Page 78 of Vow Of Fire

“What time is it?” I asked groggily.

“Late.”

I noticed he was armed. There was a firearm stuck down the front of his jeans. That was new. He saw me looking at it.

“Not doing a lot of good in the glove compartment,” he muttered.

He seemed different somehow. Rattled, if that was even possible for a man like Dante. His hair was mussed, like he’d dragged his hand through it too many times, and he had purple shadows beneath his eyes. Those broad shoulders were tense, and I could see the veins corded in his neck.

“What happened?” I got slowly to my feet.

“Nothing.” He didn’t meet my gaze.

I stared at him. He was lying to me, I could tell. It was written all over his handsome face.

“Dante, what happened? Where did you go tonight?”

He sighed and glanced at the window. I could tell by his restless eyes that he was on edge. On the lookout for something.

“Are we in danger?” I asked, following his line of sight.

He flinched.

I was right. I grabbed his arm to get his attention. His head swung back to me.

“Dante. Talk to me. If this concerns me, I have a right to know.”

He stared down at my hand on his arm as if surprised I’d dared touch him, but he didn’t shrug it off. I let go, but only because I wanted an answer.

“I went to my mother’s place in Manhattan. We had a meeting.” I heard the weariness in his voice.

“You drove all the way to New York?”

He gave a stiff nod. “Looks like we’ve been compromised. They might know I’ve got you.”

I shook my head, my sleepy brain struggling to keep up. “Who? Who might know? The Colombians?”

He nodded. “Alberto was found dead earlier today.”

I gasped. “Oh my God.” I covered my mouth with my hand. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. A long beat passed as all sorts of frightening murder scenes played through my head.

When I’d finally processed what he’d said, I whispered, “How?”

“He was shot. That’s all we know. My brother’s looking into it.”

“Nico?”

“No, my older brother. Marco.” I noticed his forehead crease slightly as he said the name.

“But why… why would anyone kill Alberto?” I asked. “Other than your family, of course.”

He scowled at me. “We didn’t do this. It was a professional job. Likely a hitman from the cartel. Alberto obviously gave them the shipping info.”

I massaged my forehead. “Alberto was working for a Colombian cartel?”

“Or they bribed him. Either way, he knew too much and had to go. Like you.”

I went still.