to be learned. Discreetly.”
He didn’t offer a direct solution, no open promises. But the implication hung heavy in the air. Veronica had made a mistake, one that even someone like Dante found distasteful. And he had ways of ensuring “lessons” were taught. He gave a slight nod, then got back into his car, leaving me to wonder what subtle protection he was now orchestrating.
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