The question is so absurd, I can only stare at him with a slack jaw. When I find my voice again, it’s to laugh. “You’re not seriously asking me that.”
“I told you to wait for me. When I came for you, you were gone.”
“Given the circumstances, I’d think you know why I had no choice but to run as fast and far away from you as I could.”
He searches my eyes. “You should’ve trusted me.”
“Trusted you?” I laugh again. “Are you crazy, Dante?”
“At least you could’ve heard me out. You could’ve told me I’d made you pregnant and that you were expecting our son.”
“Our son?” I step away and shake my head. “No, he’s mine. He’s nothing of you, do you hear me? If you touch him, so help me God, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
Ignoring my tantrum, he continues to stare at me. “You should’ve waited for me, Tatiana, and I would’ve explained.”
Emotions of old push their way to the surface. I’m shaky with anger and nauseous from the betrayal. “So you admit you gave the order to fire that rocket that killed my parents?”
He doesn’t as much as flinch. “Yes.”
I reel at his easy admission. It’s like a slap in the face. He doesn’t even try to deny it.
Taking my wrist, he pulls me behind him to the adjoining room, which holds a desk and two chairs. He sets me free, goes to a briefcase that stands on the floor, and takes out a photo that he drops on the desk in the line of my vision.
Whatever this is, it’s going to be bad. I know it. I don’t want to look at the photo, but I can’t stop the perverse curiosity that compels me to do exactly that.
The man in the photo bears a striking resemblance to Dante. He’s got the same tussled, dark blond hair and familiar golden flames that dance in his brown eyes. The look in those eyes is mischievous. Humorous. He’s smiling at the camera as if he’s sharing a private joke with the person taking the picture. He looks so… alive. Happy.
But he’s not Dante. There are differences. Dante has always had an edge to his smile—a little seductive, a lot sexy, and way too dangerous. And if he smiles just right, he has a dimple in his cheek. This man doesn’t have a dimple. He lacks the darkness that’s part and parcel of Dante. He seems more open. Less complicated.
I make the mistake of lifting my face to Dante for a clue only to catch the pain in his pensive expression as he stares at the photo.
Unable to help myself, I ask, “Who is he?”
“Was.” A second passes, and then the moment is gone. When Dante meets my eyes, his impersonal smile is back in place. “My brother, Lee. He was four years younger than me.”
I swallow, not wanting to know any longer.
Dante’s smile turns indulgent. “Aren’t you going to ask how he died?”
The moment burns into my brain as I take in my ex-lover’s dark suit and white shirt, the sophisticated woodsy smell of his aftershave, and the visible black lines that hint at the ink hidden beneath those civil, expensive clothes, ink that tells a story, a story I witnessed before he fucked me last night. And I sense this is some kind of pivot point, that today is going to turn my world upside down even more.
I don’t want to know. But that’s a coward’s reaction. Because I want answers.
Dante pushes a forefinger on the photo and slides it closer to me, all the way to the edge of the desk. “He was beaten. Do you know who gave the order?”
A static noise crackles in my ears.
“Your father, Tatiana.”
And now I know.
The pieces click into place. Everything Dante had put us through had been about revenge. My heart contracts with compassion as I look at that young, hopeful face on the photo, so positive and sure of a good future.
“He was eighteen years old.” Dante seems calm on the outside, but where his hand is fisted at his side, his knuckles crack. “Eighteen fucking years.”
That would’ve made Dante twenty-two when it happened. Everything makes sense now.
My voice is hoarse, and it’s not just because my throat is raw inside. “Why?”
