Page 133 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

Fuck.

“Why don’t I just ask you?” Dante asked.

Several voices called out from around them, ones Cross recognized like the other Marcello brothers, and even a man from his father’s Cosa Nostra. None of the voices objecting to the scene seemed to make any difference to the Marcello Don, though.

Cross didn’t blink, staring down the barrel of the Beretta to look Dante right in the eyes. “Well, that’s a familiar sight, Dante. How many times have we done this, now?”

“I see you still haven’t managed to learn proper respect when the better man is demanding it, and you’ve got nothing but your fucking arrogance and pride to offer back, Cross.”

All true.

Every single word.

“Yet, here I am, still alive.”

His father always said that his arrogance would be what killed him in the end. It was a very real possibility.

Dante smiled. “Depending on the next few words out of your mouth, yes, for now.”

“Come on, now,” Calisto said quietly, “this isn’t needed. He fucked up, but it’s not like—”

Dante’s gaze turned on Calisto. “Not like what, old friend? He won’t do it again? He’s learned his lesson? He gives a shit about the rules and place he’s been given? Tell me which one it is, Calisto.”

Calisto’s jaw clenched. “Likely none of them because he’s a little bastard when he wants to be, but you’ve got one of those yourself, don’t you? A mouthy son with little respect for anyone else but himself, who oversteps his boundaries every chance he can and makes zero fucking apologies for doing so. He found that Irish girl and laughed in her father’s face when he refused to marry her to an Italian’s son. We both know there’s more to tell, too.”

Dante stayed silent.

“Had I pulled a gun on your boy—on Michel—you’d have beaten me to death on the spot, Dante,” Calisto added quickly, “Don’t even dare to deny it. Your only daughter, yes, but he’s my only boy.”

“Do you think a nephew is worth the same as a daughter or son?” Dante asked.

Cross barely managed to hide his flinch because there were only two people—well, three, if what he thought about Giovanni Marcello was true—on the tarmac that actually knew the truth of his paternity. His father hid his hurt without even trying, offering Dante a shrug and a small smile.

“I’m the only father he has ever known, and he is the only boy I have ever raised as my own,” Calisto said simply.

“You’ve done a shit job then.”

“So be it, but he is mine. And while he’s worth a war to me, consider if he’s worth the same to you.”

Dante took a heavy breath, his gaze swinging back to Cross. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t paint this tarmac with your fucking brain matter for what you did.”

Cross didn’t even have to think about it. “You don’t have to care. You don’t even have to believe me, but she’s the love of my life. Pull the trigger, but you’ll put two in a grave, Dante. I’m literally betting my life on it right now.”

A second passed, then a few more.

Dante’s gun never wavered, and if anything, Cross was pretty confident he had seen the man’s finger twitch a bit on the trigger. Fuck, he hoped the Beretta wasn’t a hair-trigger. Most weren’t, but some …

He couldn’t say for sure whether Dante would finally pull the trigger, and end this game that had been going on for a decade or more between them.

He just didn’t know.

Finally, Dante’s arm lowered just a fraction of a centimeter. “Don’t say things like that when you can’t possibly understand what they mean, Cross.”

How little faith this man had in him.

Cross didn’t blame Dante.

Not really.