Dante’s expression did not change.
Mine did.
“What?”
My father smiled then.
It was awful because it was real.
“You want proof? Ask Dante why he was watching you for months. Ask him why he cared about a Whitmore wedding. Ask him what happened the night your mother died.”
I turned to Dante.
For a moment, there was only rain hissing beyond the concrete.
“Is he lying?” I asked.
Dante looked at my father, and something murderous passed through his eyes.
Then he looked at me.
“No.”
The word struck harder than any hand.
My father gave a soft, satisfied breath.
“There she is,” he said. “My smart girl.”
Dante stepped forward.
My father’s smile vanished.
“Say another word to her like she belongs to you,” Dante said, “and you will regret having teeth.”
My father went still.
But the damage had already been done.
I backed away from both of them.
“What happened to my mother?” I asked.
Dante’s jaw flexed.
“Not here.”
“Now.”
His silence was a blade.
Finally, he said, “My father ordered the car that hit hers.”
The world narrowed.
Concrete. Rain. Breath.
My mother’s funeral returned in pieces.
White lilies.
Black umbrellas.
My father’s hand on my shoulder, too heavy.
Miles crying into my dress.
And a closed casket.
I stared at Dante.
“You knew?”
“I found out two years ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know how.”
I laughed, but it sounded broken.