Elena
And yet—he had protected her, not because he liked her, or trusted her, or because Luca ordered him to.
That distinction should have mattered more, but it didn’t.
Not after hearing him say no one was going to kill her.
Not after hearing the certainty in his voice.
And not after the way he looked at her when he said it.
“It’s a little creepy that you wake up every time I sigh,” she mumbled.
“Hey, I think that it’s one of my better qualities,” he defended.
“Well, that’s depressing.” His mouth twitched, and she smiled despite herself. “What time is it?”
“Five thirty,” he said.
Elena groaned. “So I’ve been lying here pretending to sleep for three hours.”
“Yeah, I thought that you were having trouble sleeping,” he admitted.
“You knew?” she asked.
“I know everything,” he insisted.
“God, you’re irritating,” she said.
“So you keep telling me,” he teased. She pushed herself upright, and pain tugged at her shoulder.
Dante seemed to notice immediately. “You need that bandage changed.”
“It’s fine,” she lied.
“Elena.” She glared at him as he stood and crossed the small room. The conversation was apparently over. Dante picked up the medical kit sitting on the dresser.
“When did that get there?” she asked.
“While you were pretending to sleep.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You left the room?”
“For thirty seconds,” he said.
“And I survived?” she teased.
“Barely,” he growled. She laughed as he sat on the edge of the bed, and her amusement disappeared.
Dante opened the kit.
“Shirt off,” he said.
Elena stared at him. “You really do enjoy ordering people around, don’t you? I’m not taking off my shirt, Dante.”
“Yes, I do like telling people what to do. And I won’t be able to properly care for your shoulder with your shirt covering the wound. I promise not to look at anything but your shoulder.” At least he was consistent. She removed her shirt, slowly pulling the fabric away from the bandage.
Dante frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Blood soaked through the bandage,” she admitted. “It was just a graze.”
“It’s still a wound,” he said, reaching for the tape.
Elena watched his hands. They were large and steady.
He had scars across the knuckles. His hands were made for violence, and yet when he peeled back the old dressing, his touch was surprisingly gentle.
She hissed anyway, and Dante’s gaze snapped to hers.
“Sorry,” he breathed.
The apology caught her off guard. “You know how to say that word?”
“Don’t get used to it,” he grumbled as he looked over her wound.
He cleaned it, and Elena tried not to react when his fingers brushed her skin.
She tried even harder not to notice how close he was or the way his knee pressed against hers.
His head bent toward her shoulder, and the scent of him filled the space between them—clean soap and something darker.
It was something that was simply Dante. Her pulse sped up, which was ridiculous.
She should be thinking about the key, the accounts, and Vincenzo Hale.
Or the fact that someone had spent years building a financial trail around her name.
Instead, she was thinking about Dante’s mouth and all the wicked things that he could do with it, and that was unacceptable.
“Done,” he said, his warm breath brushing against her shoulder.
Elena blinked over at him. “What?”
His eyes lifted to hers. “Where did you go?” he asked.
“What do you mean? I’ve been right here,” she insisted.
“You disappeared for a second,” he said. “What were you thinking about?” There was no way that she’d admit that she was thinking about kissing him, or the way the weight of his body would feel on top of her.
“I’m just tired,” she lied. His gaze held hers a beat too long, and she wondered if he knew the truth. God, she hoped not.
Dante stood. “Get dressed.”
“I’m already dressed,” she said, tugging her shirt back on.
“For outside,” he corrected.
She frowned. “We’re leaving now?”
“Soon,” he breathed.
“To my apartment?” she asked.
“Yes.” Fear curled low in her stomach, and she hated that reaction. Her apartment had always been the one place that belonged to her, but now it felt contaminated. Someone had torn through every piece of her life. Someone had died inside. She didn’t know if it would ever feel like home again.
Dante must have seen something on her face. “You don’t have to go inside.”
“Yes, I do,” she whispered.
“We can bring the card to you,” he offered.
“You won't find it,” she insisted.
“You said that already,” he said.
“And I meant it. I’ll go in,” she said.
Dante studied her. “You sure?”
“No.” That seemed to surprise him. Elena stood. “But I’m going anyway.” Something changed in his expression—approval maybe, or respect. She liked that more than she should have.
“Good,” he said.
“Good?”
“Your fear is useful,” he said.
She frowned. “Excuse me?”
“It means you understand the risk,” he said.
“I thought fearless was better,” she said.
“A lack of fear gets people killed.”
Elena paused. “My father used to say fear was information.”
Dante’s eyes sharpened. “Smart man.”
Her chest tightened. “Maybe he was. I just don’t know anymore.”
He caught that. “Still angry with him?”
“I don’t know how I feel about my father.” That was the truth. She missed her father, and still loved him, but she resented him. Elena wanted to shake him. She wanted him alive so she could demand answers. She wanted to know if any part of the man she remembered had been real.
Dante leaned against the dresser. “You don’t have to decide how you feel about him today.” She looked at him. That was probably the kindest thing he’d said to her, which made it harder to dismiss him as a monster.
“You’re very confusing,” she whispered.
“So I’ve been told,” he teased.
“I doubt that. I’m betting that no one is brave enough to tell you stuff like that.” This time he actually smiled, and Elena stared at him.
“You just did,” he said. “I guess you’re brave enough to tell me how it is.” She didn’t say anything, because she had nothing to say to that. “Get ready,” he ordered.
She laughed softly as he walked toward the door. He was being a coward and avoiding her by changing the subject. She almost said it out loud, but knew that it was probably better that she didn’t.
Luca’s house was already awake when they went downstairs.
Marco sat at the dining table with two laptops open and enough coffee to keep a small city functioning.
Luca stood near the windows talking quietly on the phone, and Isabella sat across from Marco talking to him.
She immediately looked at Elena when she walked into the room.
“How’s your arm?” Isabella asked.
“Fine,” she lied. Dante made a sound behind her, and Elena turned to look at him. “Don’t,” she warned.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said, holding up his hands in defense.
“You were about to say something,” she said.
Marco looked up at them. “You two always like this?”
“Yes,” Elena and Dante said together. Isabella smiled, and Marco laughed. Luca ended his call and looked between them.
“That was disturbing,” Luca said.
Elena folded her arms, and Dante pointed at her injured shoulder. She immediately dropped her arms back to her side. “I hate you,” she mumbled under her breath.
“No, you don’t.” The words came out casually, and Elena froze. So did everyone else. Dante seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late, and Elena felt heat crawl up her neck. Dante cleared his throat. “Are we leaving?”
Luca nodded. “Yeah, we need to get over to the apartment before anyone else does. We’re taking six men with us.”
“I remember,” Dante grumbled.
Marco turned one of the laptops around to show them the screen. “Before you go, I found something else on Hale.”
Elena’s stomach tightened. “What did you find?”
Marco pulled up a scanned document. “His death certificate.” Elena stepped closer, studying it. Dante moved with her, but she tried not to notice.
“What about it?” she asked.
“Cause of death was listed as cardiac arrest,” Marco said.
“So what does that mean?” Elena asked.
“There was no autopsy done when that is the determination,” Marco said.
“Is that normal?” she asked.
“Not when the deceased is fifty-one and has no documented heart condition,” Marco insisted.
Elena frowned. “Who signed the death certificate?”
Marco zoomed in. “Dr. Stephen Vale.”
Dante’s expression changed. “You know him?”
Marco nodded slowly. “He’s on the Camorra payroll.” Luca went completely still, and the room changed. Elena felt it immediately. That invisible shift that happened whenever the Camorras heard something they didn’t like.
“Is he on our current payroll?” Dante asked.
Marco shook his head. “Not anymore.”
“When was he?” Luca asked.
“Three years ago,” Marco said.
Luca stepped closer. “Why was he let go?”
“He left to work elsewhere in the medical field. No questions were asked,” Marco said.
Elena looked between them. “What kind of medical work did he do?”
No one answered, and she exhaled. “Right, mafia stuff.”
Dante almost smiled, but Luca didn’t. “Where’s Vale now?” Luca asked.
Marco typed. “He’s retired.”
“Is he alive?” Luca asked.
“As far as I can tell,” Marco said.
“Find him,” Luca ordered. Marco nodded and started typing again.
Elena looked at the death certificate that Marco had printed out. “If Hale isn’t dead, why fake his death?”
Dante answered. “To disappear.”
“From whom?” she asked.
“That’s the question,” Luca said. Something about the answer chilled her, because her father had talked about getting out. Hale disappeared after he died, and then Hale supposedly died too. Maybe they hadn’t been partners. Maybe they had been running from the same thing.
Elena looked at Marco. “You said Hale’s death was eighteen months ago.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And I got the card six months ago,” she said.
“Which means either he’s alive—"
“Or someone wants me to think he is,” she finished for Marco.