Dante #2
“When I sign Romano, the top of the R stays open—always. I've written it that way since I was a teenager.” The R on the bank document was closed. It was a tiny detail, meaningless to almost anyone, but maybe not to her.
“Prove it,” he said.
She looked around. “Give me something to write with.” Dante grabbed a pen from the counter and slid a pad of paper toward her. Elena wrote her name. Elena Romano. The R remained open.
“Again,” he ordered. She did it again, and it looked exactly the same.
“Again,” he demanded.
Her eyes flashed. “Are we going to do this all night?”
“If that's what it takes.” She muttered something under her breath and signed five more times. Every R was identical—open at the top. Dante picked up the paper and studied her signature. It didn’t prove she wasn’t involved, but it proved someone had made an effort to imitate her signature and had missed a detail.
“Believe me now?” she asked.
“No.” Her face fell slightly. “But I believe someone forged your signature.”
“That’s at least something,” she grumbled.
“It’s not enough,” he said.
“I figured you'd say that.” Dante looked at the account again. Four million dollars had disappeared three days ago. Someone had gone to great lengths to make sure the trail led directly to Elena, and he knew that she was hiding something.
He looked up. “What are you hiding?” Her expression closed immediately, and he saw the truth in her eyes.
“Elena,” he breathed. “I know that you’re hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” she insisted.
“Bullshit,” he shouted.
“I told you everything I know,” she countered.
“No, you told me everything you wanted me to know.” He stepped closer. She backed up once before catching herself. Dante noticed, and her chin came up. “You lied when I asked whether you had anything from your father.”
“I didn't—” she started.
“Don't.” His voice came out sharper than he intended, and Elena fell silent. Dante planted both hands on the counter, trapping her between his arms without touching her, and her breath caught. They were too close again. He should have moved, but he didn't.
“Your father is dead,” Dante said quietly. “Someone is moving millions through accounts that have been opened in your name. Three men were butchered and had Camorra carved into their bodies. Whatever you're protecting isn't worth dying for.”
“You don't know that.” Her answer was barely a whisper. Dante's eyes narrowed.
“So there is something,” he whispered.
Elena closed her eyes. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, sweetheart. Fuck,” he said.
“Don't call me sweetheart,” she spat.
“Then stop making me drag every damn answer out of you.” She pushed against his chest, and Dante stepped back, more because he didn't trust himself with her hands on him than because she'd actually moved him.
Elena paced away from him. “My father left me a key.”
Dante went still. “What kind of key?”
“A safe-deposit key,” she said.
“Where is the safe-deposit box?” he asked.
“I don't know,” she breathed.
His patience snapped. “How the fuck do you have a key and not know where the box is?”
“Because there was no bank name with it!” she shouted.
One of the guards appeared in the doorway, and Dante looked at him. “Out.” The man disappeared, and Elena dragged both hands through her hair.
“I found it after the funeral,” she said. “It was inside an envelope taped beneath a drawer in his desk.”
“Is there anything else?” she asked.
“A note,” she whispered.
Dante waited her out until her eyes met his. “What did it say?” She hesitated. “Elena.”
“Trust no one with our blood,” she breathed.
Dante felt the words settle somewhere deep in his chest. “Our blood?”
“That’s exactly what it said,” Elena said.
“Where’s the note?” he asked.
“I destroyed it,” she admitted.
“Of course you fucking did,” he shouted.
“I was scared,” she spat.
“Where is the key now?” he asked. Her silence told him everything, and Dante swore. “You still have it.”
“Yes, I do,” she said.
“Where is it?” She looked away. “Elena.”
“My apartment.” The hairs on the back of Dante's neck stood up. Her apartment, the place they'd just left, the place someone could already be searching, held the key and possibly the answers that he was looking for.
“Where in the apartment?” he asked.
“I hid it,” she said, defiantly raising her chin at him.
“Where is it?” he asked. Again.
She shook her head. “I'm not telling you.”
Dante stared at her in disbelief. “Do you have a fucking death wish?”
“No. That's why I'm not telling the Camorra family's second-in-command where my dead father hid something he specifically warned me not to trust anyone with.” He couldn't even argue with that logic. He didn't like it, but he couldn't argue with it.
“Fine,” he spat. “You're coming with me.”
Her eyes widened. “Where are we going?”
“To your apartment,” he said.
“Now?” she asked.
“Yes, now,” he said. “Unless you have other plans.”
“It's the middle of the night,” she insisted.
“The people trying to frame you don't keep banking hours,” he said. Dante pulled his gun from the holster and checked the magazine, and Elena stared at it.
“You think someone might be there,” she assessed.
“I think if that key matters, someone is already looking for it,” he said. The fear returned to her eyes, and this time, Dante hated seeing it.
“Stay here,” he ordered. He walked into the hall and pointed at one of his men.
“Get the car.” The man nodded, and Dante turned back to Elena.
She stood in the kitchen, arms wrapped around herself, and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked small and vulnerable. He didn't like that either.
He crossed the room and stopped in front of her. “If we get there and something feels wrong, you do exactly what I tell you to do.”
“I can take care of myself,” she insisted.
“Didn't say you couldn't,” he said.
Her gaze lifted to his. “Then why do you keep treating me like I can't?” Dante thought about the bodies at the warehouse.
The precision of the cuts and the message carved into dead flesh.
Four million dollars was moving under Elena's name, and someone was forging her signature.
He thought about her dead father's warning, and the key hidden in an apartment someone might already be tearing apart.
“Because whoever is doing this isn't playing with you, Elena. I think that they want you dead.”
Her expression softened just a fraction. “Are you playing with me, Dante?” she asked.
“No.” He stepped closer to her. “I don't play.” Something passed between them—hot, sharp, and dangerous. Dante broke eye contact first, and that pissed him off too.
The guard appeared at the end of the hallway. “Car's ready.” Dante nodded. He reached for Elena's coat and held it out, and she took it from him. Their fingers brushed, just barely a touch. It shouldn't have meant anything, but it did.
Dante immediately released the coat. “Let's go.”
Elena slipped it on. “You know,” she said as they headed for the door, “for someone who thinks I'm guilty, you're working awfully hard to keep me alive.”
Dante stopped, and she nearly walked into him. He turned his head, looking down at her. “Don't confuse protection with affection.”
Her eyes held his. “I don't.”