Dante’s gaze met hers, direct and unflinching. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Her jaw tightened. “Three dead men show up with your family’s name carved into them, and somehow I’m involved?” she shot back. “That’s your logic?”
“No, it’s my job to figure out if you’re involved,” he corrected.
“To assume I’m guilty?” she questioned.
“To assume everyone is,” he countered.
Elena exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay calm. Losing control wouldn’t help her, not here, and not with him.
“You think I have access to something,” she said, thinking it through out loud. “Something connected to my father.” Dante didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Her stomach twisted. Because that part—that part wasn’t wrong.
“I don’t,” she lied.
“You think that you don’t have anything on him, but you’re wrong.” His eyes narrowed slightly at that. “So, how about you start talking, and I’ll decide if you don’t know anything about your father’s connection to our dead men.”
Elena hesitated, not because she didn’t have an answer for him, but because she didn’t know how much to give him. Information was power, and right now, she had very little of either. “My father handled finances,” she said slowly. “Not just for our family—for others too. He worked quietly, off the books.”
Dante pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “How quiet?”
Elena met his gaze. “Quiet enough that even I didn’t know the full extent of it until after he died.”
“And now?” he asked. “How much do you know now?”
Her throat tightened slightly because now was the problem. “Now,” she said, “things are showing up.”
His expression sharpened. “What kind of things?”
Elena hesitated again. Because this—this was the part that could get her killed, but she was already here—already in his world, and already a target.
“Accounts,” she said finally. “Transfers, and files I don’t remember creating. Money moving through channels I’ve never touched.”
Dante went still, completely still. “Access points?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “That’s the problem. It’s like—” She shook her head, frustrated. “It’s like someone is using my name and my credentials. Like I’m a ghost account they can hide behind.”
Silence fell between them again, heavy and dangerous. Dante studied her like he was trying to peel her apart layer by layer. “You expect me to believe that?” he asked.
“I expect you to consider that I’m telling you the truth,” she shot back. “Because if I were actually behind their murders, I wouldn’t still be here, would I?”
She could tell that she had hit a nerve. She could see it in his eyes, but whatever she saw was gone just as quickly as it appeared. But it was enough. Dante stepped closer again—tooclose. He was close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the quiet threat in his proximity.
“If you’re lying,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
Elena didn’t back away. She didn’t flinch. “I’m not lying.” Their gazes locked, clashed, and tested him to back down first. For a moment, it felt like something else—something sharper than fear, more dangerous than anger.
A knock at the door had her nearly jumping out of her damn skin. One of the guards stepped in. “Call for you,” he said to Dante. “It’s the boss.” Luca Camorra. He was as dangerous as they came. Of course, he’d be checking in to see what information she’d given him. Dante didn’t look away from her immediately—didn’t break the tension. Finally, he stepped back from her, but his eyes stayed on her.
“Don’t move,” he ordered.
Elena almost laughed. “Where exactly would I go?” He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. She watched him leave the room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. And just like that—the room felt colder.
Elena exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed out of her shoulders in small, controlled increments. She moved to the window, peering out into the dark street. There were no options for escape. Her only option was to wait Dante out and hope that he believed her.
Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—calm and composed, but her eyes—her eyes told the truth. She was in deeper than she’d ever been before. And Dante Vitale? He didn’t trust her—not yet, but he would. He had to, because if he didn’t—she wasn’t just a suspect, she was a target. And the next time someone came for her, Dante might not get there first.
Universal Link-> https://books2read.com/u/bWwVe0
