Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,61

cocktail party. Tata’s acting like they’re casual acquaintances. Like there’s no bad blood between us.

He’s certainly not offering any kind of apology. And he never will. I know my father well enough to know that.

Dante saving his life means nothing. My father’s grateful, but it won’t change his opinion on anything.

Not that it matters at this late date.

I’m thinking Dante won’t shake hands, but my father keeps his extended, with calm persistence, and at last Dante gives it a quick grip, then drops it again.

“Will you be coming to the fundraiser tonight?” Tata asks.

“Are you still planning on attending?” the redhead says, in a surprised tone.

“Of course,” my father says. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, your would-be shooter is still roaming around, for one thing,” she says. She’s watching my father with her cool green eyes, examining him closely. She looks intelligent, and almost predatory. Not someone to be trifled with.

“I’m sure they’ll have plenty of security at the event,” my father says. “I’ll feel quite safe—especially if Dante is there. Will you attend? I’d like to thank you publicly.”

I see the muscles flexing along Dante’s broad jaw. He opens his mouth to respond, and I’m pretty sure from the shape of his lips he’s about to say, “No.” But the redhead interrupts him.

“He’ll be there,” she says smoothly. Then she turns those keen green eyes on me. It’s so abrupt that I almost jump. She looks me over head-to-toe in a glance. I’m certain she recognizes me.

“I’m Riona Griffin,” she says, holding out her hand to me.

I shake it. Her fingers are cool, dry, and soft. She has a fresh French manicure and a firm grip.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “Simone Solomon.”

I wish my voice were as confident and professional as hers. Instead, it comes out in a little squeak, still shaky with nerves.

“I know.” She smiles. “You’re very famous.”

I don’t know how to reply. I’d like to know who she is, what she does, and how she knows Dante. But there’s no way to ask those questions with any grace.

All I can do is sit there stupidly while she turns back to Dante.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I wanna follow that officer up to the perch,” Dante says. Seeing that none of us understand, he clarifies. “The place where the shooter was situated.”

“Are you on the case, inspector?” Riona says in a teasing tone.

“I am curious,” Dante admits.

My father looks less curious, despite the fact that he was the person being shot at. He’s already scrolling through his phone, checking for news reports of the failed assassination attempt.

“I’ll come with you,” Riona says. She looks back at me. “Nice to meet you, Simone.”

“Nice to meet you,” I echo.

Dante doesn’t say anything at all. He walks away from me without a word—without even a glance in my direction.

I watch his broad back stalking away.

When I turn around again, my father is watching me. He looks at me with his dark eyes, as if daring me to say something.

I keep my mouth firmly shut. I have no interest in hearing what my father has to say about Dante, for good or for bad. If his opinion hasn’t changed, then I don’t want to hear it. And if it has—well, it’s too late for that. It can’t do me any good now.

So I sit in silence, while my father goes back to scrolling through his news feed.

26

Dante

Thanks to Riona’s powers of persuasion, and a little pressure from Callum, the cops agree to let me in the hotel room they think the sniper used.

He was long gone by the time they arrived—with plenty of time to pack up his equipment. But “vacated” doesn’t mean “empty.” Nobody can sit in a room without leaving a trace.

For instance, he didn’t bother to move the hotel-room table that he slid over closer to the window. I can see the marks on the carpet where the table was originally situated. Now it’s exactly in front of the east-facing window he must have used for his shot.

I assume he picked this hotel because it’s old and the windows actually open. He left the sash up. I can see the square hole he cut in the screen, and the piece of discarded mesh laying on the ground next to the radiator.

I can barely see Hutchinson Field from here, not with the naked eye. I’ve got better than twenty-twenty vision, but I can’t make out anything besides the stage itself. Not the flags, the flowers, or the chairs still