“He’s responsible for monitoring movement along the highways leading into the city,” Dante says.“When Giovanni’s convoy came through, my men were already watching.”
The words land with quiet weight.
“Watching,” I repeat.
His gaze lifts to mine again.
“I had reason to believe your family might attempt to interfere with the ceremony.”
My pulse spikes.
“Even you thought your brother was coming to stop the wedding.”
I exhale.“I thought he might try.”
The admission sits heavily between us.
Which was why he was monitoring all the potential routes to the cathedral.
And his eyes on his city are second to none, which is no doubt how he knew I’d visited that art gallery, infringed on his turf.
We have similar precautions in place.Yet somehow Moretti slipped into Dallas without us knowing it.
Slowly, uncomfortably, what he’s saying settles into place.“You had nothing to do with the crash.”
He turns a hand palm up on top of the table.“No.”
“Then who did?”
For the first time since we began this conversation, Dante hesitates.“Could have been a random accident.”
Involving a high-ranking member of the Russo family in Moretti territory.Right before a forced marriage.Impossible.“You can’t believe that.”
He hesitates for a fraction of a heartbeat.“No.”
“So who did it?”
The million dollar question.And one that’s potentially explosive.
“And why?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Does my family believe you didn’t cause the incident?”
He shrugs.“We don’t know.”
No wonder my brother isn’t answering.They wouldn’t know whether they could trust anything I said.I might be under duress.Might believe I’d try to convince them of Moretti’s innocence.
No.Better that they keep me in the dark.
It’s a strategic move by our consigliere.Even though I hate it.
The bruising across Moretti’s knuckles has darkened to a deep purple now, the skin swollen where the bone must have struck something hard.
Or someone.
“What about that?”I ask quietly.
