The car slowed as it approached the gates, and Mila watched them swing open with a mechanical precision that screamed power and control... just like the owner of the house himself.
After what seemed to be the longest driveway in the history of the world, the driver finally pulled to a stop at the front entrance, and Mila climbed out of the back seat. Dante waited for the driver to open his door before finally coming out from the other side of the car.
He looked at her briefly before moving toward the front door with that purposeful stride he always had. Marco followed close behind, his hand resting near his jacket in that casual way that was anything but casual.
Not when Mila had already seen the outline of a gun holstered at his shoulder through his jacket.
The moment they got inside, Mila noticed a strange man sitting in the living room, reading a newspaper like he owned the place.
Not sure what was going on, she looked at Dante for confirmation about what was going on.
The smile on Dante's face took her aback for a single second before she turned her attention back to the stranger.
He had looked up as they entered, and his face broke into a genuine smile. Setting the newspaper aside, he stood up from his chair and moved toward Dante with the kind of ease that came from years of familiarity.
He was tall, though not quite as tall as Dante, with graying hair and a solid build that screamed he went to the gym every day. No one had that type of muscles at his age without a lot of work being put into it.
His suit was well-tailored but not flashy, but he needed need a bright suit to be the center of attention of any room. He exuded power and control in much the same way that Dante did.
It was clear where Dante got his confidence from.
"You're back," the man said, and there was real warmth in his voice. He pulled Dante into an embrace that was brief but solid, kissing both of his cheeks before letting go.
Dante returned the embrace without hesitation, and when they separated, there was a smile on his face that seemed to be even brighter than before. It wasn't the cold, controlled expression he wore in the office nor was it the sharp focus he had when he was working.
This was different. Softer. Almost boyish.
"Uncle," Dante said. "I didn't know you were back."
"Just arrived this afternoon." The older man clapped him on the shoulder, his hand lingering there for a moment. "Thought I'd settle in before dinner. How was your day?"
"Long," Dante said. "But productive. We're making progress on the accounts."
"Good. That's good." The man's eyes flicked to Mila for a brief moment, then back to Dante. "You've been working too hard. I can see it on your face. You look tired."
"I'm fine," replied Dante, shaking his head. "I'll rest when I am dead."
"You always say that." The man's tone was affectionate, almost teasing. "Even when you were fifteen and running yourself into the ground trying to prove you could handle everything. Clearly, some things don't change."
Dante's smile widened slightly, and he shook his head. "Some things shouldn't."
Marco stepped forward then, and his face lit up when he saw the older man. He crossed the room quickly, his usual stoic expression replaced with something warmer. "Good to have you back, Vincenzo."
"Good to be back, Marco." Vincenzo returned the greeting, gripping Marco's hand firmly before pulling him into a brief embrace. "How have things been?"
"Busy," Marco said. "But manageable."
"That's what I like to hear." Vincenzo gestured toward the mini bar cart in the corner of the room. "Pour yourself something. You look like you've had a long day."
Marco nodded and moved to the cart. The clink of glass and the soft splash of liquid followed as he poured himself a drink, but he didn't leave. He stayed near the bar, drink in hand, his attention still on the conversation.
Dante turned to Mila then, and the warmth in his expression shifted into something more neutral...more professional. "Mila, this is my uncle, Vincenzo Falcone. He raised me after my parents died. Uncle, this is Mila Hart. She's helping me organize some of the financial files."
Vincenzo's attention turned to her fully, and he extended his hand. His grip was firm when she shook it and his smile was genuine.
Up close, she could see the lines around his eyes, the kind look on his face giving him crows feet after all these years. His gaze was direct but not invasive and she felt her shoulders drop just a bit in relief.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mila," he said, his hand still gripping hers. "Dante mentioned he'd finally brought someone in to help with the accounts. I'm glad he found someone competent."
"Thank you," Mila replied, bowing her head slightly as he released her hand. "It's nice to meet you."
"I'm sure we'll see more of each other," Vincenzo continued, turning his attention back to Dante. "Dante doesn't bring people into this house lightly. If you're here, it means he trusts you. That's no small thing."
Mila nodded politely, unsure how to respond to that. She was already thinking about getting out of these office clothes. Her blouse felt wrinkled, her pants were uncomfortable after sitting for so long. She wanted to wash her face and change into something that didn't smell like the office.
"I should go upstairs and get changed," she said, looking at Dante. "For dinner."
"Of course," Dante answered as he gestured toward the hallway. "We'll have dinner when you come down."
Mila excused herself and quickly returned to her room. But the door she opened didn't seem to belong to the room she left this morning.
The entire room had changed.
Her unmade bed was made so well that a quarter could bounce off it. The doors to the walk-in closet were open and clothes were practically spilling out of them. Dress, pants, blouses, sweaters. Anything that she could possibly want was there for the taking.
While she couldn't see them, she assumed that the draws were full of panties, bra, socks, and all the other little things that she would need.
She crossed to the bed slowly and picked up one of the blouses. It was silk and soft under her fingers and felt almost cold. She set it down and moved to rest of the walk-in closet, which had been empty that morning.
She didn't know how to feel about this. About someone—Dante, presumably—deciding what she should wear. About the invasion of having her space filled with things she hadn't chosen. About the fact that someone had known her measurements, her sizes, her preferences without asking.
But she was also tired and needed something to wear. So as much as she felt she needed to be offended, a part of her appreciated the fact that now she didn't have to worry about clothes anymore.
Dante had thought of everything, and she had something to wear to dinner.
Mila moved back to the bed and sorted through the clothes, looking for something simple. She settled on a pair of dark pants and a soft cream-colored sweater. She held them up, checking the fit, and then carried them into the bathroom.
Putting the clothes down on the counter, Mila washed her face, scrubbing away the remnants of the day, and brushed her teeth with the toothbrush that had appeared on the counter.
Someone had thought of everything.
She changed out of her office clothes and into the new ones, and when she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. The sweater fit perfectly while the pants hugged her hips and fell in a clean line to her ankles.
Mila ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it down, and then left the bathroom. Satisfied that she was as put together as she could be, she left her room and went downstairs, looking for the dining room.
The sound of voices drifted up from one of the rooms as she descended the stairs, guiding her to where she should be.
Dante and Vincenzo were talking about something that sounded like business. Marco's lower voice joined in occasionally, steady and calm. She couldn't make out the words, but the tone was relaxed. Comfortable.
She paused at the threshold of the dining room, taking a breath before stepping inside.