“What kind of memories?”
“I don’t know. It’s all jumbled.” I try to focus on the images. “There was a woman, I think. Her voice was cold. Elegant. Giving orders.”
Dante goes very still. “What else?”
“Hands. Expensive perfume mixed with fear.” I shake my head. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s all scattered.”
“Try to remember. Any detail could be important.”
“Why? It’s not that easy,” I snap.
“Because if you’re remembering things you blocked out, it might be connected to the ledger. To why they’re hunting you.”
“You think I know something I don’t remember?”
“I think your brain protected you by locking away traumatic memories. But they’re still there. And now that you’re safe, they’re starting to surface.”
The thought makes my skin crawl. “I don’t want to remember.”
“I know. But we might not have a choice.” He pulls me against his chest. “Whatever you remember, whenever you remember it, tell me immediately. Even if it seems insignificant.”
“Okay.”
But lying there in the dark, wrapped in his arms, all I can think about is that cold woman’s voice from my fractured memories.
And the growing certainty that whatever I’ve forgotten might be the key to keeping us all alive. Or getting us all killed.
16
DANTE
Being a father is infinitely harder than being a killer.
I’ve broken men with my bare hands. I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun without flinching. I have survived injuries that would kill the average man.
But a five-year-old’s innocent questions? Those cut deeper than any blade ever could.
I’m in my office going through security reports when Luca appears in the doorway, dragging his blanket behind him.
“D, can you read me a story? Mama’s busy with Rosa.”
I glance at the clock. It’s barely past lunch, not story time. But he’s looking at me with those grey eyes that are too much like my own, and I can’t bring myself to say no.
“Yeah. Come here.”
He climbs onto my lap with one of his favorite dragon books and I read it to him even though I have three calls scheduledand a shipment to coordinate. Because this is what fathers do, apparently. They drop everything for story time.
My natural instincts are screaming at me to maintain control, to stick to the schedule, to be efficient and ruthless with my time. But those instincts don’t translate well to parenting a five-year-old who just wants his father’s attention.
“D, do dragons have families?”
“I think so. Most creatures do.”
“Even the scary ones?”
“Even the scary ones.”
He’s quiet for a moment, tracing the pictures in the book. “Are you scary?”
