The admission should terrify me. Should make me demand to leave and go back to my real life where men don't kill people in their basements and daughters aren't raised in fortresses.
Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn by the vulnerability he's showing me. This isn't the cold, calculating pakhan who gives orders and expects obedience. This is just a man, haunted by his failures and terrified of losing the people he loves.
"I need to tell you something," I hear myself say.
He goes very still. "What?"
This is the moment. Right now, with his defenses down and his hand in mine, I need to tell him about the baby.
But the words stick in my throat.
What if he reacts badly? What if knowing about the baby makes me even more of a prisoner. What if he sees our child as just another asset to be managed, another piece in his criminal empire?
"Hannah?" His voice is gentle and patient. "What do you need to tell me?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.
"I—" The words collapse before they can form. "It doesn't matter."
"It clearly matters to you."
"It's just—" I squeeze his hand, using the contact to anchor myself. "I'm scared. Of all of this. Of what it means that I don't hate being here anymore."
It's not a lie, exactly. Just not the whole truth.
He stares at me and I'm sure he can see right through my deflection. But instead of pushing, he just squeezes my hand back.
"You're exhausted," he says, noting the way my eyes are starting to droop despite the conversation. "The adrenaline is wearing off."
He's right. The crash is hitting me hard now, my body demanding rest after the sustained terror of this afternoon. I try to stifle a yawn and fail miserably.
"Come on," he says, standing and pulling me to my feet. "You need to sleep."
"I'm fine?—"
"You're dead on your feet." He guides me toward the bed with gentle insistence. "Sleep. Everything else can wait."
I let him tuck me in like I'm a child, too tired to protest or maintain my pride. The moment my head hits the pillow, my eyes start to close.
"Dante?" I murmur, already half-asleep.
"Yes?"
"Stay. Just for a minute."
I feel him settle beside me, his weight dipping the mattress. His hand finds mine again under the covers. I hold on like he's the only thing keeping me tethered to earth.
"I'm scared of losing you," he says quietly, thinking I'm already asleep. "More scared than I've been of anything since Katya died. And I don't know what to do with that."
I want to respond and tell him I feel the same way. I want to tell him I'm terrified of how much he's come to mean to me. But sleep pulls me under before I can form the words.
When I wake later, the room is dark and Dante is gone. The blanket is tucked carefully around my shoulders. I can still smell his cologne on the pillow beside me—evidence that he was here, that the conversation wasn't just a dream.
I press my hand to my stomach.
The man has enough on his plate. I don’t want to add to his worry. But I know something needs to happen. Either he believes my father is innocent or he kills him. Can I love a man that kills my father? I know my father didn’t steal. But then I remind myself I didn’t know my father like I thought I did.
19
