"I can't lose her," I say finally. "I can't."
"Then you need to let her make her own choices, even if those choices break your heart."
I throw up my hands, my teeth gritting together. "I don't know how to do that. My entire fucking life has been about clearing a path to whatever my father wants, whatever I want. I’ve been taught that’s what to fuckingdo."
"Then learn. Because if you don't—if you keep going down this path—you're going to destroy her, and yourself, and everything you claim to love about her."
We sit in silence for a long moment. The dossier sits between us on the table, a physical representation of everything I've been planning, everything I've been willing to do.
"Don't do this," Luca says quietly.
I pick up the dossier, feeling the weight of it in my hands. "I need to think.”
"Promise me you won't do anything until you've thought this through.” He taps his fingers against the table. “Don’t be reckless, Romeo.”
I let out a heavy sigh. "I promise."
He looks at me, and I think we both know that I’m not going to be able to let this go.
I can’t just let Whitmore take her, and hurt her, and have her. What is all this power and influence for, if I can’t use it to save the woman I love?
If I can’t use it to give us both what I know we both want?
Halfway back to my apartment, my phone rings. I glance down and see that it’s my father calling me.
Unfortunately, that’s not a call I can ignore, no matter hownotin the mood to have a conversation I am.
"Hello?" I try not to sound as irritable as I feel when I answer, but it’s difficult.
"My office. Now." His voice is sharp and angry, and my jaw clenches.
"I'm in the middle of?—"
"Now, Romeo."
The line goes dead, and my mind races. When was the last time I spoke to Dante? A week ago? Two weeks? I've been so focused on Savannah that I've barely thought about family business.
Maybe that's the problem. Maybe he's calling me in because I've been neglecting my responsibilities. Maybe this is about the shipment that came in last week, or the deal with the Russians, or?—
I don't know, and I feel a twist of concern in my gut. I might have fucked up all the way around. I drive to the compound, my hands tight on the steering wheel, trying to prepare myself for whatever's coming, that knot of anxiety winding tighter.
—
My father is sitting behind his desk when I enter, and he doesn't look up. "Close the door," he says.
I do.
"Sit."
I sit.
He still doesn't look at me, scanning the file in front of him. For a long moment, the only sound is the ticking of the antique clock on the wall. Then he looks up, and the expression on his face makes my stomach drop.
"Do you know what this is?" He gestures to the papers.
I shake my head. "No."
"This is a surveillance report. From my men. The ones I have watching you."
