For a moment I can’t seem to breathe.
The words settle into the quiet space between us, and the soft rustle of the oak leaves overhead suddenly feels unbearably loud.
“A crash,” I repeat, though the word barely makes it past my lips.
Images begin forming in my mind whether I want them to or not—flashing lights, twisted metal, men shouting over the chaos of stalled traffic—and I press my fingertips harder into the stem of my glass as if grounding myself will somehow keep the worst possibilities from taking shape.
“Was anyone hurt?”I ask quickly, the question rushing out before the fear tightening in my chest can grow any larger.
“One driver,” Dante says, his voice steady, measured.“Not seriously.”
Relief rushes through me so abruptly my shoulders sag, but it lasts only a heartbeat before another thought takes its place.
“Giovanni?”My voice softens despite myself.“Where was he?”
“He wasn’t in the vehicle that went down.”
The knot in my chest loosens slightly, though it refuses to disappear entirely.
My brother has survived worse than a traffic accident, but the fact that he never arrived at the cathedral gnaws uncomfortably against every instinct I possess.
“Then why wasn’t he there?”I press.
Dante’s gaze holds mine across the table, dark and unreadable.
“Because the crash scattered the convoy,” he says at last.“Vehicles separated trying to clear the wreck.Communications went down for a time.”
“Meaning phones?”
“Yes.”
My mind races through the possibilities.
A simple accident could cause confusion for a few minutes, maybe longer in Houston traffic, but Giovanni Russo does not vanish from his own security team without explanation.Not when he’s traveling with men whose sole purpose is to keep him alive.
Something about this entire situation feels dangerously wrong.
Frantic, I grab my phone.There are no new messages.
And when I call Giovanni, I go straight to voicemail.“I’m going to try my dad.”And then every single contact in my phone.
Reassuringly he closes his hand over mine.“Your brother is safe.”
The tension leaves me so suddenly that I close my eyes for a brief second.
Thank God.
“His people got him out of Houston and back to Dallas.”
I narrow my eyes as I place my phone facedown on the table.Then, horrible, horrible thoughts race through my head.“You had something to do with…the accident.”
A dangerous pulse tics in his temple, and he doesn’t answer immediately.
His hand still rests over mine where it covers my phone, the weight of it warm and immovable, and for a moment I’m acutely aware of how large his hand is compared to my own, how easily he could close his fingers and prevent me from doing anything at all.
The silence stretches just long enough to make me swallow hard.
Slowly, deliberately, he removes his hand.
