DINNER WITH THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN IN NEW YORK

I changed dresses three times before our dinner. The first looked like an interview outfit. The second still had a tag attached. I finally chose a simple dark-green dress that made my eyes look brighter and reminded me I had a life beyond my uniform.

Dante met me outside a small restaurant on a quiet side street. There were security men nearby, but they kept their distance. He wore black trousers and a black shirt with the collar open, the sleeves rolled over tattooed forearms. I had seen him look frightening in a tuxedo. Tonight he looked unfairly handsome.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"You look less likely to arrest a waitress."

He smiled. "I deserved that."

Over dinner he asked about books and terrible movies, about the first city I'd ever visited on my own, and about the classes I used to take. He listened to my answers. When I mentioned that I'd once wanted to work with families of autistic children, he didn't immediately offer to finance a school.

"What stopped you?" he asked.

"Money. Then grief. Sometimes I can't tell which one I use as the excuse."

I told him about Danny. About the homemade astronaut helmet, his fierce opinions about train routes, and the way our father had dismissed his sensory needs as misbehavior. I told him how Danny had died in an accident and how his last missed call still lived on my phone's old backup.

"He called while I was working," I said. "I thought I'd call him when my shift ended."

Dante waited. He didn't rush to fill the silence.

"I know I couldn't have prevented the accident," I continued. "But part of me keeps imagining that if I'd answered, he might have been five minutes later leaving the clinic."

"Grief finds a way to turn love into blame," Dante said quietly. "That doesn't make the blame true."

I looked at him. "You sound like someone who's had practice."

"Isabella died three years ago. A medical emergency, sudden enough that by the time I reached the hospital, there was nothing left for me to do."

I knew Leo's mother was gone, but Dante had never spoken about her to me.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"We loved each other. We also spent too much time arguing about how absent I was. After she died, I kept thinking I could make up for it by giving Leo everything money could buy."

"He doesn't need a perfect father. He needs one who keeps showing up."

Dante nodded slowly. "I'm trying."

The rain began while we were finishing dessert. Outside, he opened an umbrella and moved close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. He stopped, giving me room to step away. I didn't.

At my building he tucked a damp strand of hair behind my ear.

"Tell me if I'm making you uncomfortable," he murmured.

"You're not."

His eyes moved to my mouth, then back to my face. For a heartbeat I thought he would kiss me. Instead he let his hand fall.

"Good night, Sophie."

"Good night, Dante."

Upstairs, my phone lit up.

Dante: I enjoyed tonight.

Me: So did I.

Dante: I'd like to see you again. Without discussing Leo's schedule.

Me: Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Moretti?

Dante: Yes, Sophie. I am.

I grinned at the screen like a teenager. Then I wrote back the one word that scared and delighted me in equal measure.

Yes.