Page 129 of Brutal Crown

“So why exactly did you save me? What difference does that make for you?”

“You’re not a symbol of destruction, Lia,” he says. “You’re a symbol of rebirth. That child inside you might either be their salvation or ruin. And since we’ve been able to convince them to use the baby for their benefit, they might stop at nothing to get it.”

I stare down at the floor, letting his words settle over me like ash. They don’t absolve him or undo everything he’s done. But they feel real.

Dante’s eyes drop to my legs, then my hands.

“You’re in pain,” he says.

“You don’t say.”

He steps forward, kneels beside the bed without asking, and reaches for my ankle.

I recoil. “Don’t touch me.”

He doesn’t flinch or pull away, just studies the burns on the soles of my feet, still red and blistered from the coals. His voice is low when he speaks again.

“We’ll need to take care of these if you want to move again without tearing open the skin.”

“You care about my skin now?”

His eyes flick up to meet mine.

“I care about what happens to you. You are injured and weak. That makes you vulnerable.”

Dante lets go of me and rises to his feet.

“You don’t have to trust me,” he says. “I wouldn’t if I were you. But I’m not your enemy anymore.”

He turns to go, and I stop him with one last question.

“What happens now?”

He looks hesitant, like he doesn’t want to say anything. That makes me even more curious.

“I can’t just stay here for god-knows-how-long without knowing what will happen to me next.”

He sighs before walking to grab the metal chair resting against the table. He positions the seat right before me and lowers himself onto it with a serious expression on his face.

“You have had the wrong idea about me for a long time,” he starts, leaning slightly forward on his elbows. “It’s time to change that.”

34

FRANCESCO

The iron gates are still sliding open when I floor the gas and speed down the long stretch of the Romano estate driveway, gravel spitting beneath the wheels. Smoke curls from the hood of my car. My front bumper is hanging by a thread after I crashed into a container while swerving to rush out of the junkyard. Blood sticks to my face, chest, and hands, which tighten against the wheel.

The tires screech as I yank the wheel and slam on the brakes in front of the mansion. The engine dies with a final hiss. I throw the door open and stumble out into the night air, gun in hand, blood pounding in my ears. My legs ache. My chest heaves. I don’t remember half the drive here. I just remember what the last bastard said as I beat him until his jaw gave out.

“You were too busy sulking and licking your wounds to notice,” he laughed, blood on his split lip. “They took her right after the Rite ended—from the house where she was waiting for their verdict. Right under your nose. She’s probably dead by now.”

They have her.

Those fuckers took her.

And I wasn’t there to save her.

My eyes are bloodshot, and every bone in me is lit with violence.