Elena
That was her name and face staring back at her. They had planned out her entire life, except the infant in the photograph wasn’t old enough to have a life yet.
That was the part she couldn’t get past. Someone had taken a picture of her when she was barely more than a newborn and placed it beside a red ledger in a room with four men—one of whom someone had gone to considerable trouble to erase from the photo, twenty-seven years ago.
That was the same year Crimson Holdings had been created.
Hell, it was the same day, if Marco’s records were right.
“Send it to me,” she breathed.
“What?” he asked.
“The pictures,” she said. “Send them to my phone.” He was quiet for a second, and then her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Elena picked it up and opened the message from Dante. There it was again—four men, a red ledger, and her as a baby with her name in bold letters underneath.
She enlarged the image until the baby filled the screen. There was a tiny pink blanket tucked around her. She recognized it, and her heart stopped. “No.”
Dante moved closer. “What?”
“The blanket,” she said, pointing to the photo on her phone screen.
“What about it?” he asked. Elena zoomed in farther. There was a small embroidered rose near the edge of the blanket. She knew that rose because she’d seen it in photographs her entire life.
“My mother made it,” she said.
Dante sat beside her. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” She looked at him. “My mother embroidered roses on everything when she was pregnant with me. Blankets, clothes, and even the curtains in my nursery.” Her throat tightened.
“She said her doctor said that I was going to be a boy, but she was convinced I was a girl, so she refused to buy anything blue until I came. Then, she went crazy with buying pink stuff and embroidering roses on everything.”
A memory surfaced of her mother laughing while telling the story and her father rolling his eyes from across the dinner table because he’d heard it a thousand times. Their lives had seemed so fucking normal, except apparently none of it had been.
“That’s me,” Elena whispered.
Dante didn’t insult her by telling her it might not be. Instead, he took the phone from her when she held it out to him. “Who would've had access to you when you were that young?”
“My parents,” she said.
“Anyone else?” he asked.
“The family,” she whispered.
“The Romano family?” he questioned. She nodded. “Anyone else?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don't know. I was just a baby.”
Dante’s jaw tightened. “I know.” Elena pulled the sheet tighter around herself. Only minutes ago, she’d been lying against him, listening to the sound of his heartbeat—warm and safe. For the first time since this nightmare began, she'd forgotten everything. She'd let herself want something—someone.
Then that photograph had dragged her right back into a life she no longer recognized. She looked toward the clothes scattered near the bed. “I need to get dressed.”
“Elena,” Dante said.
“I need to put my clothes on,” she insisted.
He caught her wrist before she could get up. “Slow down.”
“I don't want to slow down,” she spat.
“You're shaking,” he pointed out. “You’re scared.”
“I’m angry,” she said.
“You can be both.”
She yanked her wrist free from his grip. “I’m not falling apart.”
“I didn't say you were,” he countered.
“Everyone keeps looking at me like I'm about to.”
“I’m not everyone,” Dante said.
“No. You’re the man who was inside me ten minutes ago, and now you’re interrogating me about who had access to my crib.
” Dante went completely still, and Elena immediately regretted the words—not because they weren’t true, but because of the hurt that flashed through his expression before he buried it.
“Dante—” she breathed.
He got out of bed and pulled on his pants. “Get dressed,” he ordered. His voice had gone cold.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” she insisted.
“I know exactly what you meant,” he spat.
“No, you don't.” He grabbed his shirt and tugged it on. Elena climbed out of bed, wrapping the sheet around herself. “I’m angry, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”
He turned to look at her. “Doesn't matter.”
“It matters to me,” she whispered. That stopped him. Elena crossed the room to stand in front of him. “I wanted what happened between us.”
His jaw tightened. “I know.”
“Do you?” she questioned.
“Yes,” he breathed.
“Because right now you look like you regret it,” she said.
“I already told you I don't,” he insisted.
“Then stop shutting me out.”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s rich coming from you.”
She blinked up at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means every time we find another secret, you remember something else your father left behind,” he said, sounding like he was accusing her of some kind of wrongdoing.
“That isn't fair,” she hissed.
“No. It isn't.” He stepped closer. “None of this is fucking fair, Elena.
Someone built an eighty-million-dollar company around your identity before you could fucking walk.
Your father knew something. Hale knew something.
Someone inside the Camorra family apparently knows something.
And you keep getting shot at while I'm trying to figure out who the hell I need to kill to make it stop.” Her anger disappeared because she heard the part he didn't say out loud.
It was the part beneath all his orders and threats—fear. Dante was afraid for her.
Elena reached for him, and he caught her hand before she touched his face. For a second, she thought he was going to push it away. Instead, he turned his head and pressed his mouth against her palm. The gesture was more intimate than anything they'd done in his bed.
Her chest tightened. “I’m scared too,” she admitted.
His eyes closed. “I know.”
“I don't know who my father was anymore.”
Dante opened his eyes. “That doesn't mean you didn't know him.”
“What if everything about my life was a lie?” she asked.
“It wasn't,” he insisted.
“You can't know that.”
He lowered her hand but didn't release it. “I know that men don't spend years trying to protect something they don't care about.”
Elena frowned. “You think he was protecting me?”
“I think the note, the key, the ledger, and the hiding places—all of it points in that direction,” Dante said.
“Then why didn't he tell me about any of this?” she asked.
“Maybe telling you would've put you in more danger,” he said. She hated that possibility because it made sense.
Dante squeezed her hand. “Get dressed.” This time, his voice was gentler when he gave that order. “Then we figure out who the fourth man is.”
They were downstairs twenty minutes later.
Elena wore another set of clothes Isabella had sent over for her.
Dante had coffee, but she didn't. Her stomach was too unsettled. The photographs were spread across the kitchen island and on Dante’s laptop.
He'd printed copies because apparently staring at them on three different electronic devices wasn't enough.
Elena leaned over the first photo. Her father was easy to recognize.
He was younger and thinner, and his dark hair still untouched by gray, but his eyes were still the same.
Vincenzo Hale stood beside him, and Dr. Vale was on the opposite side.
Then there was a fourth man, but his face had been cut from every photograph.
Someone had physically removed him from the original pictures.
“Why remove him?” Elena asked.
Dante stood across from her. “Because his identity matters.”
“Or someone hated him,” she countered.
“Could be both,” he said with a shrug. She moved on to the next photograph. They were the same men, but they were in a different room. The red ledger appeared again.
“Look,” she said.
Dante came around the island to study the photo more closely. “What about it?”
She pointed to the photo. “My father’s ring.”
A large ring sat on his right hand. Dante leaned closer to look at it. “Is that your family crest?”
“Yes,” she breathed. It’s the Romano crest.” Her gaze moved to Hale. He wore one too, but the design was different. Then she looked at Vale and spotted another ring.
Her pulse jumped. “Dante.”
“I see it too,” he said. There were three men, and three different rings. Elena looked at the fourth man. His hands were visible even though his face wasn't, and a ring sat on his finger.
“Four families,” she whispered. Dante went still beside her.
Four families. One empire. Sealed in blood.
Elena enlarged the image. The fourth ring bore some kind of symbol, but it was hard to make out. It looked like a crown, maybe. Or— “Is that a C?” she asked.
Dante leaned closer, and his entire body stiffened. Elena looked at him. “What do you see?” she asked. He didn't answer. “Dante.”
“I've seen that ring before.”
Her stomach dropped. “Where?”
He straightened. “On Luca’s father,” he said. “He wore that same ring.”
Elena stared at him. “No, it can’t be.”
“I’m not saying that's him,” Dante insisted.
“But it’s a Camorra ring,” she said.
“Yes.” She looked back at the photograph and the four families represented by the men standing there—Romano, Hale, Vale, Camorra.
“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “This is bigger than we imagined.” Dante was already reaching for his phone, and Elena caught his arm. “Wait.”
His gaze snapped to her. “What’s wrong?”
“If the note said there’s a traitor inside the Camorra family, maybe we shouldn't send this to anyone with the last name Camorra.”
“I'm calling Luca,” he said.
“That ring belonged to Luca’s family,” she reminded.
“That’s exactly why he needs to know,” Dante said.
“What if Luca already knows?” she asked. The second the words left her mouth, Dante’s face changed, and she immediately knew she'd crossed a line.
“Be very careful before you say anything else,” Dante warned.
“I’m not accusing him of anything,” she insisted.
“You just did,” he growled.
“No, I asked a question,” she said.
“Luca would die before betraying this family,” Dante said.
“You trust him that much?” she asked.
“I trust him with my life,” he spat. “And yours.”