[ A N D R E A ]

I finish eating and pull out my phone. "What's your number?"

Dante smirks, like he's about to comment on it—but I just give him a steady look. I'm too tired for this BS.

He just groans and tells me it. Local area code. Makes sense; he has a faint classic Italian American New Yorker accent. His voice is rich, low; a bit growly. I can't tell if it's calming, or unnerving.

The split checks arrive—I stiffen a little, seeing my total. Expensive. Way out of my budget.

"It's not a big deal, Andrea. I won't hold this against you, use it to get wh—"

"No. It's fine." I say curtly, slipping in a card. Warmth gathers along the back of my neck—hot, prickly, uncomfortable—but I stifle, swallow it. If I say something, I'm going to stick to it.

Dante gestures to the wine. "Last question. You wanna have a sip? You paid for it, too."

"Here." I push it in his direction. "Drink it; don't waste it. I don't go back on your word."

"Or, more accurately...you're extremely stubborn, even if it's only hurting yourself."

"Tell that to your liver." I shoot back as he lifts the glass of wine to his lips. He chuckles.

"Wine has a ton of great antioxidants, too. Moot point."

I groan and stand, adjusting my bag. Dante downs the drink smoothly and stands, cracking his knuckles, rolling his shoulders back. A show of subtle strength; the muscles in his forearms flash, ripple. He's not a swollen bodybuilder, but he's lean, strong. Dangerous.

"I'll see you tomorrow." I say unceremoniously after a pause, glancing back up at his face. I debate on thanking him for tonight, but—no. The last thing he needs is to have his ego inflated.

"You too. Do you have a way to get back home safely? I can get a taxi—"

"I'm fine. I've got pepper spray." I joke, flashing a rare, thin smile, before standing, turning. Dante stands, waits—I can feel the heat buzzing off him. He follows, then stops. Respects my space.

I rush out the restaurant and hurry to the subway station, looking back three times.

He's not there.

***

Back in the apartment, Preethi's nowhere to be found. I ask where she is over text, and get back:

Omg met the cutest guy, stayin at his place, dw love u

I send a response: Okay, stay safe, use protection.

Preethi: Ok mom

I roll my eyes and set the phone down, frowning. The apartment's a mess—and it's not my fault. If I clean it, Preethi will only make it untidy once more. But if I leave it, it'll just...fester. And if I can't control my life, at least I can control the crowded space I live in.

Dante. Dante—

Was that real? I sit at the kitchen table, checking my phone. I have his contact.

Who the hell is he, really? I look up "Dante, entrepreneur, New York City"—maybe that'll give me something useful—

"NYC's 30 Under 30" is the first result. I tense, swallow a little. So he is real. A real man. What am I thinking, that he's Pinocchio? Of course he's a real person...

I click on the link. The image—him, cross-armed, angled against a window, smirking.

"Just who is Dante Ferro? The son of business mogul Durante Ferro is a businessman in his own right—and is shaping up to be Little Italy's next star. With several successful ventures under his belt, already having accrued millions of dollars in revenue—"

I rub my eyes, standing, shuddering. Okay. Okay, so he's famous, and the son of a famous businessman, of course. A high-profile person. The kids' parents I work with wish they could be him, on some list, even a useless one—

"Calm down, Andrea." I mutter to myself, unsure why I feel jittery. To calm down, I clean the room, scrubbing stubborn oil and spices off pans, sneezing at said spices, sticking the rest of the plates into the dishwasher, organizing Preethi's things—fashion and gossip magazines, romance and self-help books, makeup, jewelry. I found a notecard for her mom's onion chutney—the best I've ever had—and secure it atop a book stack, before deciding to take a photo of it for good measure. It's covered in stains, and is written in Tamil (and, in much smaller size, English)—but it's legible. Barely.

I re-fold the blanket on the couch, adjust the pillows, make sure everything is clean. Sometimes Preethi's men sleep over and stay on the couch. I keep everything organized.

It's late; exhaustion drags at my eyelids. I get ready for bed, then plop onto it, deciding to look up 'Dante Ferro Businesses' to see what he's making—

But the results just state that he's successful. There's no mention of him being a paranormal. Nothing weird, but the lack of information is weird. Shouldn't his completed business ventures be public record? And marketing is everything...

I keep searching, but there's nothing interesting or helpful. Even in interviews, he hardly mentions what he sells. Weird. I even check his LinkedIn; just some BS post pandering to hustle-culture-bros about working hard and succeeding. The same information is repeated.

This is suspicious.

I can't trust him.

***

Central Park makes me feel alive. Or, marginally more alive than usual. I think it's because it's nature; a literal rectangle of it, surrounded by concrete and asphalt and metal. I can smell the trees, grass; feel something fresh and alive. It always leaves me shuddery. I keep shifting on my feet, peering out from under the bridge. There are many unused roadways for emergency vehicles to pass through—many quiet, untrodden sections of the park, set in the outer corners, away from any exits or entrances. This particular spot is my favorite. Ever since I've been living in the city, I sit here and read, shift, whatever; it's a spot all to myself. Noise echoes under the shaded stone, but the outside world goes quiet.

And sometimes, silence is the best sound of all.

I can hear Dante before I see him. He shuffles a bit when he walks; keeps his feet low to the ground. I turn, and there he is, wearing a black backpack, Columbia University hoodie, jeans, and scuffed sneakers. His facial hair is the border between scruff and short-cut beard; he exhales, hands ducked into the pockets, eyes flitting around. He doesn't look like the polished man in the photos—too nervous.

Does he think I've set up a trap?

"About time." I mutter, tucking back a strand of hair. I eye the hoodie again, frowning softly—that's his alma mater. Undergrad. It feels weird that I looked him up.

"Got caught up in something." Is all he says, shifting his weight between his feet. "You wanna shift in there?" He gestures to the inside of the bridge—long, dark; you can just make out the metal gate at the end.

"Yeah. There are no cameras around, promise. I think it's an abandoned driveway; I've never seen any cars come inside. And I've been here a lot."

"Closest thing we have to nature without leaving the city, right?" Dante cracks his knuckles, smirking. His tone is flat, though—he's forcing himself to smile. I follow him under the bridge as a gust of chilly wind howls through the space.

"So, how do you want to do this? I show you a photo of Bianca, tell you a little about her, and you'll start to change? Do your clothes shift?"

"A photo's enough to work on. My clothes don't change." I say, then pause. "Shit. I should've asked—"

"Already on it." He slips off his backpack and hands me a hoodie and some sweatpants. His clothes. I frown. "She's tall, Andrea. Your—uh—size might be a little bigger, but those jeans might tear from the length..."

"You don't need to dodge around the size comment. It's a neutral descriptor." I state, firmly, before snatching the clothes. "Turn around. I'll change."

He does so, and I make sure he's facing away from me twice before slipping off my clothes. I keep my undergarments on, but tug his sweatpants over my legs—snug around my ass and thighs—but it's comfortable, worn-out. The hoodie's sleeves are long; I tug them up. Everything smells like him—like old leather and rich whiskey and faint, distant smoke. And a bit like the forest, and...dogs? Musky. Not unpleasantly so.

I stick my hands into the jacket's sleeves and clear my throat. "I'm all set. Let's see her."

"Sure." Dante's phone lights up; he opens a photo of her. She's tall, lean, pale; a woman with her chin perpetually held high, nose raised up. Long platinum blonde hair down to her shoulders, sloped neck, long nails. Everything about her is stretched and graceful, like a long-legged bird. She wears a cocktail dress—also white, of course; Bianca's namesake—and has delicate, slim jewelry. Her eyes are closed; she's laughing. It's genuine. Her eyes crinkle and her mouth is a bit too open, too un-pretty, to be natural.

I can immediately get a sense of her—the former-bully type; the girl that connected with the mean girls, rich and pretty, probably a dancer or cheerleader or gymnast—but she realized that movies weren't real life, and she changed, became kind. Or maybe not. There's annoyance in her gaze; the slight curl of her lips, the stretch of her cheeks. Something's pissing her off, even in her happiness.

Dante stares at the image, frowning. I watch him for a moment, but he notices me and leans away, clearing his throat.

"I'll start." I explain, rolling my shoulders back, my limbs. I'm picturing that moment of her in my mind, the laughter filling my ears. Her voice expands—high-pitched, lilting, yet surprisingly firm. "Don't tell me about her, but I want to know—was she a dancer?"

"Yes."

I see her twist, spinning on the balls of her feet, limbs and arms raised. Every movement calculated, trained. It's like I'm watching a recital, only I'm not only in the audience—I'm her, feeling the spotlight on my cheeks, the cold theater's air on my cheeks, hair tied back, body throbbing from practice, lips curled in a trained smile. Bianca has danced for years, yes—I feel myself move in the memory, echoing her.

"Ballet? Classically trained?" I ask, hitching my voice, inflections already changing. "She's gotta be."

"Yeah..." Dante's voice is distant. I swear I can hear music. Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake.

I'm moving in life, too—under the bridge, spinning on my sneakers as best I can. My limbs stretch, and I gasp, cracking and breaking through myself, my body—toes in pointe position, not curled; leg angled back in a grand battement, arms raised from first to forth to fifth position, fingers cupped, set together. Muscle and bone re-threads, and I cry out, continuing to stretch, organs twisting, body rising, hair re-curling, then smoothing, along my scalp. My face tingles, shudders; I pirouette on demi-pointe, frustrated at the sneakers, and drop my hands to my face, feeling my lips thin, cheeks slim, nose point, brows rise. I'm sculpted, a model, and I'm still dancing, pushing through pain, through the changes, though I'm falling apart. The pain is too much. I stagger and nearly fall, but Dante grabs my arm, holds me steady. My skin spots, changes—pale and soft and smooth. My eyes buzz terribly, and I yelp, needing to shut them. My teeth and tongue shift, and my head throbs, ears ringing, something awake within me—hot and distant and with gnashing teeth and fur, I feel, I see, a shadow in moonlight, like a vision, and—

"I got you, Andrea." Dante says, his voice loud, too loud.

When I open my eyes, the sun's much too bright, blisteringly so—I push away and gasp and stagger and nearly fall, but Dante's arms are quickly at my side, my back. He steadies me. I shove him again, test my vision again—too much. Too bright. Fuck!

"Something went wrong; I-I need to—I need to fix—"

"Bianca's blind."