Elena #3
Her hands shook harder. The thought of Hale having any claim to her, and the money, made her sick. Then she reached the final paragraph.
If I am dead, do not trust Vincenzo. Do not trust anyone who tells you the Camorras are your enemy. I made many mistakes, but trusting Luca Camorra’s family was not one of them.
Elena stopped and read it again, and then a third time. Her eyes dropped to the final line.
And if Dante Vitale is the man standing beside you when the truth comes out, know this—he was never supposed to know my name. What happened was my fault, not his.
The letter slipped from her fingers. Elena stared at it as it lay on the table. Dante—her father knew his name before he died. He knew enough to forgive him before Dante even understood what he had done.
There was a knock at the door. “Elena.” Dante was letting her know that her five minutes were up.
She laughed through her tears. “Come in.” The door opened, and Dante stepped inside. He saw her face, and everything about him changed.
“Elena?” She held out the letter, and he approached slowly, as if she might run from him. Or like he didn't deserve to come closer.
“Read it,” she ordered. He took the letter.
She watched his eyes move across the page and watched as he reached the last paragraph.
And then, she watched his face break. It wasn’t much, but then Dante Vitale didn’t break dramatically.
She saw it, though. His eyes closed, his shoulders dropped, and he sat down.
For the first time since she’d met him, Dante looked completely defenseless.
“He knew,” Dante whispered.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“How?” he asked.
“I don't know.”
He read it again and then looked at her. “He knew I might be the one sent after him.”
“Looks that way,” she said.
Dante stared at the letter. “Why would he forgive me?”
Elena stepped closer. “Maybe because he knew Hale was setting you up too.”
Dante shook his head. “I still pulled the trigger.”
“Yes.” She wouldn’t take that away because she couldn't. “But maybe my father understood something I’m only starting to.”
His gaze lifted. “What?”
“That being used by someone isn’t the same as choosing what they make you do.”
Dante looked at her for a long time. “Elena—”
“I’m still angry,” she warned.
“I know,” he breathed.
“I’m still hurt,” she insisted.
“I know,” he said.
“I don’t forgive you,” she spat.
His jaw tightened. “I know.”
She stepped between his knees. “But I don’t hate you.” Dante stopped breathing, and Elena touched his face. His eyes closed, and he leaned into her touch.
“You should hate me,” he insisted.
“Probably,” she said with a shrug. He opened his eyes, and she gave him a watery smile.
“But I’m starting to realize I make terrible decisions where you’re concerned.
” His hands settled carefully on her hips.
He didn’t pull her into his body. He was just touching her like he was afraid she might change her mind.
“You sure about this?” he asked.
“No,” she breathed. Dante stood and rested his forehead against hers, and for one moment, the vault disappeared. The murder, the betrayal, the money—everything disappeared. Elena remembered the flash drive, and she pulled back. “There’s more.”
Dante groaned. “Of course there is.”
She picked up the drive. “He left documents behind, too.” They spread them across the table—corporate agreements, account numbers, property deeds, and names. There were dozens of names. Then Dante found one page that made him go still.
“Elena,” he breathed.
“What?” He turned it toward her and pointed to a list of four original family names. Beneath them, most of the names had been crossed out. Some were marked as deceased and others released, but one remained untouched.
Elena Romano — Bond Holder.
Beside it was another line.
Upon termination of bond, controlling interest transfers to Vincenzo Hale.
Elena’s blood ran cold. “Termination?” Dante’s face turned lethal.
He didn’t need to explain. If Elena died, Hale got everything—Crimson Holdings, the empire, and eighty million dollars and whatever else they hadn’t found.
Suddenly every attack made sense. Hale didn’t want Elena to cooperate—he wanted her dead.
Dante reached for her, and this time, Elena went willingly. He pulled her against his chest. His voice was cold enough to freeze blood. “Now we know why he wants you.”
Elena closed her eyes. “And what he plans to do to me tomorrow.”
“No.” She looked up at him. Dante’s expression was terrifying. “Nothing happens to you tomorrow.”
“How can you promise that?” she asked.
His arm tightened around her. “Because Hale just made his first real mistake.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“He gave me a name.” Elena stared at him, and Dante’s eyes went dark—not with fear, but with purpose.
Vincenzo Hale had spent twenty-seven years building a trap around Elena Romano, but he had made the mistake of putting Dante Vitale inside it.
And Elena was starting to understand something about Dante.
He didn’t run from traps; he burned them down.