Elena #3
She answered the phone before he could grab it away from her. “Hello?” Dante moved closer to her, and she put it on speaker. “Hello?”
She heard breathing on the other end of the call. “Elena Romano.”
Her blood went cold, and Dante took the phone from her hand. “Who the fuck is this?” The man laughed, and he sounded old and rough, but familiar. Elena stopped breathing. No, that was impossible.
“Put her back on,” the man ordered.
Dante’s expression became murderous. “You have ten seconds to tell me who you are.”
“Hello, Dante Vitale,” the man shouted, and Dante froze. Elena stared at the phone. The man knew him. “Interesting choice, Elena,” the man said. Her heart hammered because she knew that voice. But she couldn't place who it was. Then he spoke again. “Your father would be disappointed.”
Everything inside her stopped as a memory slammed into her.
Christmas at her father’s house. A man laughing as he handed her a badly wrapped present.
She remembered hearing that voice at birthday dinners, and on summer afternoons.
She remembered her father calling him brother even though they shared no blood.
Elena grabbed the phone. “Vincenzo?”
He was quiet for a few seconds, and she wasn’t sure if he had hung up or not. “Hello, sweetheart.” Her knees buckled, but Dante caught her. Elena barely felt him, because Vincenzo Hale was dead—except he wasn't.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m lying low, someplace safe,” Vincenzo said.
“Why did you fake your death?” she asked.
“Because your father wasn't smart enough to fake his,” he said.
Pain ripped through her. “You son of a bitch.”
“Elena,” Vincenzo said.
“What did you do to him?” she asked.
“You’re asking the wrong question, honey,” he said.
Her hand shook around the phone. “Then what's the right one?”
“Ask why he put eighty million dollars in the name of a newborn baby,” Vincenzo insisted.
Elena looked at Dante. His face had gone completely still. “Tell me the answer to that question, then,” she challenged.
“I can't,” Vincenzo said.
“Then why call me?” she asked.
“To warn you,” he said.
“About what?”
Vincenzo sighed. “You opened the door your father spent twenty-seven years trying to keep closed.”
“What door?” she asked.
“The door to the Crimson Empire,” Vincenzo said. The name settled over the room.
Elena’s skin prickled. “What is it?”
“You'll find out soon enough,” he said, his words sounding like a threat.
“No, you tell me now,” she insisted.
“Still stubborn,” he tsked.
“Vincenzo—” she started.
“Listen carefully. You cannot trust the Camorras,” he said, cutting her off. Dante’s hand tightened at her waist, and Elena looked at him.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because one of them killed your father,” he said.
The line went dead, and Elena stared at the phone.
Dante slowly released her, and she looked up at him.
Neither of them spoke. For the first time since this nightmare began, something had changed between them.
Something worse than fear—doubt. Elena didn't want it there between them, but Vincenzo had planted it anyway. One of the Camorras had killed her father, and the man Elena had just jumped into bed with, the man she was starting to trust more than anyone, was Luca Camorra’s right hand.
Dante’s face hardened as if he could read every thought running through her head. “Elena.” She took one step backward, and his expression changed—just slightly, but she saw it. The hurt she saw in his eyes was the worst part of it, and somehow that made everything worse.
“Don't,” he said quietly.
“Don't what?” she asked.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
Her throat tightened. “I don't know how I'm supposed to look at you.”
His jaw clenched. “Like I'm the same man I was thirty seconds ago.” She wanted to believe him—God, she wanted to, but her father was dead, and Vincenzo was alive. Everything she believed yesterday had become a lie today.
“I need to know the truth,” she said.
“You will,” he promised.
“What if I don't like what I find?” she asked.
Dante held her gaze. “Then we keep digging for more answers.”
“And if Luca had something to do with my father's death?” she asked.
Something dangerous entered his expression. “Then I'll find out.”
“That isn't what I asked,” she warned.
“I know,” he breathed. She waited him out, and finally, Dante answered. “If Luca killed your father, there was a good reason.” She knew that family, blood, and his loyalty to Luca would always come first.
Dante reached for her. “Elena—”
“No.” She backed away. “I need some space.”
His entire body went rigid. “Fine.”
She turned toward the stairs. “Elena.” She stopped but didn't look back at him. Dante’s voice was low.
“Whatever happened twenty-seven years ago, whatever Luca’s family did, whatever your father did—none of it changes what happened between us.
” Her eyes burned. Maybe it didn’t change anything for him, but for Elena, it changed everything.
She went upstairs without answering him, and for the first time since Dante Vitale had stepped into her life, she locked the door behind herself.