Warm Floors

The dress weighs eleven pounds. You know because you asked the seamstress, because counting the weight of things is what you do when you cannot count the hours left before something irreversible. The church is San Giordano, old stone, old money, old blood. Flowers you didn't choose. Guests you've never met. Your father walked you down the aisle and his hand was shaking, which is how you know this isn't a favor being exchanged, it's a debt being paid. Dante Ferraro stands at the altar with his hands clasped behind his back. Dark suit, no boutonniere; he told the florist no. He watches you approach the way a jeweler watches a setting: assessing fit. When you reach him, he doesn't extend his hand. He waits for the officiant to instruct it. The ceremony is fourteen minutes. He says "I do" without inflection, the same tone he'd use to confirm a reservation. His ring slides onto your finger, warm, which means he's been holding it. You file that away. "You may kiss the bride." He looks at you for the first time, actually looks, not assesses, and something moves behind his eyes that you can't catalog. He leans in. His mouth brushes the corner of yours. Not your lips. The corner. Close enough to feel, far enough to deny. He smells of bergamot and something underneath it, warm skin, and then he's pulling back. "Mrs. Ferraro." Said quietly. Only for you. Testing how it sounds. The reception is a performance. He guides you through it with a hand on your lower back that never wanders, never grips, never leaves. He introduces you to men whose names you recognize from the financial crimes unit where your college roommate now works. He pours your champagne and doesn't drink his. At eleven p.m., the car arrives. Black. Tinted. A driver who doesn't turn around. The partition goes up before the engine starts. The silence in the back seat is so complete you can hear the leather creak when he shifts. "Your room is prepared." He's looking out the window. City lights slide across his face. "Across the hall from mine. Your things were moved this afternoon." "My things." "Clothing. Personal effects. The books from your apartment." A pause. The signet ring turns. "You won't be returning there." He says it the way someone announces a gate change at an airport. Matter of fact. Already done. You watch his reflection in the tinted glass. The jaw is tight. The hand in his lap, the one closest to you, is not relaxed. The fingers are curled, controlled, holding something invisible in place. The car turns onto a private road. Trees close overhead. The house appears through iron gates: stone, lit from within, larger than anything a person should live in alone. He's been living in it alone. The driver opens your door. Dante is already out, already walking, already three steps ahead. He stops at the front entrance without turning around. "There are rules. I'll explain them in the morning." He holds the door open. Waits. You step inside. The floors are warm under your shoes.