Thirty Five

Isabella

We take a French leave then, nearly running out. Dante drags me along hotel corridors without a word, his fingers clamped around my wrist like a vise.

"Marvelous show," I hear someone say. A woman. Dante stops, as if rooted to the spot.

Slowly he turns around, keeping me at his side.

In the center of the hall there was a beautiful woman with blond hair, wearing a short golden dress. Her long legs ended around the level of my first rib. She had gorgeous fake breasts and an angelic face. She approached us, kissing the Dante.

"It's nice to see you here, Don Dante," she says her eyes trained on me.

Her accent tells me she is British, and her looks suggests she has just left the catwalk at a Victoria's Secret show.

"Isabella," I introduce myself, offering her a hand.

She shakes it with an ironic smile, staying silent for a while. I know a leech when I see one.