"He could die,” she sobbed.
"I know,” Dante said.
Tears blurred her vision. "I don't know how to hate him, even if I should."
Dante's expression softened. "You don't have to."
She frowned at him. "What?"
"You don't have to hate him or forgive him right now." His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. “You’ll have time to figure all that out later.” The words settled somewhere deep inside her. She'd spent years believing there were only two choices—love or hate. Maybe there was a third choice, though—grief.
Another burst of automatic fire erupted through the passage, and a man's scream echoed off the stone walls. No one moved in the crypt. Even the rain outside seemed to stop. Rocco slowly raised one hand. "Listen." Footsteps were coming toward them, and if she was right, the person was injured. Lark could tell from the uneven steps echoing down the hallway.
Dante raised his rifle. The operators covered every angle, and Lark's pulse thundered in her ears. The figure emerged slowly from the smoke—her father. Blood soaked the left side of hisshirt, and his expensive suit hung in tatters. His face was pale, and he looked older somehow—as though twenty years had settled onto his shoulders in the last five minutes.
He stopped the moment he saw Lark, and neither of them spoke. He smiled a small, sad smile. It looked almost peaceful. "You look like your mother."
Lark's throat tightened painfully. "You've never said that before."
"I know." Blood dripped from his fingertips onto the stone floor.
He looked at Dante. "You got her out."
"I did,” Dante breathed.
"Thank you." The gratitude seemed genuine, and Lark wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Rafael turned toward Rocco. "You were right."
Rocco frowned. "About what?"
"My daughter deserved a choice."
Lark stared. "When did you talk to him?"
Rocco looked just as confused. “I never have."
Rafael chuckled weakly. "No.” He coughed. "But your father did."
Rocco went completely still. "My father?"
"Anthony.” The name echoed through the crypt. "He punched me the first day we met." Despite everything, the corner of Rafael's mouth lifted. "He said any man who tried to own another person wasn't worth following." Rocco didn't speak. "He quit,” Rafael continued, “and Keller had him killed." Silence swallowed the room again. "I should've stopped it, but I didn't."
Rocco's jaw clenched. "You expect that to matter now?"
"No." Her father coughed up blood. "I expect you to know who really murdered your father." Lark watched Rocco strugglewith emotions she recognized all too well. The ground beneath his life had shifted, just like hers had.
Rafael reached inside his jacket, and every weapon in the crypt immediately tracked the movement. Slowly, he removed a tarnished silver key and held it out. "Lark." She didn't move.
Dante looked at the key. "What is it?"
"It’s to the safe-deposit box." Rafael's breathing had become labored. "Your mother rented it two weeks before she disappeared."
Lark looked at him in disbelief. "You knew?"
"I found out—” He closed his eyes briefly. "The day after she was gone."
"Then why didn't you open it?" Lark asked.
His smile held no humor. "She made sure I couldn't." He looked at the key. "It only opens if you're with it."
