"Then we make sure he doesn't find out."
"Dante, we have everything we need to proceed. Why complicate things with unnecessary delays?"
Because a woman I'm falling in love with just looked at me like I'm a
monster and told me her father is innocent. Because I can't shake the feeling that I'm being manipulated by someone I trust. Because for the first time in my life, keeping someone happy matters more than maintaining my reputation for ruthless efficiency.
"Because I want to be sure," I say.
Bogdan nods slowly, but I catch the disappointment in his eyes. Like I’m failing him by not immediately murdering Richard.
"Of course," he says. "I'll make the arrangements."
After he leaves, I sit alone in my office, torn between the evidence of Richard Quinn's guilt and Hannah's passionate defense of her father's innocence.
One of them has to be wrong.
17
HANNAH
The garden is perfect today. I inhale and just let the scent of flowers spread through my body. Every nerve ending lights up like a flower opening to the sun. Sunlight filters through the leaves in that golden way that photographers spend hours trying to capture. The weather is beautiful. Not too hot.
Mila and I walk along the cobblestone path through the gardens that have definitely been upgraded since I’ve been here. And that’s all because Mila wanted more flowers. Her daddy spoils her. It’s the sweetest thing to see the big tough guy wrapped around her little finger.
Everything is still, peaceful, like the world beyond these walls doesn't exist.
Like I didn't watch cleanup crews remove a body from the basement yesterday.
Like I didn't call the man I'm falling for a monster and mean every word.
"Hannah, look!" Mila tugs on my hand, pointing to a butterfly that's landed on a nearby flower. "It's so pretty! Can we catch it?"
"Butterflies are meant to fly free," I say, the irony of my words not lost on me. "We can watch it, though."
She nods solemnly, creeping closer to the flower with exaggerated stealth that makes me smile. She's so innocent, so untouched by the violence that funds this beautiful prison. I wonder how Dante does it. How does he separate these two worlds so completely that his daughter can play in gardens watered with blood money and never know the difference.
I'm struggling to reconcile the two versions of him that exist in my mind. There's the Dante who murders people in his basement and holds me captive. The man who built an empire on fear and violence. And then there's the Dante who reads bedtime stories to his daughter in silly voices and touches me like I'm a delicate flower. Well, not always, but I don’t mind the aggressive sex. It’s good.
And then when I think about the man who looked genuinely hurt when I called him a monster.
Which one is real? Or are they both real, somehow existing simultaneously in the same man?
"I wish Papa could see this," Mila says, still watching the butterfly. "He loves butterflies. He says butterflies are my mama coming to say hi.”
The casual mention of her dead mother makes my chest tighten. "I think that’s true. I like that."
“Papa says she grew the most beautiful flowers." Mila looks up at me with those blue eyes that are so much like her father's. "Do you think she can see us from heaven?"
The question catches me off guard with its earnestness. “She’s definitely watching over you."
"And Papa?"
"And your papa."
Mila seems satisfied with this answer and returns her attention to the butterfly, which has moved to another flower. I let her explore, staying close enough to supervise but giving her the space to discover things on her own.
The morning sickness was particularly bad today, and I'm exhausted from keeping up the pretense that everything is fine. Maria brought me ginger tea again this morning, along with crackers and that same knowing look that simultaneously comforts and terrifies me.
