Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,59

thought about calling him a thousand times.

If I hadn’t been so sick . . .

If I hadn’t been so scared . . .

If I hadn’t been so depressed . . .

It’s hard to remember what my existence was like during those nine months of pregnancy.

All the color bleached out of the world. Everything looked like shades of pewter, steel, ash, and stone. I tried to watch movies I used to like, tried to listen to the songs I loved, and I just felt . . . nothing.

It was so hard just to drag myself across the little flat I was sharing with Serwa in Mayfair. So hard to go pee or get a glass of water. The idea of picking up the phone and dialing, trying to explain to Dante why I left . . . it was too much. I couldn’t do it.

And then after the baby was born, it got so much worse. I felt like my son was torn away from me, but also like he might be better off with Serwa. I felt so angry at my parents for the position they’d put me in, but also that I owed this to my sister—this one chance at happiness, the only chance she was likely to get.

I was so confused. And so alone.

I longed to reach out to Dante. I ached for him. But I knew he’d be furious with me. I hid the pregnancy from him. I made him miss the birth of his son.

And I was still terrified of what might happen if he knew. I wanted to keep Henry safe. I didn’t want him pulled into a world of violence and crime. I kept remembering the blood dripping from Dante’s hands, how terrifying and monstrous he’d looked that night in the park.

And I thought how angry he’d be if he found out what I’d done.

Seeing him now in Grant Park, he already looks like he wants to kill me. How much angrier will he be if he ever finds out the truth?

I can’t let that happen.

It was a mistake to come to Chicago. I finished my shoot for Balenciaga—I should leave, as soon as the rally is over.

That’s what I’m thinking when out of nowhere, Dante starts sprinting toward the stage.

I jump up from my seat, thinking he’s running right at me.

Instead, he grabs some kind of big, circular, curved mirror, and angles it across the field. While he’s doing that, he bellows, “GET DOWN!”

I don’t understand what’s happening, but instinctively I crouch down, and so does everybody else. Everyone except my father. He seems frozen in place, just as shocked as I am.

I see the sun flare off Dante’s mirror, and then I hear a sharp whistling sound. A dent appears in the stage floor, like a tiny meteorite just came hurtling down from the sky.

My brain says, Bullet. That was a bullet.

Everyone starts screaming and running.

Callum Griffin grabs his pregnant wife and drags her away. Callum’s face is pale as chalk. They were sitting right behind where the bullet hit. A couple feet higher, and it might have hit his wife right in the belly.

I don’t run—not off the stage, anyway. I run over to Tata, because I realize that bullet was meant for him and there might be more coming. I grab his arm and I yank as hard as I can, pulling him away from the podium.

For once my father doesn’t seem in control of the situation. He seems confused and frightened. So am I, but apparently just a little bit less than him. I drag him off the stage so we can crouch down behind it.

The problem is that I have no idea which direction the shooting is coming from. So I pull my father as far underneath the stage as I can, hoping that will protect us.

A moment later, Dante’s huge frame drops down beside us with a thud.

He says, “Are you two alright?”

“Y-yes,” I stammer.

It’s the first words we’ve spoken to each other in almost ten years.

“Who was that?” I ask my father.

I can’t understand who would want to kill him.

“Who knows,” Tata says, shaking his head. He looks bewildered and dazed.

Security guards are closing in around us. I feel paranoid and edgy—how do we know some of these men weren’t in on it, whatever it is?

Strange as it seems, I’m grateful that Dante is next to us. Whatever our history might be, I saw him save my father from that bullet. I think he’d do it