[ D A N T E ]

Andrea thinks that she's just made a deal with the Devil. Maybe she has. I don't know; I don't want to know, really. Maybe I'll prove her right.

Or wrong.

I can see it in her eyes, the panic, tension, rage. Her fingers are cold and stiff; less soft than I was expecting. She's worked with her hands. Werewolves have stronger senses—including touch. I can feel paper cuts across her fingers, palm; small in mine.

It feels the same as the vision. Her body, her face—only in there, she stared at me with those long-lashed eyes; she gave me a content, easy smile for a moment. She'd let go. Let her soft body curl into mine.

And then she realized that it wasn't a distant, hazy dream, but something more tangible.

I maintain her grip for a moment too long before releasing, leaning back, watching her. She doesn't remember me. Not my face, my voice, my name. But she's trying to remember. I can see it; the way her brows scrunch a little, the way her lips press tight. I can't believe I found her at the café, then the bar. Small world, even for a city of over eight million. Thank God the commandment worked.

The power of tapping into someone's head, twisting their instincts, actions—it makes my stomach curl.

But it's too useful to let go.

I continue speaking.

"My family always gets together on Sundays. This weekend, too. My mom makes a great Sunday gravy—" I pause. "You're not Italian, right?"

"Jewish Argentinean. First generation American." she states, flatly, heat burning beneath her glare. "That isn't a problem, right?"

I chuckle. If she were going as herself, it would be. Only other werewolves—Italian, Catholic, well-connected werewolves—on the list of potential mates for the next alpha of the Ferro pack. But there's only one name on that list.

And she's in Italy.

Your mate's gotta be strong as iron. Gotta be a Ferro to the core. My dad's gruff voice echoes in my skull. I swallow. Push down the taste of bile.

"No. Just...keep the religion stuff to yourself. Argentina's got a lot of Italian immigrants too, right? So—if, somehow, worst-case scenario, they find out who you are...pretend your parents are Italian Argentine or whatever."

She looks pissed. I give her a sheepish smile. "They're not antisemitic, they—"

"Have Jewish friends? Eat bagels and lox? Go to a Jewish deli every so often? Know a few Yiddish words? Wait, let me guess—klutz? Chutzpah? Schmear?" she cuts in. And I wince, then laugh a little, raising my hands.

"Alright, you win. They just...want to uphold their culture. And have many theoretical Italian American little grandkids running around, believing in Jesus and whatnot. I disagree, trust me. Whatever happens, happens. Fuck 'purity' or whatever."

"Are you religious?" she asks, eyes narrowing.

I shrug. "I don't think Jesus would be happy with me. I do church, all that, make them happy—but I had a falling out with God. Catholic guilt and all that." I smile and think back—first time I kissed a boy, a nerdy kid from school, thick glasses and messy hair and charming, disarming grin. He saw through me, my family, my name—he just wanted to get that science project done. And done well. We studied in his room, beneath a tapestry of stars, his homemade dioramas of the Milky Way, worked late into the night, his parents asleep, cat curled up on the bed. I kissed him—on the cheek, gently, something hungry and strange and soft—and then became horrible, and cold. I pictured God in the stars, a man cut into three, smiting me with lightning, whittling me down to bone. That night I prayed, because I was young and foolish and thought there was something deeply, terribly, wrong with me.

I blotted out that boy's name in my mind, snuffed it like a star blinking out of the sky. I liked girls, too; that's all I've ever dated. Sometimes in clubs I'll dance, flirt, kiss—but only in the shadows, the alcoves, the alleyways. There's no way in hell anyone can know.

Even though I know there's nothing wrong with me, the Eucharist always tastes bitter on my tongue.

And then there's the line of work I'm in. Ordering people to their deaths. Causing violence, strife—and for what? Power? Control? Dominance?

"What about you?" I ask, nibbling on my last fry. "You put your stock in...God? Yahweh?"

"I don't really know. I guess I'm agnostic; I think there has to be something out there, some giant, incomprehensible, chaotic force—but I don't really ascribe to any faith. Sure, I celebrate the holidays, the cultural elements, some of them—I don't keep Kosher or go to temple or anything—but...I guess I lost my way, too." Andrea frowns. "I think one day I'd like to try and find them again."

I nod, silent. She looks mournful—head tilted down, swirling a fry in ketchup. There's a story there, too. But I don't pry; it doesn't seem appropriate now.

"So. About Sunday." I start, clearing my throat. "It's just a family dinner. A...large family dinner." The entire pack will be there. "People will pry, ask questions—I can do all the talking. The family prefers that, anyway."

Andrea's lip twitches at that. I raise my hands. "You want to talk about Bianca and Dante? The many, many years we've known each other? Go for it." She remains quiet. I continue. "If they ask how things are going, just say good. They're progressing. Y—"

"Why doesn't Bianca just...fly back here to keep this up?"

I hesitate, swallow. While it's exciting to be talking with someone who's sharp, the drawback is that you need to explain. Or lie.

I go with a half-truth. "She is actually in love with a woman that she met in Italy years ago. She's decided to move there, live the rest of her life happily in Rome." And leave pack dynamics behind, become a lone wolf. She wasn't going to lead her pack anyway, not as a woman—while I don't envy what she goes through because of it, I'm jealous of the lack of responsibility. She has brothers, too; a safety net. One older, one younger.

Me? I'm alone here.

Bianca's supposed to be my mate.

Andrea's brows rise. She leans back. "You...huh. Good for her. Still, you could be her beard—" she notices my confusion, and explains. "Her fake-boyfriend to cover up her being gay—and just...not complicate things."

"She calls, maintains the lie, comes back occasionally. It's just...well. She knows that her girlfriend's going to ask her to marry her...tomorrow. So no way to fly in-time. Just bad timing."

Andrea nods, shifting in her seat.

"I'll need you to see me tomorrow. To practice being Bianca."

"Public areas only." she states. "Central Park? There's a bridge I can shift under; the surrounding area's sparse, but enough people will be around to hear if you try to kidnap me."

"Jesus, Andrea—I'm not going to hurt you!"

She knows, though. Knows what I'm capable of. Maybe I gave it away, with the Eucharist comment, but she can see right through me. I can't tell if I love it, or if I hate it.

The shifter remains silent. Marcel returns, right on cue, and asks to take our plates. I nod. "Thanks. What's for dessert?"

"Molten chocolate cake, our signature honey cake, gelato, or lemon tart."

I look at my dining partner. "What would you like?"

"What do you recommend?" she asks Marcel, who grins.

"A girl who knows who to ask! I like this one, Mr. Dante." he tells me, winking; I give him a faint smile. "I'd say to try the honey cake. Tastes like the gods' ambrosia! Only not so sweet." He bounces on his heels, grinning.

"We'll go with that, then." I nod. Marcel rushes off. I glance down at my phone; it's late. Work emails. Updates from the last raid. That damn coffee shop...

I flip my phone over, ignoring the text, and lean forward again. "What time do you want to meet?"

"How about noon? How long do you see this taking...?"

"A few hours. Not too long. Just to get into her body, catch up on a few mannerisms. You're good at that, right?"

"Acting as someone else? Sure. I think I was a thespian." She pretends to play it off cool, but her hands quiver. She sticks them under the table.

Also, she thinks she was a thespian? Wouldn't she know?

"You're the quietest former thespian I've ever met."

"I guess I'm full of surprises." she says, looking to the side. Marcel with the cake—golden and honeyed, a mini-Bundt, with a ring of hardened caramel above. It looks like a sun. Andrea takes the first bite. I follow suit, cracking the caramel. It's fantastic; sweet like honey, but bitter too.

I consider her word for a moment, looking over her face. It's covered in subtle scars along her forehead; she's angled the hair to grow over it, but I can see it. Wolf-vision helps. Now that I notice that, I can see it on her left hand; knotted scars, skin rough.

She sees me staring and hides it under the table. I frown.

"I guess you are." I say back. She can see me, but she won't let me see her. Not really.

Not yet.