Page 44 of Blood Vows

“When you put it that way⁠—”

“I am,” he said.

She sighed. “Fine.”

Dante motioned toward the door. “Let’s go.” Elena took one last look around. Her gaze landed on the photograph of her father. The frame was broken, but the picture itself was intact. She walked over and pulled it free. Dante didn’t tell her to leave it. He simply watched as she slipped it into her coat pocket.

“Nonnegotiable,” she said.

“I wasn’t going to argue,” he said.

“That might be a first,” she murmured.

“Don’t get used to it.” She smiled as she followed him out of the room. Arguing with Dante was quickly becoming her favorite pastime.

Dante’s house was not what Elena expected. She wasn’t sure what she’d imagined. Something dark, maybe, or cold. Maybe she expected a fortress filled with guns and absolutely no personality. There were definitely guns. She spotted three before she made it through the front door, but the rest surprised her.

The house sat far enough outside the city to feel private without being isolated. Stone and dark wood covered the exterior, with trees surrounding most of the property. Inside, everything was clean and masculine, but not sterile. A leather couch faced a large fireplace. Books filled shelves along one wall—actual books. They weren’t decorative ones, either.

Elena stopped, and Dante nearly walked into her. “What’s wrong?”

“You read?”

His expression went blank. “No, I buy books because I like paying someone to dust them.”

She smiled. “You don’t look like a reader.”

“What does a reader look like?” he asked.

“Less homicidal,” she teased.

“That’s disappointing because I was going for approachable,” he said. She laughed, and Dante stared at her. That seemed to happen every time she laughed, like the sound surprised him.

Elena cleared her throat. “Nice house.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“It’s very—” She looked around. “Normal.”

His brow lifted. “You sound disappointed.”

“I expected a dungeon,” she admitted.

“I keep that downstairs,” he said. Elena’s eyes widened, and Dante stared at her for two seconds before his mouth curved.

“You’re joking,” she said.

“Maybe,” he drawled.

“Oh, my God.” He actually chuckled, and the sound stopped her cold. Dante Vitale laughed. It was low and rough and completely unfair because it made him look less like the man who killed people for Luca Camorra and more like a man she might have noticed across a crowded room. He looked like a man she might have wanted to know, and that was a dangerous thought, but she pushed it away.

“The guest room is upstairs,” he said.

“Am I allowed to know where?” she asked.

“End of the hall.”

“And where is your room?” she questioned.