Page 16 of Blood Vows

She swallowed. “Yes.”

Dante didn’t blink. “He is.”

“What was he looking for?” she asked.

His eyes met hers. “We both know the answer to your question.” The key—her father’s key.

Elena wrapped her arms around herself. “Did he find it?”

“I don't know. You haven't told me where it is,” Dante reminded. She looked toward the stairs, and Dante stepped into her path.

“No,” he growled.

“You need me,” she insisted.

“I need you alive,” he said.

“And I need that key,” she said.

“Tell me where it is,” he ordered. She hesitated. “Elena.”

“It’s in my bedroom,” she said.

“Where?” he asked.

She looked at the guard and then back at Dante. “I’ll tell you, but we need to be alone.”

Dante’s expression hardened. “Elena⁠—”

“I’ll tell you. But not in front of everyone.”

His eyes narrowed, and then he glanced at his men. “Clear the rest of the building.” They immediately moved, and Dante gestured toward the stairs. “After you,” he said.

She stared at him. “What happened to staying behind you?”

“The threat is dead,” he reminded.

“How comforting,” she drawled. He almost smiled again—damn him. They climbed the stairs together. The door to her apartment stood open. Her stomach sank the moment she saw inside. The place had been destroyed. Drawers were dumped onto the floor, couch cushions were ripped open, books were scattered everywhere, and cabinet doors hung open. Everything she’d kept carefully organized had been torn apart. Her life and her privacy had been violated.

Elena stepped inside slowly. “Oh, my God.”

Dante remained close behind her. “Don’t touch anything.” She barely heard him. Her eyes moved over the wreckage. Someone had been here, going through her things, looking for something her father had hidden two years ago. Something she hadn’t even understood.

Her gaze landed on the broken picture frame near the wall of her father. The only photograph she’d kept out. The glass had shattered across his face. Elena crouched to pick it up. “Don't.” She ignored Dante and picked up the frame. Her thumb brushed over her father’s image, and for one terrible second, she wasn't a Romano. She wasn't a mafia daughter, or a woman trying to outsmart men who wanted her dead. She was just a daughter who missed her father.

“He knew,” she whispered.

Dante crouched beside her. “Knew what?”

“That something was coming.” She looked at him. “That’s why he left the key.”

Dante’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Probably.”

“And I ignored it,” she said.

“You didn’t know,” Dante insisted.

“I should have known,” she breathed.