Page 175 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet

I shook my head, mesmerized by his speech. It hit me that I didn’t know much about Dante’s life as Edward Davenport, and I was hungry for information.

“She said she wasn’t praying while she sat there in the chapel. She was thinking about her ancestors, all the lives they’d lived and the mistakes they’d made, how it led to that very moment, to her alive and sitting there. She said thinking about life like that made her feel at peace. That no matter where she went, she had them with her, inside her. That no matter where she was going, the decisions she had made meant that Alexander and I were alive and our children would be one day too. She said it reminded her that we don’t just live for ourselves. That mostly, we live for our families. I think she found peace in that, even when her own life was horrible.”

“That’s devastatingly beautiful,” I admitted, chest aching.

“It haunts me sometimes,” he admitted with a grimace that might have been a grin. “But I wear this for her always and know she’s with me.”

“She would be proud of you,” I stated so strongly it was almost a yell in the close, intimate air between us.

I’d never known her, but I felt sure of my statement. How could a mother not see the man Dante was and rejoice?

He chuckled, the sound wafting over my lips. I stuck my tongue out slightly to taste it and found it sweet. “You remind me of her, sometimes.”

“Oh?” I asked, on the precipice of what felt like the best compliment I’d ever received.

“She was a complicated woman, too. She felt everything so deeply that sometimes she didn’t know how to deal with it, so she blocked it out completely. It took me a long time to realize that she didn’t tell Alexander and me about the abuse and neglect and then about Noel murdering his mistresses because she didn’t know how to deal with it herself.”

A haunted look came into his dark eyes, a ghost walking an empty house at night. “The truth is, Noel dragged her into his Hell, and she was too soft for that world. It killed her long before Noel did.”

“You couldn’t have known. You were just a young man.”

His lips compressed. “Alexander and I were never just young men. We were raised in the image of our father from the time we could cogitate. Hetrainedus. We learned fencing and chess, readThe Art of WarandMarquis de Sade books as boys, attended Eton then Oxbridge with only the best tutors. We were smart and taught to be smarter. We should have known what was going on in our own home.”

“Eventually, you found out. Even if both your parents didn’t want you to. Your mama was probably trying to protect you, Dante. Lord knows, Caprice has made so many mistakes because of exactly that,” I admitted.

His eyes sharpened, peeling back my skin with scalpel-like precision. “What mistakes has she made with you?”

My heart stopped up in my chest, a panicked response that made my skin prickle with knife points of anxiety. “Nothing too bad.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Elena,” he growled, constricting around me like a boa making a meal of me. “Tell me. I want to know what you’ve been through.”

“It’s nothing really,” I said, but the lie scalded my tongue.

I didn’t want him to know about Christopher, about the years I’d spent stupidly allowing myself to be groomed and used by him. How he’d turned on me when Giselle was taken from him. How he’d taught me how to hate myself and hate my own sister.

Dante opened his mouth to pry further, but I was exhausted from traveling, from the outrageous events of our lives over the past week. I just wanted the peace only he could afford me and a deep sleep safe in his arms.

“Not now, capo,” I murmured, snuggling in close so I didn’t see the way his eyes warmed. “I’m tired.”

“Va bene, cuore mia,” he murmured, kissing my hair and holding me close. “Sleep well, and I’ll watch over you.”

“I know,” I muttered, already half-asleep. “You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.”

And then I fell asleep, not knowing that Dante lay awake for hours holding me with his nose pressed into my hair.

I left Elena sleeping in after our late-night interrogation, her long, pale body stretched out diagonally across the bed the moment I left it, seeking my warmth. I watched her bury her face in my pillow, hugging it like it was my torso, and felt a heat balloon in my gut.

Tore was on the red flagstone patio at the back of the villa, drinking a small espresso and readingCorriere della Sera. He didn’t look up when I walked to his side and plucked a ripe plum from a bowl in the middle of the old, scarred wood table. There was a tiny EDD carved into the soft top that I’d put there as a boy on one of our first visits toZioTore’s home. I traced it with my thumb, wondering at how far I’d come since then.

“You’ll do anything to keep her.” Tore started the conversation the way he had a habit of doing, starting in the middle as if picking up the thread from a talk we’d already been having. “Even though the smart thing would be to marry Mirabella Ianni.”

“Is that the smart thing?” I questioned before taking a bite of the fruit, juice seeping down my chin. “A girl whose reputedly not a virgin anymore, with few important ties and little else to commend her.”

“Abruzzi wants it. He’scapo dei capihere now,figlio, whether we like it or not. He could help with the di Carlo situation in New York. You know support from the motherland means everything, even to those arrogant Americans.”