A flicker of expectation, which he himself doesn't even notice, flashes in his eyes.
But when he saw the caller ID,
that emotion vanished instantly.
“Seraphina.”
He answered.
His voice softened.
On the other end of the line, her voice was choked with sobs.
“Dante, about my brother…”
“I’ve already made him turn himself in to the committee.”
“Can you help me?”
Dante closed his eyes briefly and rubbed his temples.
As if handling a mundane family matter.
“Don’t worry.”
“Your brother is my brother.”
“I’ll handle things with the committee.”
“It’ll be fine.”
His tone was calm.
But it was tantamount to a verdict.
The next day.
Dante Valente woke up on the sofa.
Last night, he sat alone in the living room of the brownstone house.
The light was on.
He'd only drunk half his whiskey.
The documents on the table were untouched.
He did nothing, only glancing at the clock on the wall every now and then.
As if waiting for someone.
But that person never returned.
He didn't fall asleep on the sofa until the early hours of the morning.
When he got up, his movements hesitated for a moment.
His gaze swept over the entryway.
The slippers were there, neatly arranged.
Immaculate.
As if no one had ever worn them.