Page 134 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

“Like I said,” Cross replied, “you don’t have to believe me.”

“You’re twenty-six, what do you even know about something like love?” Dante spat out.

“Wrong—twenty-seven as of last week.”

“You just can’t reign that bullshit of yours in, can you? You throw that word around—love—as though it means something to you, but it might as well be shit for all I care. Had you loved my daughter, like you say you do, we would not be standing here having this conversation again.”

“What conversation? You’ve never asked me that, Dante. You’ve asked me a hell of a lot over the years. You’ve beaten the living shit out of me, but you never once asked me if I loved her. You didn’t care because to you she wasn’t mine. She was yours, and that’s fine, but don’t go there. We’ve never gone there.”

Dante’s gun lowered a bit more. “I—”

“You know,” Cross interrupted with a dry tone, “I certainly didn’t think I would ever tell you any of that, if I’m being honest. I mean, she knows I love her. I tell her that all the fucking time because she should be told, but I should never have to tell you. I can tell anyone I love her, but no one except her gets to know the rest.”

“How much you love her, you mean,” Dante muttered heavily.

Cross shrugged. “There you have it. You don’t deserve to know because you certainly don’t care, Dante, but there it is. She’s never quiet enough to let me tell her now, not like how we were before. Part of me thinks she’s scared to let me tell her how much because she’s terrified I’m going to break her heart again.

“The thing is, I have never had to be good enough for you because you don’t matter. Only she does. You’re right. I’m twenty-seven, and a made man under a Cosa Nostra boss who isn’t you,” Cross continued. “I don’t need your permission to go out of the country, or to take Catherine with me if she asks to go because she is an adult. I don’t need to make sure you are okay with letting her lay on the beach, swim in the ocean, or spend a few days getting a tan. But I would have asked—I would have—had she not lied and said you knew, because I might be arrogant, but I’m not stupid.”

Dante finally dropped his gun entirely, letting his arm hang limply at his sides. “I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do. I did business, and she was there, sure, but she was perfectly fine the entire time. Not once was she put in any serious danger, until something did come up that was instantly handled. You’re out money. The buyer is out guns. I fucked up a safe running route, and likely ruined a partnership simply to keep her safe on this run. It doesn’t matter, though, not to you, because it’s her, and I’m me.”

Cross barked out a laugh, adding, “Except the problem is, you don’t know a single fucking thing about me, Dante. You never cared to learn.”

“Cross,” his father started to say.

Cross was done. Done with this show, done with Catherine’s father, and done with the whole fucking day. He grabbed his luggage, and started toward the hangar where his car had been parked two weeks earlier before they headed for the boat.

“Cross!” Calisto called out from behind him.

He held up his middle finger, and never once looked back over his shoulder to see the men he’d walked away from, and managed to disrespect at the same time.

Everyone had choices to make. Everyone had to make them when they didn’t want to. Everyone faced different consequences for them.

This was just one of those times.

Cross still didn’t care.

Not one bit.

Cross opened the penthouse front door, and didn’t wait for his guest to come in before turning and walking back to where he had been pouring himself a glass of much needed whiskey in the living room. Wolf followed behind in silence.

He took his sweet time pouring the whiskey, watching the amber liquid fall over cubes of ice and filling the glass nearly to the rim. After his day, he needed a good drink.

“Your father sent me over,” Wolf said.

Cross tipped his glass up for a sip, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the busiest part of Manhattan. “That’s nice.”

He’d expected it, actually.

Calisto was good, and had given Cross space when he needed it. His father was even more careful not to insert his presence or opinion in a way that might bother his son. Cross had appreciated it.

Cross also missed Calisto often. Their conversations, his father’s advice, and long nights when his father was there simply because Cross had needed him to be. He missed those things, but he’d been the one to ask for space. Calisto have given it, no questions asked.

“He wanted a better update on what happened in Cancun, and what to expect now,” Wolf continued, “and he didn’t ask for anything else.”

Cross passed the man a look over his shoulder, noting how Wolf kept his gaze on the windows, and not on his companion. “Did he tell you about the shit show at the private air strip today?”