Page 69 of Blood Vows

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.