Dante #4
Elena’s gaze held his. “It means if you want the card, I have to go with him,” she said, nodding to Dante.
He wanted to refuse. Every instinct screamed no.
Her apartment was compromised. Someone had already died there tonight.
Going back was stupid and dangerous. It was exactly the kind of decision Luca had just warned him not to make based on emotion.
So Dante forced himself to think like a soldier.
The card might identify Hale, and he might connect to Elena’s father, and that could unravel the accounts.
The risk had value, though. He hated that logic, but it was logic.
“Fine,” he said.
Elena blinked up at him. “Fine?”
“We go at first light.”
Luca shook his head. “No.”
Dante looked over. “No?”
Luca’s mouth twitched. “See how annoying that is?” Dante glared, and Luca continued. “You’re not going with two men this time.”
“I don’t need—” Dante started.
“You’re taking six,” Luca ordered.
“Luca,” Dante said.
“Six,” Luca insisted.
Dante understood. Luca wasn’t asking. “Fine.”
Marco leaned back. “I’ll go too.”
“No,” Dante and Luca said at the same time.
Marco frowned. “Why?”
“You’re useful here,” Luca said.
“And annoying there,” Dante added. Marco flipped him off, and Elena looked between them.
“You people are insane,” she accused.
Dante looked at her. “You’re just figuring that out?” She smiled, and there it was again—that tug somewhere beneath his ribs.
He looked away. “Upstairs,” he ordered.
She frowned. “What?”
“You need sleep,” he said.
“I’m not tired,” Elena lied.
“That wasn’t a question.”
“I’m not a child that you can just order to go to bed. You’re not my father,” Elena spat.
“Thank fuck.” Her expression went flat, and Dante winced internally. That was the wrong thing to say.
He softened his voice. “Just rest for a few hours, Elena.”
She studied him and then nodded. “Fine.” He walked her upstairs.
Luca’s house had several guest rooms, but Dante chose the one at the end of the hallway with only one entrance, one window, and good sightlines.
He opened the door, and Elena stepped inside.
Dante followed her, and she turned to look at him.
“Why are you coming in?” she asked.
“Because I’m staying,” he said, already knowing that she was going to give him a fight.
Her brows shot up. “You’re what?”
Dante pointed toward the chair near the window. “I’ll sleep there.”
“All night?” she asked.
“Yes,” he breathed, already hating the idea of it. The last time he slept in a chair was ten years ago, and his back still hurt from it.
“That’s ridiculous,” she hissed. “You can’t sleep in a chair.”
“It probably is ridiculous, but that’s where I’ll be sleeping so I can keep an eye on you,” he said.
“You can stand outside,” she offered.
“No, I can’t,” he breathed.
She stared at him. “Do you trust anyone?”
“Nope,” he said.
“Not even Luca?” she asked.
“With my life,” Dante admitted. He did too. Luca was more like his brother than his boss. He had known him his entire life, and he was one of the only people who Dante trusted.
“But you don’t trust him with mine?” she asked. Dante’s jaw tightened. That question went deeper than she probably intended.
“No.” Elena grew quiet, allowing him a chance to clarify. “Not yet.”
She looked at him for a long moment, and he felt something soften inside his chest. “Okay.” That simple acceptance seemed to hit harder than an argument would have.
She walked toward the bed, and Dante turned away while she removed her coat.
He heard the mattress shift, and then the room grew quiet.
He sat down in the chair—his gun on his thigh, keeping his eyes on the door. Several minutes passed before she spoke. “Dante?”
“Yeah?” he breathed.
“You really think that card matters?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. He looked toward the bed. Elena lay on her side, facing him, her hair loose and hanging around her face now. She seemed softer in the dim light—more vulnerable, too.
He forced his attention back to the door. “Because dead men don’t send birthday cards.”
“What if Hale isn’t dead?” she asked.
Dante had already thought about that. “Then someone wanted the world to think he was dead.”
“And if he is dead?” she asked.
“Then someone wanted you to think he wasn’t,” Dante said.
Elena frowned. “Either way, I’m being manipulated.”
“Yes,” he breathed.
She sighed. “Great.”
Dante almost smiled as silence returned. “Dante?”
He looked over and saw that her eyes were closed now. “What?”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He frowned. “For what?”
“For not letting them kill me,” she said.
Something tightened in his chest. He should have answered with something sarcastic or dismissive.
Instead, the truth came out. “I won’t let them touch you, Elena.
” Her eyes opened, and Dante held her gaze.
“No one is killing you.” He meant it, too.
He saw that she understood by the way her expression changed.
Then she whispered, “You can’t keep that promise.”
Dante leaned back in the chair with his gun resting across his leg.
His eyes already returned to the door. “Watch me.” And for the first time all night, Elena smiled without fear.
Dante knew then that Luca had been right about one thing—control only worked until something mattered enough to break it, and Elena Romano was getting dangerously close.