Page 66 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

Go ahead.

Catherine heard all of those things with two words.

She turned to face her father.

“What would it have meant if Cross didn’t run like you told him to do, or worse, if his step-father had wanted an answer for what you did to him?”

Dante blinked. “Many things, I suppose.”

“Wrong. One thing. I was raised being told to always respect others in our life because disrespect leads to only one thing. You know what it is, and what it means. Say it.”

“I don’t know that’s what it would have been.”

“Yes, you do,” Catherine argued. “Say it.”

Dante scowled. “A war between our families would have likely been the result of everything.”

“And who would that have put in danger?” she pressed.

Her father stayed quiet.

Catrina was the one who answered. “Everyone. All of us.”

“Including his mother,” Catherine said, “who he adores. And his sister, who grew up thinking he was her very best friend.”

“Yes, well—”

“Me, too, Daddy. It would have put me in danger, too. No matter what Cross and I were—together or not—he would never put me in danger. Because he loved me. He always did.”

Loves, her mind whispered.

“So wouldn’t you have run, too?” Catherine asked again. “Had it been you and Ma, wouldn’t you have run, too?”

Dante scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Of course, I would have,” he admitted softly.

Catherine nodded. “I know. Everyone knows. I stand by what I said. I need time to figure out how I feel about what you did. Then maybe if I need to, we can talk more about it. Or maybe I won’t need to talk about it at all. But no, you do not get a say about Cross, me, or what I do with him. You’ve already said and done more than enough, Daddy. It’s time to let me decide the rest.”

“Except no,” Dante said, “because I have already decided this. Do not push me.”

Catherine stared him down.

Dante was unaffected.

Well, if he wanted a fight …

She didn’t mind giving him a war.

Catherine was his daughter, after all.

Catherine entered the quiet café, but stayed back from nearing the table Cross was currently sitting at. Behind the booth he sat in, a little girl—maybe five or six years old—had turned around to talk to him. The girl’s mother chatted away on a phone, seemingly oblivious to the fact her daughter was making a friend.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Cross.”