But I can't stop.
"They're still killers," I say. My voice breaks on the words. "You're still a killer. And I can't just overlook that. I can't pretend it doesn't matter."
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. The tears keep coming.
"I faced Daniil," I say. "I looked into his eyes while he hurt me. While he?—"
I can't finish the sentence.
The memory rises up. His hands on me. The gun against my temple. The way he smiled like he was enjoying every second of my terror.
"I know what killers look like," I say. "I know what they're capable of. And I can't just forget that because you had a tragic childhood."
Dante doesn't argue.
Doesn't defend himself.
He just watches me cry.
I hate him for that too. For not fighting back. For not giving me something to push against.
I wipe my face again. Take a shaky breath.
"How did you end up closer to Lorenzo?" I ask. "You said Bruno found you. Bruno brought you to his father. But you work for Lorenzo now. You're his... whatever you are."
"Consigliere," Dante says. "Advisor. Enforcer."
"What does that mean?"
"A consigliere is more than just muscle. It's not about being the biggest or the most dangerous. It's about strategy. About seeing three moves ahead. About knowing when to use violence and when to use words."
I watch his face as he speaks.
Dante shifts on the couch. His hand moves to his wounded side, pressing lightly against the bandage.
"Anyway. Bruno saved my life," he says. "He gave me a place in the family. But he was always focused on his own path. His own ambitions. I was just another soldier in training."
He pauses.
"Lorenzo was different."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dante
Iremember the first time he looked at me. Really looked. Not through me like the other soldiers did. Not past me like Bruno sometimes did when he was focused on business.
Lorenzo saw me.
I was seventeen. Still skinny from years of not eating enough. Still flinching at loud noises. Still sleeping with a knife under my pillow because the nightmares never stopped.
The family had a gathering at the main house. Some celebration I don't remember anymore. What I remember is standing in the corner of the kitchen, trying to be invisible, when Lorenzo walked in.
He was eighteen then. Already sharp. Already watching everything with those calculating eyes.
He grabbed two plates of food from the counter. Walked over to me. Handed me one without a word.
Then he sat down on the floor next to me and started eating.
