Anger swelled inside her, cresting like a wave.
Her mother cared so little she’d barely say goodbye, her brother was setting up for a meeting while the Fratellanza gathered nearby, and now Dante was making deals with one of Ivini’s men in a dark alley? Secrets and more secrets, piling upon each other.
She had nowhere to go. And she was not leaving this alley until she got answers from someone.
Dante’s back was turned when she stepped out into the open. She stared him down, willing him to face her, to cower with shame or explain what in Dea’s name was going on.
Unaware of her presence, he drew his arm back and punched the wall hard enough to shatter every bone in his hand.
A violent tremor ran through him, and he punched again. And again. And again. Each blow came faster, harder, bits of plaster falling to the ground with every impact.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
His hand. He was going to destroy it, if he hadn’t already.
She stepped forward. To stop him. Or yell at him. She didn’t know.
Her foot crunched on a broken bottle.
Dante turned so fast she didn’t have time to speak.
His eyes flashed, brilliant and terrifying with rage, and twin fires tore through her abdomen.
Her lips parted on a gasp. She looked down at his fists, clutching the hilts of his knives, pressed against her.
Blood dripped between his fingers.
With a ragged gasp, Dante pulled the knives free. They clattered to the ground.
Her protector. Her killer.
Alessa breathed his name as her legs gave out.
Twenty-Six
Piove sul bagnato.
When it rains, it pours.
DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 19
Dante caught her, sinking to his knees to slow her fall.
Why?
Betrayal and pain reverberated inside her as the world shrank to the cradle of his arms.
She searched his face for answers but found only horror.
Dante’s lips worked soundlessly, forming the words, No, no, no.
Don’t ever sneak up on me.
He’d warned her. More than once.
She hadn’t listened.
No glorious, heroic death for her, after all.
Dante lowered her to the ground, bracing her neck so she barely felt her head meet stone.
She needed to warn him to be careful about touching her, but darkness was closing in.
His shadow blocked the sun as he bent over her, and she cried out at new searing pain.
Had he stabbed her again?
No. He was pressing on her wounds, shaking his head as though arguing with himself about how bad the damage was, but the truth was in his eyes. He’d struck to kill, and he never missed.
Some injuries weren’t fixable.
Dante abandoned his efforts to stanch the bleeding and took her hands in his, which were coated so thick with her blood it looked like he, too, wore gloves.
She couldn’t have escaped his grasp if she tried.
I held his hand.
He’d remembered.
Dante tugged on her gloves, but the sodden leather resisted his attempts. Good. He shouldn’t do that. She curled her fingers, but she was too weak to stop him. Rough palms pressed against hers as Dante twined their fingers, stifling a hiss of pain.
Could a heart soar and break at the same time?
She didn’t want him to die, but the golden river of warmth seeping through her skin, his spark of life, warmed her from the inside, unfurling in her chest. The euphoric sensation lit her up from within, almost glorious enough to make her forget she was killing him. Even in her death throes, she took.
Dante’s hands seized, crushing her fingers, and his breath went from ragged to tortured.
Her heart gave a feeble thump.
He collapsed on top of her, their hands locked together.
They were both going to die.
But not alone.
No one should die alone.
Twenty-Seven
Chi è all’inferno non sa ciò che sia cielo.
He who is in hell knows not what heaven is.
DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 19
The afterlife smelled like piss and sour rye, but Alessa began eternal life with a man in her arms, and if the gods wanted to reward her despite her failures, she wasn’t going to fuss at them about the details.
She ran her fingers down the valley of his spine, ridges of muscle on either side, and he moved against her with a low moan, stubble rough against her neck.
If she’d known about the perks, she might not have dreaded death quite so much.
And yet, the ground was hard and unforgiving, her entire body ached, and nearby, someone paused a slurred rendition of a bawdy tavern song to belch.
Which … didn’t seem right.
Forcing her eyes open, she stared into the muted dusk until shapes and colors coalesced into a view of a brick wall, and closer, a head resting on her chest, face obscured by the angle. Muscles went tight beneath her hands as the mystery man groaned again.