Elena #2
Dante looked at her. “Exactly.” She hated how easily she was starting to understand his world. Maybe she’d always understood more than she wanted to admit.
Luca looked toward Dante. “Go get the card.”
“We will,” Dante said.
“And don’t take unnecessary risks,” Luca ordered. Dante nodded, and Elena snorted. Everyone looked at her.
“What?” Luca asked.
“You’re telling him not to take unnecessary risks?” she said.
Luca’s expression remained completely serious. “Yes.”
She looked at Dante and then back at Luca. “Does that usually work?”
“No,” Luca admitted.
Dante muttered, “Can we go now?” Isabella laughed, and for one brief moment, everything felt almost normal.
They were just family sitting around a table, teasing and having coffee together.
Then Elena remembered there were seven fraudulent accounts in her name and people carving messages into dead bodies.
Normal was gone. Hell, maybe it had never existed.
Her apartment building looked different in daylight—worse, somehow. Crime felt like it belonged to darkness. Seeing yellow police tape near the back entrance under the pale morning sun made everything too real.
Dante sat beside her in the SUV. “You ready?”
“No.” He quietly looked her over, and she looked back at him. “I expected some macho speech about not being scared.”
“I already told you. Fear keeps you alert,” he said.
“And what keeps you alert?” she asked.
“You.” The word came quickly, and Elena’s breath caught. Dante looked at her, and his jaw tightened. “I mean the situation.”
“Of course,” she whispered. He frowned, and she turned toward the door before he could see her smile.
Dante caught her arm. “Wait.” She looked back at him, and he leaned forward, scanning outside. Two Camorra vehicles were already parked nearby. Men spread out around the building. There were six guards, just like Luca ordered.
Dante finally nodded. “We’re good.” He got out first, and Elena followed. This time, she stayed behind him without arguing, and he noticed.
“You're learning,” he whispered.
“Don't ruin it,” she grumbled. They entered the building and her stomach tightened with every stair.
Dante slowed slightly, but not enough to make it obvious.
It was enough that she knew he was staying closer to her.
When they reached her floor, the apartment door was still damaged, and one of the Camorra men stood outside.
“Clear,” he said. Dante went in first, and Elena followed.
The smell hit her—cleaner, gunpowder, and something faintly metallic she tried not to identify.
The body was gone—thank God- but the blood wasn’t completely gone.
She looked away, and Dante shifted slightly, blocking her view.
He didn’t mention it, and neither did she.
“Where’s the card?” he asked.
“Bedroom,” she breathed. They walked down the hall. The room still looked destroyed. Elena moved toward the closet.
Dante sighed. “Another hidden compartment?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Shocking.” She glared at him and then crouched near the baseboard.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Trust me,” she said.
“Not my best skill,” he admitted.
“I've noticed.” She pressed against one section of the baseboard, and nothing happened. Her stomach dropped, and she tried again—still nothing.
“Elena?” he breathed.
“Wait.” She ran her fingers along the edge and found the tiny notch and pressed it. The trim popped loose, and Dante crouched beside her.
“You hide things in walls?” he asked.
“My father did.” She reached inside, and her fingers found the envelope that she had hidden. Relief rushed through her. “I have it.” She pulled out a small white envelope, and Dante stared.
“That's his handwriting?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking at her name written across the envelope.
“There is no return address,” he assessed.
“No.” She turned it over. The envelope had been mailed from Boston about six months ago. Dante held out his hand, and Elena frowned.
“Are you going to keep this too?” she asked.
“Just give it to me,” Dante ordered.
“It’s mine,” she said, holding it to her chest.
“Here we go again,” he mumbled.
“I’m opening it,” she insisted.
“You already opened it before.”
“Yes, I did,” she said.
“So, let me see it,” he said again, holding out his hand.
She hesitated, and Dante’s eyes narrowed. “Elena.”
“The card seemed normal,” she insisted.
“Normal seems like a word that’s fucked us repeatedly,” he said.
“That’s fair.” She pulled the birthday card free. It was simple, with no sentimental message. Just four words written beneath the printed greeting.
Stay away from red.
Dante went completely still when she handed it to him. He read it again. “What does that mean?”
“I thought it meant that I should stay away from red wine,” Elena said.
Dante slowly looked at her. “Why would you have to stay away from red wine?”
She shrugged. “Hale used to tease me because I hated red wine.”
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Anything else red that you can think of?” he asked. She thought about it, trying to find Hale’s hidden meaning in everything red that she could think of—cars, clothes, and flowers, but nothing came to mind.
Her chest tightened. “The ledger.”
Dante looked at her. “What ledger?” Elena stared at him. She had never told anyone about it—not Isabella, not her father’s attorney, no one.
Dante saw the answer on her face. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“I forgot about it,” she admitted.
“How do you forget a ledger?” he asked.
“Because I never understood what it was,” she said.
He handed her back the card. “Where is it?”
“Not here,” she said.
“Elena,” he warned.
“It’s in storage,” she said.
Dante loudly swore. One of the guards appeared in the doorway, and Dante pointed at him. “Get the fuck out.”
He disappeared, and Elena stood. “It was in with my father’s things.”
“I’m assuming that the ledger is red,” he said. She already knew why he was asking, and her mouth went dry.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Dante stared at her. Everything inside the room seemed to go silent. “When did you put it in storage?”
“After my father died,” she said.
“Who knew about the ledger?” he asked.
“No one,” she admitted.
“Where is it now?” he asked.
“It’s in a storage facility in Jersey.” Dante pulled out his phone, and Elena grabbed his wrist. “No.” His gaze dropped to her hand and then lifted to her face.
“Why are you telling me no?” he asked.
“If Hale told me to stay away from it, we need to figure out why before we go charging into the storage facility to find it,” she insisted.
Dante stared at her, and then something almost approving entered his expression. “You're finally thinking like me.”
“That’s terrifying,” she mumbled.
“It should be.” She released his wrist. He looked down at where she’d touched him, and for just a second, the air shifted.
Elena felt it—that same strange pull between them, and the awareness that kept appearing at the worst possible times.
Dante took the birthday card from her and tucked it into his jacket, and she narrowed her eyes at him.
“You keep stealing my things,” she said.
“It’s evidence,” he said.
“It’s still mine,” she spat.
“You can have it when no one is trying to murder you,” he offered.
“And when will that be?”
His expression hardened. “Soon.”
“You sound very confident about that timeline,” she said.
“I am.”
“Why?” she asked. Dante stepped closer, and Elena’s heartbeat sped up.
His voice dropped. “Because I’m getting tired of people trying to take shots at you.”
She swallowed. “That sounds personal.”
“It’s becoming personal,” he admitted. There was no teasing in his voice—no sarcasm, and no easy way to misunderstand him.
Elena’s breath caught. Dante seemed to realize what he’d admitted, but he didn’t take it back.
He just looked at her with his dark eyes and hard face.
Everything about him was controlled except for the tension in his jaw.
“Elena.” Her name sounded like a warning, and she knew that she should step back.
Instead, she whispered, “What?” His gaze dropped to her mouth again, and this time, neither of them pretended it hadn’t happened. He leaned in closer, slowly, giving her time to stop him, but she didn’t.
Their mouths were inches apart when a voice came from the hallway. “Boss?” Dante closed his eyes and groaned, and Elena nearly laughed. He muttered something vicious under his breath and stepped away from her.
“What?” he barked.
The guard appeared in the doorway. “We found something.” Dante’s posture changed, and she could tell that he was back to business.
“What did you find?” he asked.
“This was under the dead guy’s jacket.” The guard held out a plastic evidence bag, and inside was a photograph. Elena’s smile disappeared, and Dante took it. His face went cold.
“What is it?” she asked. He didn’t answer, and Elena stepped closer, and then she saw it. The photograph was of her, taken outside her apartment, and it was recent—very recent. On the back, someone had written a date. It was tomorrow’s date, and beneath it was written:
Last chance.
Elena stopped breathing, and Dante turned the card over again. His expression became something she’d never seen before. It wasn’t irritation, suspicion, or anger. It was rage—cold, silent rage.
He slipped the photograph into his jacket and looked at the guards. “We’re done here.”
Elena stared at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means you're not coming back here,” he said.
“This is my home,” she argued.
“Not anymore.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” she hissed.
He turned toward her. “Yes, I do.”
Anger flared through her fear. “No, Dante.”
He crossed the distance between them. “You want to fight me about everything else, fine.” His voice dropped.
“But not this.” She opened her mouth, and he cut her off.
“Someone took a picture of you outside this building. Someone knows your schedule. Someone put tomorrow’s date on it like they already decided when you die.
” His jaw clenched. “You are not sleeping here again.”