Page 101 of Blood Vows

“Maybe.” Isabella moved closer to him.

Elena’s stomach turned. “If Hale attacks this house⁠—”

“He won’t get through,” Luca said.

Dante looked unconvinced. “Double the security.”

“Already doing it,” Luca said.

Elena put down the phone. “I have to meet him at midnight.”

Dante looked at her. “Not happening.”

She stared. “We just agreed.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Dante said.

“Oh my God,” she breathed.

“He told you we’d be looking in the wrong place,” Dante reminded.

“That doesn’t mean the meeting is fake,” she said.

“It means something is happening before it,” he explained.

“Then we figure out what,” she said. Dante stared at her, and she crossed her arms over her body.

He sighed. “I hate being in love with you.”

Elena blinked at him, and Marco burst out laughing. Even Luca smiled, and Elena’s anger disappeared. “You what?”

Dante looked irritated with himself. “That came out wrong.”

“No, it didn’t.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “You know what I meant.”

“I absolutely do not,” she insisted.

“Yes, you do,” he grumbled. She smiled because he was an idiot, and she loved him too. Which meant if Hale wanted to use Dante against her, he was going to learn something important—Dante wasn’t her weakness; he was her choice. There was a difference.

At eleven forty-seven, Elena stood inside St. Vincent’s Church—alone. Technically, Dante would argue otherwise. He was somewhere behind the walls with Luca’s men. Marco had cameras set up everywhere, and Luca had shooters positioned outside. Isabella was safely back at the estate. Every exit was covered, but Elena still felt alone. The church had been abandoned for years. Dust coated the pews, moonlight filtered through broken stained glass, and the altar was cracked. Everything about the place felt dead, which seemed appropriate.

Her father’s letter rested inside her coat. Not the original, but a copy. Dante had insisted, and for once, she hadn’t argued. It was eleven fifty-two, and there was no sign of Hale. He checked his watch minutes later and noted that it was eleven fifty-six, and still, nothing. At eleven fifty-nine, the side door creaked, and Elena’s heart stopped. A man stepped inside. He was older, with gray hair, and he wore a dark coat. She knew right away that it was Vincenzo Hale. Seeing him hurt more than she expected. He looked almost exactly as she remembered. He was older, but still the man who had attended birthdays, Christmas dinners, and her father’s funeral. No, he hadn’t attended the funeral. She realized that now. He had sent flowers because he was a coward.

“Elena,” Hale said.

She stood straighter. “Vincenzo.”

His eyes swept the church. “You came alone?”

“Yes,” she breathed. It was a lie.

He smiled faintly. “You were always bad at lying.”

Damn. “Maybe I’ve improved.”

“No.” He walked closer. “Your father was terrible at it too.”