Page 167 of Ricardo

My hands curl at my sides.

Dante sees it and steps closer, fury sharpening again.

“There it is,” he says. “That look. That Conti look. Someone hurt something you consider yours, so now you want a name, a place, a way to make him pay.”

“He hurt her.”

“You don’t know what he did.”

“I will if you tell me.”

“No.”

“Dante.”

“No!” His voice echoes through the room. “No, I will not stand here and hand you pieces of her because you think you have a right to them now. She told me because I was safe. Because I was separate. I told her things because she was safe, separate.”

The words stop me.

For the first time since he walked in, I look away.

Dante breathes hard.

“And now I do not know what I am to her,” he says.

“What you are to her has not changed.”

He shakes his head. “You are in the middle now. That changes everything.”

“It doesn't have to.”

“Whose truth is that?” he demands. “Yours? Hers? The version the two of you decided on before you let me in?”

“We did not decide on a version. We simply needed time—"

“You decided enough.”

I have no defense.

He moves deeper into the study, past the chair where he used to sit, even a few weeks ago, arguing with me over anything and everything.

“I told her things about you,” he says.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice drops. “I told her things because she was mine to tell. Because she wasn’t part of this life. Because she wasn’t going to go home to you afterward.”

“She would never betray your confidence.”

“That is not the point.”

I say nothing.

He laughs under his breath, and the sound is worse than shouting.

“God, you really don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think.”