Elena #4
“Doors stay locked, too,” he said.
“Yes, Dad.” His expression turned murderous.
“Don't call me that.” She laughed and headed downstairs. His muttered curses followed her. She was still smiling when she reached the kitchen, and that felt strange, because she shouldn’t be smiling—not today.
Hell, maybe not for a long time, but Dante made it difficult to stay afraid every second, and that might be the most dangerous thing about him.
An hour later, Elena sat at Dante’s kitchen island wearing one of his black T-shirts.
It had not been her idea. At least, not originally.
Dante had taken one look at the blood on her blouse and informed her she wasn’t keeping it on.
She’d pointed out she had nothing else to wear.
He disappeared upstairs and returned with the shirt.
Now, the hem hit halfway down her thighs, and the sleeves nearly reached her elbows.
Dante had been avoiding looking at her ever since, but Elena was enjoying that far more than she should.
“You can stop pretending I’m naked,” she said.
His coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth. “I’m not.”
“You won't look at me,” she pointed out.
“I’m looking at you right now.” His gaze landed deliberately on her face—only her face.
She smiled. “Exactly.”
“Elena,” he breathed.
“What?” she asked.
“Drink your coffee,” he ordered.
She took a sip. “Bossy.”
“Yep.” His phone buzzed, and the humor disappeared instantly. Dante looked at the screen. “It’s Marco.”
Elena straightened. “Answer it.”
“I planned to.” He accepted the call and put it on speaker. “What do you have?”
“Vale’s gone,” Marco said.
Elena frowned. “The doctor?”
“Yeah,” Marco said.
Dante’s expression hardened. “What does gone mean?”
“His house is empty. Cars there, wallets there, and the phone is there, but he isn't.”
“When was he last seen?” Dante asked.
“The neighbor says two days ago,” Marco said.
Elena’s stomach tightened. Two days ago was before the first bodies appeared. “Is it a coincidence?” she asked.
Dante looked at her. “No.”
Marco apparently heard her. “Is Elena there?”
“Yes,” Dante said.
“Good, I need to ask her something.”
Dante’s jaw tightened. “She can hear you.” Elena almost rolled her eyes. Apparently, being under Dante’s protection also meant having a very aggressive receptionist.
Marco continued. “Elena, do you recognize the name Crimson Holdings?”
Her coffee cup slipped from her hand, but Dante caught it before it hit the counter. Hot liquid splashed across his hand. “Shit.” He ignored it, and his eyes locked onto her. “You know it.”
Elena’s heart hammered. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Where?” Marco asked.
She looked at Dante. His entire focus had narrowed onto her. “My father.”
“When?” Dante asked.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“Elena.” Dante was warning her by just saying her name.
She glared at him. “I was a kid.”
That shut him up for about two seconds. “How young?”
“Maybe twelve, or thirteen.”
Marco spoke. “What do you remember?” Elena closed her eyes, trying to remember her father’s office with its dark wood, cigar smoke, and men speaking quietly behind a closed door.
She was supposed to be asleep, but she’d wanted water.
She remembered standing in the hallway, and her father’s voice was angry as another man talked to him.
Then she heard those two words—Crimson Holdings.
“I heard my father arguing with someone.”
“Who was it?” Dante asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“What did they say?” Marco asked.
She searched her memory, only remembering fragments of the conversation. That was all she had until she remembered something. Her eyes opened. “My father said he wanted his name left out of it.”
Dante leaned forward. “Out of Crimson Holdings?”
“I think so,” she breathed.
“What else do you remember?” he asked.
She swallowed. “He said—” She hesitated.
“What?” Dante pressed.
“He said the Romanos had already paid enough.” Silence filled the room, and Dante’s expression turned cold.
Marco cleared his throat. “That’s a problem.”
“No shit,” Dante muttered.
“What is Crimson Holdings?” Elena asked. Neither man answered, and her patience snapped. “Stop doing that.”
Dante looked at her. “Doing what?”
“Talking around me like I’m too stupid to understand what’s happening,” she said.
“No one thinks you're stupid,” Dante insisted.
“Then answer me.”
Marco sighed over the speaker. “Crimson Holdings is one of the companies that received money from your ghost accounts.”
Elena’s stomach dropped. “How much money?”
“Millions,” Marco said. She gripped the edge of the counter and Dante’s hand covered hers automatically, as though steadying her. Neither of them acknowledged it. Marco continued. “But that's not the biggest problem.”
“What is then?” Dante asked.
“I traced the company backward,” Marco said.
“What did you find?” Dante asked.
“It existed before Elena’s father died,” Marco said.
Elena frowned. “That doesn't make sense.”
“It gets worse,” Marco breathed. Dante’s fingers tightened around hers.
“How much worse?” she asked.
Marco paused. “Crimson Holdings was created twenty-seven years ago.” Elena stopped breathing. She was twenty-seven. Dante looked at her, and she knew he’d made the connection too.
“What date?” he asked. Marco gave it, and Elena felt the blood drain from her face. No—that wasn’t possible.
“What’s wrong?” Dante asked. She couldn't answer. “Elena.”
“That’s my birthday,” she whispered. Dante went completely still, and Marco swore through the phone. Elena pulled her hand from beneath Dante’s and stood, letting her chair scrape loudly across the hardwood floor.
“No.” She shook her head. “That has to be a coincidence.”
Dante rose. “You already know how I feel about coincidences.”
“Not now,” she breathed.
“Elena—” he started.
“Not now, Dante,” she spat, cutting him off.
She walked away from the island. Her father had known about Crimson Holdings when she was a child.
The company had been created on the day she was born.
Accounts were later opened in her name and had millions moving through them.
Her father left her a key to a safe-deposit box, yet she had no idea where it was.
Hale sent her a warning about the red ledger, and now people wanted her dead.
“Um, I’ll call you when I have something more,” Marco said, ending the call.
“Coward,” Dante breathed.
She turned back to him. “What if this was always about me?”
Dante’s expression hardened. “We don't know that.”
“You just said you don't believe in coincidences,” she reminded.
“I don't,” he said.
“Then what am I supposed to believe?”
He came around the island. “That we don't have enough information yet.”
“Someone created a company on the day I was born!”
“I heard him,” Dante said.
“And twenty-seven years later, they’re using my identity, and apparently, my father knew.”
“Probably,” he said.
“And he never told me.” Her voice cracked, and she hated that. She hated how lost she suddenly felt.
Dante crossed the last few feet between them. “Elena.”