Page 70 of Blood Vows

“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.

Dante

Dante stared at the closed bedroom door long after the lock clicked. That sound shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. He stood at the bottom of the stairs with his hands clenched at his sides, every instinct in him screaming to go after her, but he didn’t. Elena needed space, and he understood that. He didn’t like it, and didn’t agree with it, but he understood it.

The problem was what had put that space between them.

One of the Camorras killed your father.

Vincenzo Hale had known exactly where to strike. Not at Elena, but at her trust in him. Dante’s jaw tightened because he hated the guy already. Maybe because Hale had just taken something Dante had been fighting like hell not to admit he wanted—Elena’s faith in him.

He dragged a hand down his face and walked back into the kitchen. Her coffee still sat on the island, cold now. So was his. He picked up his phone and called Luca. There was no answer, so he called again—still nothing. That was unusual. Dante’s irritation sharpened. On the third try, Luca answered.

“What?” he growled.

“Where are you?” Dante asked.

“In my office,” he said.

“You alone?”

“No,” Luca admitted.

“Get alone.” There was another pause, followed by muffled voices and a door closing.

“You have thirty seconds before I decide I don’t like your tone,” Luca growled.