The admission hangs between us, heavy with implications. This is as close as he's come to saying he loves me, and we both know it.
"What about Mila?" I ask, changing the subject because I can't handle the intensity of this moment. "She was crying when I left. Is she okay?"
"She's fine. Maria is with her. I told her you had a little accident, but you'd be home soon." His hand strokes my hair, careful to avoid the injury. "She made you a get-well card. Drew about a hundred flowers on it."
Despite everything, I smile. "Of course she did."
"She loves you." It's not a question. "My daughter has fallen in love with you."
"I love her too."
The words slip out before I can stop them. I feel Dante go very still against me. Because we both know I'm not just talking about Mila. We both know the admission extends to him too, whether I'm ready to say it explicitly or not.
"Hannah," he starts, but I cut him off.
"Where were you?" The question I've been avoiding. "When Alexei called. Where were you?"
His expression closes off slightly, protective shields sliding back into place. "New York. Meeting with the council of elders."
"About my father?"
A pause. "Among other things."
"And?" My heart is pounding now, dread pooling in my stomach. "Did you tell them he's innocent? Did you show them the evidence I found?"
"The council believes your father is guilty." His voice is carefully neutral. "They want justice."
"Justice." I pull away from him, suddenly cold. "You mean they want him dead."
"Hannah—"
"You told them about the discrepancies, right? About how the evidence doesn't add up? About how someone is clearly framing him?"
"I told them I was conducting further investigation."
"And?"
"And they gave me two weeks to resolve the situation." His jaw tightens. "After that, they'll resolve it themselves."
The words feel like a physical assault.Two weeks. My father has two weeks to live unless I can prove his innocence, and Dante just sat in a room with people who want him dead and didn't fight for him.
"You didn't defend him." The realization makes me sick. "You sat there and let them condemn an innocent man."
"I bought him time?—"
"Time for what? To dig his own grave?" I push at his chest, needing distance. "Get off me."
"Hannah, you don't understand?—"
"I understand perfectly." I'm crying now, angry tears that burn tracks down my face. "You're going to let them kill my father because it's easier than admitting you were wrong. Because it's easier than standing up to your precious elders."
"That's not what's happening?—"
"Then what is happening?" I demand. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you care more about your position than about the truth."
“If I have to sacrifice your father's life to keep you safe, I'll do it."
The brutal honesty of the admission steals my breath. "You can't mean that."
