When Heroes Fall (Anti-Heroes in Love 1)

The Salvatores’ bribes and Fields, Harding & Griffith influence made an expedited trial a reality even though it was usually unheard of for such notorious cases to go to court in under one year.

“I will,” Ric agreed, slotting his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and he rocked back on his heels. “I almost hate to mention it, but have you considered the possibility that Cosima might have been the one to kill Giuseppe.”

Every atom of my body stilled.

Of course, I had considered it. It was still one of my top theories.

I liked Ric, but I wasn’t sure I trusted him enough to divulge something that could put my sister at risk of arrest.

So, I slanted him my best cool look of incredulity.

He shrugged good-naturedly. “Just a thought. The autopsy and witnesses say di Carlo was killed before the drive-by shooting. It’s a fair assumption that someone in that deli could have murdered him. Going by the supposition that his own thug didn’t shoot him before dying himself, that leaves two people we know for sure were in Ottavio’s. Cosima and Mason Matlock, who is missing.”

Presumed dead, he didn’t have to say.

It was safe to assume someone, maybe even the Salvatores or Mason’s own di Carlo family, had gotten to him before the cops could find him.

Of course, Ric had arrived at the same theory I had.

“My sister is a model, Ric,” I said in my best condescending voice, acting as if Cosima was nothing more than a bimbo when she was anything but. “I don’t think she would even know how to fire a gun if she wanted to.”

He nodded affably, but his brown eyes were keen on me from under his lashes. “Of course. It was only a theory.”

I nodded curtly at him, then threw up a bright smile, hoping to blind him from the truth. “It was good to do this with you.”

“Always,” he agreed, kissing my cheek again and grasping my elbow with a little squeeze. “You seem…easier today.”

Instantly, my brow notched, and I was even more on guard than before. “Excuse me?”

He held up his hands in surrender on a laugh. “Jesus, don’t go all icy on me again. I meant it as a compliment, Elena. You seem easier in yourself today. There was no hesitation in doing what needed to be done in there for our client. Before, you might have struggled with it. And…”

“And?” I almost snapped at him, panic flooding my system like water spilled over a hard drive.

I was glitching hard at the idea I might be giving something away that could link me to Dante beyond a professional capacity.

“And,” he drawled. “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you had gotten laid.”

My chest tightened until I couldn’t breathe, but I forced myself to laugh lightly and brush his words away with a casual wave of my hand. “Trust me, Ric, I’m over all that.”

“Sex or love?”

I leveled him with a cool look and opened the door of the Ferrari, signaling my closure of the subject. “Men,” I countered before I ducked into the low car. “Goodbye, Ric.”

It was only after I started the car, the smooth rumble of the engine vibrating through me, that I took a deep, shaky breath.

I hadn’t lied.

I was done with men.

Unfortunately, Dante Salvatore was so much more than a man.

He was a beast and, the truth was, he was the only one to ever make me feel like a beauty.

A sigh leaked out of my mouth like air from a puncture wound as I instructed the car’s system to dial his name and pulled out from the curb to drive back to Manhattan.

“Ciao lottatrice mia,” Dante’s deep rumble, so similar to the smooth purr of the car around me, settled some of the panic lingering like lactic acid in my tissues. Somewhere along the line, I’d stopped being annoyed when he spoke to me in my mother tongue. “How are you enjoying my beauty?”

I rubbed my hands over the buttery leather steering wheel with glee. “She’s exquisite.”

“Say it in Italian for me,” he coaxed.

Humor and giddiness bubbled up my throat at his flirtation. It had been so long since I enjoyed such simple banter with anyone. “Lei è squisita.”

“Molto bene, Elena,” he praised darkly. “Next time I kiss that gorgeous red mouth, I’m going to make you so crazy that all you know is Italian.”

I tried to snort derisively, but the idea was oddly appealing. Usually, Italian was the language of my panic, my fear, its roots deeply seated in past trauma. The idea of Dante coaxing it out from the shadows into the light with something as powerful as his touch was both arousing and heartening.

“I didn’t call to flirt with you,” I told him archly, remembering myself. “We just interviewed Ottavio Petretti. He agreed to turn witness for our defense.”