Chapter 3: Breakfast Interrogation
Three months smoothed the sharp edges of their new arrangement into a working rhythm. Dante met Enzo, a man in his sixties with a tailor’s posture and eyes that missed nothing, in a back room of a quiet steakhouse. Enzo had looked him over, his gaze lingering on Dante’s hands, and gave a single nod of approval. “A no-nonsense aura,” he’d told Kenny later. “Keep him.”
Dante did. He vetted every man on the detail, firing two for sloppy routines and promoting a sharp-eyed younger guy named Mateo. He mapped every route to Kenny’s frequent haunts—the charitable foundation offices, the upscale clubs he owned but never managed, the dive bar he loved for its noodle soup—and plotted three alternates for each. He drove the armored SUV himself, Kenny a constant, chatting presence in the passenger seat, a stream of consciousness about city history, terrible movies, or the sad-looking bonsai tree he was trying not to kill. They attended a symphony gala where Dante in a tuxedo looked more weapon than guest, and they spent a rainy Tuesday afternoon waiting in a DMV line because Kenny had “a feeling” about the clerk at window four possibly being open to bribery. (He wasn’t.)
The threat remained abstract, a silent pressure they operated under. No drunk idiots stumbled into them again. The world, for now, was politely letting Kenny James be.
Now, sunlight poured into the penthouse, so bright it made the black marble floors gleam and turned the sprawling velvet sofa into a pool of liquid gold. Kenny was at the large kitchen island, wearing loose linen pants and a faded band t-shirt, humming as he flipped French toast. The scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and expensive coffee saturated the air.
Dante stood post by the main door, his back to the view, a tablet in his hand displaying the live feeds from the building’s perimeter. He’d been there for forty minutes.
“You’re making the room feel tense,” Kenny announced without turning around.
“It’s a secure room,” Dante replied, eyes on the feeds. “Tension is appropriate.”
“It’s breakfast. Come sit. I made enough for two.”
“I ate.”
“The protein bar in your jacket pocket at 5 a.m. doesn’t count. That’s fuel. This is food.” Kenny slid a perfect golden-brown slice onto a plate. “I’m insisting. And before you cite protocol, remember: I sign the checks. C’mon. Humor the boss.”
Dante’s jaw tightened briefly. He set the tablet down on a side table and walked over, taking a stool on the opposite side of the island, a strategic two feet of polished stone between them. Kenny pushed a plate toward him, piled high with French toast, fresh berries, and a dusting of powdered sugar.
“See? Civilized.” Kenny hopped onto the stool beside him, far too close for professional comfort, and dug into his own food. He ate with cheerful gusto. “So, the gala last night. What did you think of the cellist?”
“I think she had a potential blind spot on her left side where the potted fern was. I advised the venue to move it.”
Kenny snorted, almost choking on a blueberry. “Of course you did. And they did, I bet. You have a very persuasive way of looking at people.” He stole a strawberry from the edge of Dante’s plate. Dante didn’t react, just methodically cut his food. “You’ve settled in. The guys respect you. Enzo thinks you walk on water. It’s going well.”
“It’s functional.”
“High praise.” Kenny swirled his coffee. “Makes me wonder what you did before. I mean, I have the file. The dates, the ranks. But not the… color. You ever have a normal job? Before the service?”
Dante took a bite, chewed slowly. The food was stupidly good. “Worked in an auto shop with my uncle. Age sixteen to eighteen.”
“Yeah? What did you drive?”
“A 1987 Chevrolet pickup. Rusted. Drove it until the engine gave out in the desert outside Twenty-nine Palms.”
“Romantic,” Kenny said, grinning.
“It was a breakdown. We waited four hours for a tow.”
“Still. A first car’s a first car.” Kenny watched him, his head tilted. “And after? After the discharge. You did private security. Bodyguard stuff. Any of them as annoying as me?”
“No.”
“Ha. Liar.” Kenny’s smile was easy. “You’re not the chatterbox type. Never been married, the file said. No current entanglements. You’re a hard man to get a read on, Dante Reyes.”
“There’s no read required. I do a job.”
“Everyone’s got a read. Even Enzo has a giant portrait of his grandkids in his office. You’ve got…” He gestured around the penthouse, as if indicating Dante’s entire existence. “A perfect bed. No pictures. No stories.”
Dante put his fork down. The clink on the porcelain was sharp. “You want a story?”
“I want context. The man who decides if I live or die spends eighteen hours a day within twenty feet of me. I’m curious. Sue me.” Kenny’s tone was light, but his eyes held a genuine, unflinching inquiry. This wasn’t just playful needling. It was assessment.
Dante looked out at the skyline, the vast, clean view so different from the flickering neon of his old studio. “I was engaged. Before my last deployment.”
The hum of the refrigerator seemed to grow louder. Kenny stilled, his playful energy dissipating into focused silence. He just waited.
“Her name was Angela. Nurse. We had an apartment. A dog. The whole blueprint.” Dante’s voice was low, even, like he was reciting a report. “The deployment got extended. Then extended again. Letters got fewer. Then they stopped. Came home to an empty apartment and a note on the kitchen counter. She said the waiting was like living with a ghost. She couldn’t do it anymore.”
He picked up his fork again, pushed the food around his plate. “She was right. It’s not a life. The dog went with her. Probably for the best.”
Kenny didn’t offer pity. He didn’t say he was sorry. He took a slow sip of coffee. “So you got the studio. And the perfectly made bed.”
“I got the studio,” Dante confirmed.
“And you’re straight,” Kenny said, the words casual, a simple footnote to the story.
Dante’s eyes cut to him, a quick, sharp glance. “Yes.”
“Just checking the ledger. For context, like I said.” Kenny smiled, but it was softer now, devoid of its usual teasing glint. He’d gotten his answer, filed it away. He stole another piece of fruit from Dante’s plate—a piece of cantaloupe this time. “The French toast okay?”
“It’s good.”
“I’m full of surprises.” Kenny hopped off his stool, taking his plate to the sink. He looked back over his shoulder, the morning sun haloing his messy hair. “You should get a plant or something. For your new place. Give it some color. I know a guy who can get you a cactus that’s basically impossible to kill.”
Dante finished his last bite, the sweetness of the berries and the richness of the egg-soaked bread a stark contrast to the metallic taste the memory had left in his mouth. “A cactus,” he repeated, deadpan.
“Start small.” Kenny’s grin returned, wide and unguarded. “Now, go check your feeds. I’ve got a boring meeting with accountants in an hour, and I need you looking terrifying so I can secretly play games on my phone.”
Dante stood, returning his plate to the island. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod and walked back to his post by the door, picking up the tablet. The screens showed the same quiet corridors, the same parked cars on the street below. Nothing had changed.
Yet everything felt different. The space between them across the sun-drenched room was no longer just measured in feet. It was now mapped with the quiet coordinates of a betrayal years old, a dusty desert highway, and a simple, stated fact. Yes.
He heard Kenny humming again in the kitchen, the sound low and content. Dante kept his eyes on the screens, his posture rigid, his world newly, uncomfortably, contextualized.