Indebted to the Mafia King
Kings and Queens

Eleni

Dante leads me through the lobby, his gaze barely leaving my cleavage, and out into a waiting limo. Today has been so crazy I don't even ask where the other car with our shopping went. But as we pull into traffic, I do notice the two nondescript sedans that pull out behind us. My heart picks up speed until I spot the license plates. Both Saints cars. They're nothing more than an escort. Dante is quiet on the ride to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but I'm bouncing in my seat. I look incredible, feel incredible, and I can't wait to find out what the hell kind of gala a mafioso goes to and more importantly, why.

When the limo pulls up outside, I have to smother a laugh. A massive banner dangling over the front of the stone edifice declares a benefit for a charity helping misguided and underprivileged youth. "Who are you, Dante?"

"What?" Dante smiles as he opens the door. "You don't think I have hidden depths?"

I'm about to meet a completely different side of him. Cameras flash as he steps out, then holds out a hand for me. Part of me worries we shouldn't be seen. But judging by his megawatt smile, he knew exactly what we were walking into, and he wouldn't put me in danger unnecessarily. I take his hand and step out.

I think I get it, at least, I'm starting to understand how the dark, underground mafia world operates. Dante has an insane amount of money, that's clear, but he can let it rot away somewhere unseen. I wonder if going to these events and throwing his money at these charities is just another way for him to clean his money, to throw the feds off his trail.

More cameras flash as we walk up the stairs. It's not as dramatic as I feared from the inside of the limo, just a handful of photographers and nobody asks us any questions, but it's far closer to the red-carpet treatment than I've ever received before. Dante doesn't let go of my hand as we enter the museum itself and follow a few signs to a European sculpture court. I haven't been to the Met since high school, and the building feels so much bigger than it did when I was wandering it with a notepad, trying to come up with essay topics.

In the sculpture court, long tables thread between the statues, and people mill in errant spirals, clutching flutes of champagne and tiny hors d'oeuvres. Before I can even think to ask, a waiter in black appears next to us.

"Mr. Cattaneo." The young man smiles. "I can get you your usual scotch. Champagne for your lovely date?"

He looks at me. I've never had champagne before. I nod.

The waiter hands me a flute and a small napkin. "My name is Enrico, please find me if you need a refill."

I nod, and Dante leads me deeper into the event.

"They know you here?" I whisper over the quiet classical music emanating from somewhere.

"Certainly." Dante waves at someone across the room. "I'm a softhearted billionaire. I come by a few times a year, donate aggressively and tip even more so."

I start to smile up at him, then pale. "Should I have tipped Enrico?"

He chuckles. "Enrico and I have an arrangement. I give him a few dollars throughout, and then he finds me at the end for his real tip so his catering company doesn't take a percentage." I nod. "Okay, and-"

An older black man emerges out of the crowd with a gorgeous woman in a glittering red dress at his side. "Cat! I thought we were going to miss you this time around."

"Mr. Washington." Dante shakes his hand warmly. "And Mrs. Washington, my god, you look incredible."

The woman on the man's arm smiles prettily, highlighting the smile lines carved into her dark skin. "You are a charmer. You have to be careful, Andre, or Cat's going to steal me away." Andre laughs. "After the bill for this last dress, you can have her. But for the first time, I notice there's no room on your arm."

My heart leaps into my throat. I'm not just a bystander watching this. "Hi, I'm—"

"Eleni Calimeris," Dante says smoothly. "My girlfriend. I'm sorry, Mrs. Washington, but you've missed your window."

She laughs. Andre laughs. Dante laughs. I force myself to laugh with them, even though my stomach is humming with butterflies. Dante called me his girlfriend! To other people!

The rest of the night passes like that. A blur of people with crisp diction that says they went to private school fawning over Dante and his various contributions until he introduces me and begins bragging about my accomplishments. I explain that I'm starting at Tandon so many times the news almost becomes mundane. Almost. Enrico plies Dante with scotch, me with champagne. I try tiny appetizers with names I can barely pronounce. Someone gets up on the stage and announces some award. My laughter comes easier and easier. So does Dante's.

"Do you want to look at the rest of the museum?" he murmurs. "Get some air?"

My face feels warm. Air would be good. I nod, and he leads me out toward more sculptures. Cool air washes over my face, and the noise fades behind us.

"Who are you, and what the hell have you done with the Dante I know?" I ask as soon as we have a little privacy.

He laughs and tucks my arm more securely through his. "Believe it or not, my investment portfolio isn't just a way to clean money."

"Underprivileged kids?" I raise an eyebrow.

He leads me past a room with a few occupants loudly talking about overseas banking. "I donate to anything that makes a difference here in the city. If it's out on Staten Island, even better." He shrugs. "I like the ego boost that comes with charity, but I like it best when I can actually see the effects in my neighborhoods. It feels like giving back a little of what I've taken."

I stare up at him and find nothing but earnest truth in his dark eyes. "Do you even collect protection money?"

He grimaces. "Not when I can help it. My father didn't have the same compunctions, and phasing out the practice is tougher than you'd think."

I nod. "So you're not exactly breaking kneecaps over it."

"Never."

Neither of us has to say the name Lombardi to summon them into the conversation. I can almost taste Baba's blood on my tongue, and I wash it down with the remainder of my champagne. It's not so bad. A little bitter, but the bubbles make me smile. Dante leads me into a gallery without another word.

Greek and Roman sculptures span the room. Together, we wander over to a full-body nude of a young man throwing a discus. I smirk.

"I guess it's good you don't take after your ancestors."

"What?" Dante asks.

I nod at the discus-thrower's junk with another sly smile, and Dante laughs.

"Oh, I see where your mind is." He pulls me over to a female nude. "Well, what do you have to say about this one?"

I circle it thoughtfully, barely holding back a torrent of laughter. "Yeah, my ass is a lot better."

He grins. "Are you sure about that?"

I glance around the empty gallery, then turn my back to him and lift my skirt. "You tell me."

"El!" I feel his warmth, the material of his tuxedo against me a second later. "Anyone could see you."

"Let them look." I turn to face him and drop my skirt. The champagne bubbled away all my insecurities. "I belong in here with the rest of the art."

Dante groans. "You've got that right. Let me " He glances around, then starts leading me away from the statue.

When he pulls me into the corner, I realize he's found the only place in the room people won't be able to see just walking past the doors. I wrap my arms around his neck and crush my mouth to his.

Gentleness flies out of my mind. He devours me, and I meet every move with one of my own. Wetness gathers between my legs, another reminder of how little I have on. Dante runs his hand up my thigh, baring swaths of skin, and I press into him. More, I need more. His fingers ghost over my clit and

"Cattaneo!" somebody with an accent I can't quite place calls.

Dante steps immediately back from me and fixes my skirt, all playfulness disappearing from his face. "We're not just here for a good time, El."

I blink, confused by the sudden shift. "We're not?"

"No." He takes my hand and begins striding out of the sculpture room. He squeezes my hand. "We're also here to meet Cal Duncan."