Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,91

out, “Nice, Mom!”

When I see an ice cream stand up ahead, I tell him to stop. We order cones, then take them down on the sand to eat. Mine’s strawberry cheesecake. Henry ordered vanilla, like he always does.

Henry licks his cone, which is already starting to melt. It’s not warm out, but it’s sunny.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” he says.

“How did you know I wanted to talk?”

“ ‘Cause you wouldn’t let Grandma come with us.”

“Right.” I take a deep breath. “Do you remember how I told you that your father lived in another country?”

“Yeah,” Henry says, calmly.

I told him that a few years ago. Henry had just started at the international school in Madrid. I assume the other kids asked him about his father, because he came home and started asking questions, too.

“Well,” I say, “He lives here. In Chicago.”

Henry glances over at me, curious. He doesn’t seem alarmed, but I can tell he’s interested.

“He’s here now?” he asks.

“Yes. Actually . . .” my heart is hammering. “You saw him the other day. He was the man that came to our hotel room.”

“That big guy? With black hair?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Henry’s still eating his ice cream. I’m watching his face, trying to interpret how he’s taking this news.

He looks surprisingly unsurprised. Henry is extraordinarily calm. He doesn’t often show strong emotion. I think he feels it, inside. But outside he’s still water.

“Who is he?” Henry asks, at last.

“His name is Dante Gallo.”

“Did he come to the hotel to visit me?” Henry asks, in mild confusion.

“No,” I say. “He doesn’t know about you, yet. I guess . . . I guess I wanted to talk to you first.”

Henry finishes the ice cream on top of his cone, and starts chomping the cone itself. Our conversation isn’t dampening his hunger any.

“Do you want to meet him?” I say.

“I already met him.”

“I mean, do you want to talk to him?”

Henry considers for a minute, chewing.

“Yes,” he says, nodding.

“It might change things,” I say to Henry, biting the edge of my thumbnail. I haven’t touched my ice cream at all, and it’s melting out of the cone, dripping down on the sand. I shouldn’t have bought one for myself—I’m too anxious to eat.

“Change what?” he asks.

“Just . . . you might go to visit him sometimes. Or stay with him.”

I know that concept might seem intimidating, and I don’t want that to influence Henry’s choice. But at the same time, I want to be honest with him. Telling Dante about Henry is opening a Pandora’s Box. I can’t predict what will come of it.

Henry considers.

“He is my dad?” he says. “For sure?”

“Yes,” I say. “He definitely is.”

“Okay then,” Henry shrugs.

I sigh, my shoulders releasing from their tense position. That part is done, at least.

When Henry was little he used to ask me questions about his father: What’s his favorite color? Does he have a dog? What does he look like?

Now he asks me a different sort of question.

“Why doesn’t he know about me?”

“It’s complicated,” I say. “You know I was very, very young when I had you. Your father was young, too. We were in different places then. Now . . . now we’re older. Things have changed.”

How much have they changed? Which things are different, and which have stayed the same?

I hope the answer is that Dante changed, and I changed, but the way we feel about each other has endured . . .

I’m afraid. Afraid that when I tell Dante the truth tonight, that will be the end of any chance we had of rekindling our relationship.

All I can really hope for is that he can love Henry despite it all. Because Henry deserves that, even if I don’t.

34

Dante

I tell Callum my theory that Du Pont was aiming for him, not Yafeu Solomon. Aida doesn’t like that idea one bit. But Callum looks relieved to at least know who’s been taking shots at him.

“You think he wants revenge for Jack Du Pont?” he says, frowning.

“Yeah, I think maybe he does. He was overseas when Jack was killed—so who knows what version of the story he was told by their family. They don’t know what really happened themselves. When he looked into it, it probably appeared like we were covering it up. Like we might have been responsible.”

“I am responsible,” Callum says, quietly.

“That’s not true—” Aida tries to say, but he interrupts her.

“Yes, it is. Jack worked for me. I brought him to that ransom drop knowing it was dangerous, knowing it