Elena
We got bad intel.
Her father was dead because Vincenzo Hale had pointed the Camorras in his direction, and Dante had pulled the trigger—maybe. That word was the only thing keeping her upright. Maybe, not definitely—not yet. But it was close enough to make her stomach roll.
“I need to leave.”
His jaw tightened. “I know.”
She blinked up at him. “You’re not going to stop me?”
“I’m not letting you leave alone.”
Anger sparked. “That’s not your decision anymore,” she said.
“Elena,” Dante breathed.
“You don’t get to order me around right now,” she hissed.
“I’m not trying to,” he assured.
“You literally just told me what I’m not allowed to do.”
“Because someone is still trying to kill you,” Dante reminded.
“And maybe I’d rather take my chances,” she said. The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Dante’s face went completely blank—not angry or cold, but worse. He looked hurt.
“Elena,” he whispered.
She looked away. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t,” she insisted.
“You did for half a second.” He picked up his gun from the counter and holstered it. “That’s enough.”
She stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Taking you to Isabella.” Relief hit her in the chest, followed by guilt because she’d wanted him to fight harder for her. She didn’t understand herself anymore.
“Fine.” Dante grabbed his keys and he walked toward the door, then stopped and looked back at her.
“Elena,” he said.
“What?”
“If you decide after we know everything that you never want to see me again—” His jaw flexed. “I’ll find a way to live with it.” Her chest tightened. “But not before.”
She swallowed. “Before what?”
“Before we know if I actually killed your father,” Dante said. The room went silent. Elena wrapped her arms around herself.
“You remember the coat he was wearing,” she said. Dante’s face changed. She’d seen it when Luca admitted the warehouse job—he remembered something. “You said you remembered silver buttons.”
“Yes,” Dante admitted.
“My father had a coat like that,” she said.
“I know,” he breathed.
Her throat tightened. “How?”
“I saw pictures in your apartment,” he reminded. The answer somehow made it worse, because Dante had noticed everything.
“Do you remember his face?” she asked.
“No,” he whispered.
“His voice?”
“No.”
“Do you remember anything?” she questioned.
Dante looked away. “I remember he turned right before I fired.”
Elena stopped breathing, and Dante closed his eyes for half a second. “He had his hand inside his coat.”
“You thought he had a gun?” she asked.
“Yes,” Dante admitted.
“Did he?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
Her anger flared again. “How can you not know?”
“Because I was there to kill him, Elena.” The words cracked through the room, and silence followed. Dante looked sick, and Elena felt worse. He hadn’t said it to hurt her. He had said it because it was true, and that was the problem with truth. It didn’t care who survived it.
“Did you check him?” she asked, her voice cracking with emotion.
“Yes,” he said.
“And what did you find?”
“No gun,” he said. Her eyes burned, and Dante continued before she could speak. “There was a phone and a wallet.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
He frowned. “A key.”
Elena froze. “What kind of key?”
Dante’s attention sharpened. “It was small.”
“Like a safe-deposit key?” she asked.
“Maybe.”
Her pulse began to pound. “What happened to it?”
“It was put into an evidence bag,” Dante admitted.
“Where is that bag now?” she asked.
“Luca’s archive, probably.”
Elena stepped toward him. “Why didn’t you remember that before?”
“Because it was two years ago and I’ve done more jobs than I care to count,” he said.
She flinched, and Dante did too. “Sorry.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Don’t apologize for telling me who you are.”
His eyes darkened. “That isn't all I am.” She looked at him. There was no arrogance in the words, just pain and certainty. She knew that much about him. God help her, she knew that he was so much more than just a man hired to do a job.
He was the man who had threatened her in her apartment, but also the man who’d covered her body with his when bullets flew.
Dante was the man who had killed for Luca, but was also the man who had changed her bandage with hands gentle enough to make her forget what those hands had probably done to other people.
The man standing in front of her might have killed her father, but she had fallen for him anyway, and that realization hit her so hard she almost stepped back.
No, she couldn’t have fallen for him. It was too soon, too messy, and too impossible, but the ache in her chest didn’t care what word she used.
“Elena?” he breathed.
She realized Dante was watching her. “I’m fine,” she lied. His expression said he didn’t believe her. She almost laughed because some things never changed.
“Let’s go,” she ordered.
Isabella opened the door before Elena knocked. One look at her face and her cousin stopped smiling. “What happened?” Elena tried to speak, but nothing came out. Isabella pulled her inside. “Elena?” Dante stepped in behind her, and Isabella looked at him, and then back at Elena. “What happened?”
Elena finally forced the words out. “Dante might have killed my father.” Isabella went still, and the air felt as though it had changed.
Luca appeared from the hallway. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Dante shut the door. “Not here.”
“Yes, here,” Elena said. He looked at her, and she held his gaze. “No more secrets.”
Something passed through his expression, and then he nodded. “Fine.”
Luca’s jaw tightened. “My study.” They followed him, and Elena sat on the couch. Isabella sat beside her immediately. Dante remained standing, far enough away that she didn’t feel crowded, yet close enough that she could still feel him.
Luca went behind his desk. “I pulled the archive.”
Dante looked at him. “Of the warehouse?”
“Yes,” Luca breathed.
Elena’s stomach twisted. “And?”
Luca looked at her. “There’s a file.”
She hated that everyone seemed to hesitate before speaking to her now. “Open it.”
“Elena—” Luca started.
“Open the damn file,” she shouted at him. Luca did, and a photograph slid out first. Elena stopped breathing when she realized that it was of her father, taken from a distance. He was walking toward the warehouse in the same coat, with the same silver buttons. Her vision blurred.
“That’s him,” she whispered. Dante didn’t move. Isabella took Elena’s hand, and Luca pulled out another sheet.
“The target was listed as Anthony Ross,” he said.
Elena frowned through the pain. “That isn’t his name.”
“No.” Dante stepped closer. “Was it an alias?”
“Looks like it,” Luca said.
“Who submitted the intel?” she asked.
Luca turned the page, and his expression hardened. “Anonymous source through Hale.”
Elena laughed bitterly. “Of course.”
Dante’s voice went cold. “What was the accusation?”
Luca read. “Selling Camorra shipping routes to federal investigators.”
Elena shook her head. “My father hated the feds.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Luca said.
She glared at him. “I know.”
He softened slightly. “I’m not accusing him of anything, Elena.”
Dante moved closer to the desk. “Where’s the after-action report?” Luca found it and read it silently, and then looked at Dante.
Dante’s face changed. “What?” Luca handed it over, and Dante read. Elena watched every flicker in his expression.
“What does it say?” she asked. He didn’t answer. “Dante.”
He looked at her. “I shot him.” The words destroyed whatever was left of her hope. Elena couldn’t breathe. Isabella’s grip tightened around her hand. Dante continued. “One round to the chest.” Her father had died alone on a warehouse floor because of a lie.
Her eyes filled. “Did he say anything?”
Dante looked down at the report. “Yes.”
“What?” she asked.
His voice came out rough. “He said, ‘Tell Elena I’m sorry.’” Something inside her broke.
The sound that came out of her throat didn’t even sound human.
Isabella pulled her close. Elena folded into her cousin, crying in a way she hadn’t cried when her father died because back then she’d been too busy trying to understand why he was gone.
Now she knew. It was because of a lie that Hale had told the Camorras, and Luca sent Dante to kill her father.
She cried for the father she lost, for the secrets he kept, for the years she had spent wondering, and for the man standing across the room who looked like he wanted to tear his own heart out. When the tears finally slowed, she pulled away from Isabella.
Dante hadn’t moved. “Did you know who I was when you came to my apartment?”
“No,” he breathed.
“Did you know my father’s name?” she asked.
“Only what was in the file Luca gave me. I knew his alias,” Dante said.
“Did you remember him then?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“When did you remember who he was?” she asked.
“I recognized him from the photograph Hale sent,” Dante said. She nodded. Every answer hurt, but every answer mattered.
“Did you enjoy it?”
Dante went white. Isabella whispered, “Elena.”
“No.” She kept her eyes on Dante. “I need to know.”
“No.” His voice broke. “No, I didn’t enjoy it.”
“Did you feel anything?” she asked.
“Yes,” he insisted.
“What?”
Dante swallowed. “Nothing good.” That surprised her. He looked down. “I thought he was a traitor. Thought he was selling out the family. I believed the intel.” His hands clenched. “I was wrong.”
Elena’s chest tightened. “You were doing your job.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” he said. “It makes it worse.”
She looked at him. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t ask enough questions.” Dante met her gaze. “I pulled a trigger because someone told me to.” Luca stiffened, and Dante didn’t look at him. “I trusted the system. Trusted the intel. Trusted the family.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “And your father died because of it.”