Hearts On Fire (The Santiago Trilogy Book 3)

by Catherine Wiltcher

  “I’ll do it,” says a voice as Joseph appears behind us, looking cool and composed in black army fatigues. The lethal mercenary. His second-in-command. As tall as Dante, as blond as he is dark, they’ve been in each other’s lives for eighteen years but their history is a blank page as far as I’m concerned. I may be a former investigative reporter but I’ll never come close to learning what links these two men together.

  Joseph’s blank gaze flits my way and he nods out a greeting. “What time did the call come in?”

  “Literally five minutes ago.”

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” He closes the distance between us to take my phone but I clutch it tighter to my chest.

  “Can we maybe try it later?” I mumble.

  “Why? Waiting on a call from your boyfriend?” drawls Dante, oozing scorn like a warning sign. He’s leaning against the side of his desk with his arms crossed now. Looking like the hottest, most infuriating statue I’ve ever seen.

  “What if it was Anna? What if she tries to call again?”

  “Then Joseph can handle it.”

  Joseph studies me for a moment. He knows I’m hiding something. I’m obstructing a potential lead on purpose. “I guess we can wait a while and see how it plays out,” he says eventually.

  I shoot him a small smile of gratitude that Dante catches and proceeds to grind into the carpet under the heel of his boot. “Don’t you have a debrief to be working on?” he says coldly. “The girl has been missing for nearly three days. I told you last night that I wanted answers. We’ve fifty new recruits arriving on the island tomorrow morning as well. I had Marcus start the background checks but I want you to oversee. No more fuck-ups. No more Tomas’s, you hear me?”

  “I hope they bought sunscreen,” says Joseph mildly. “Did you speak to Petrov?”

  “He picked up the trail from your co-ordinates. He’s compiling satellite images of all the unregistered camps in the interest zone.”

  “CIA contacts came in handy, did they?”

  “Oh fuck off.”

  “What camps?” I say, butting in. “Is this why you went to Morocco?”

  “Sevastien’s branching out,” says Dante, turning toward a bar that's been miraculously restocked overnight.

  I glance about in surprise. His whole office has been cleaned up. All the broken glass and debris from yesterday has been removed, there are new monitors on the walls and a new black leather couch occupies the center of the room. Is this what he’s been working on for the last ten hours?

  “But in which fucking direction they're growing is anyone’s guess.” He uncaps a bottle of Stillhouse Black Bourbon and sloshes a treble into a glass. “He’s training an army for purposes as yet unknown.”

  “You mean terrorists?” I’m stunned. The horror of 9/11 is still stamped across the minds of every American with indelible ink.

  His silence is ominous. I can feel my fingers itching to touch my belly again. To protect, to comfort…

  “Not confirmed,” he murmurs eventually. “Want a drink?”

  “No thank you.”

  “I’m pouring you one anyway. Gin or vodka?”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Gin it is. Joseph?” But Joseph is too busy appraising me again. “Grayson,” he says sharply. “Take your fucking eyes off my fiancée unless you want me to gouge them out for you. Drink or not?”

  “Bourbon.”

  “Right.”

  I can feel his irritation from here. I wait for him to down his drink and pour himself another before speaking.

  “Why is Anna in Amsterdam, Dante?”

  “Sevastien’s network has set up a new European hub. We have a theory he’ll be putting her to work there first.”

  I let out a wail at this. “How fast can your jet be refuelled? Why aren't we there already?” I can't believe he’s just standing there drinking his damn Bourbon when my best friend is being trafficked into some foreign country a million miles away from home.

  “She’s still in transit, mi alma,” he explains, his fierce expression softening around the edges as he presses a glass into my frozen hand. “If our intel is correct, she’s scheduled to be smuggled into Europe sometime within the next twelve hours. Petrov has eyes in every dock. As soon as she hits Amsterdam, we’ll know about it. We’ll strategize and make a plan once we know how many assholes we’re dealing with. You have my word.”

  “Is she okay? Have they hurt her?”

  I catch a look between the two men that makes my stomach lurch.

  “I want to leave as soon as we can,” I tell him. “What’s the travel time to Amsterdam?”

  He takes another long sip before answering. “You’re not going anyway, Eve. Joseph and I will handle this.”

  “Don't start this crap fucking with me!” I scream at him, throwing my untouched drink in his direction. He ducks with a curse and the glass shatters against the wall, showering him in broken fragments and expensive gin. “This is my best friend we’re talking about. I am not sitting around some island while she gets beat up, raped or worse. None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for you barging into my life last year!”

  The silence that follows is like the hush of dawn before a battle.

  “Leave us,” orders Dante, never once taking his eyes off me.

  Joseph exhales loudly and heads for the door. He knows what’s coming and he knows it won’t be pretty.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “I’m not the target here, mi alma,” he says softly, once we’re alone. “I can't remember the last time a woman dared to throw a glass at me.”

  “What about the last time one pointed a gun at your head?” I counter, backing away.

  He smiles but it never reaches his eyes. That was a defining moment for both of us, the night in his bunker. “Take off your dress.”

  “No chance.” I scoff. “Find some other way to punish me.”

  “It’s too late to barter for leniency, my angel.”

  “I mean it, Dante. If you take me like this, it will be against my will. You said you’d never forced a woman. I’d appreciate it if you didn't blemish that unbroken record today.”

  His eyes narrow to black points. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

  “I play by your rules for the most part but not with this. I’m coming with you to Amsterdam, and that’s final.”

  “Not if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I know what’s good for Anna. She needs me.”

  “You'd be dead in a day. You can't even follow simple instructions. Your place is beside me, not riding shotgun in one of my fucking tanks.”

  “I don't want to be a soldier. I can help in other ways.”

  “Oh? And how well did that work out for you in Miami?”

  There’s a roughness to his voice as he says it. He’s remembering the carnage that he walked in on last week. My body is a purple road map of every kick and every punch I endured.

  “That was different.” How do you reason with a man who has only ever gotten his own way? “This time I’ll have you protecting me. What else must I do to prove myself?” If I were a child, I swear I’d be stamping my feet.

  He pauses and then shakes his head. “You lack instinct,” he states, turning back to the bottle of Stillhouse. I hear the sound of liquid splashing against the sides of the glass as he pours himself another drink. “You can't teach that shit. Only those who know real pain develop the hunger for it.”

  He says it so quietly I have to strain to hear his words.

  “I know real pain, Dante,” I say quietly, slipping my phone onto his desk. I walk up behind him and curl my arms around his waist. “I’ve lost my brother, my father and quite possibly my mother too.” I press my face into the soft, gray flannel material of his shirt. “I can't lose Anna as well.”

  “These men are animals.” His hand moves to cover mine and I bind myself even tighter to him. “They’ll rip you apart and laugh while they do it.”

 
“Like you.”

  There’s another pause. “Like me.”

  His back is as solid as oak beneath my forehead. Broad enough to withstand harsh winters of betrayal, and God knows how many bullets over the years. He’s all the family I have left and, as such, I feel the first twinge of regret. I have to tell him about our baby.

  “I’m sorry I said what I did. I don't regret anything about us. I love you. You know this.”

  For a split second, his hand convulses around mine.

  “I’m still going to fuck you raw.” We’re back on firmer emotional ground again. His alpha is coming back out to play. “Right here. Right now. On this floor if I must. Not even an act of God is going to stop–”

  Just then my phone starts ringing. I glance across at his desk and drop my arms from his waist. I reach it by the third peal.

  “Number withheld,” I tell him.

  “Answer it.”

  I hit the green button on the iPhone. “Hello?”

  A smooth voice filters down the line, one I’ve been waiting all morning to hear. “Eve? Whit Harris. I have your results.”

  “Who is it?” demands Dante but he makes no move to come any closer.

  “And?” I say breathlessly, sliding my gaze away from him. My heart is beating so damn fast I think I’m going to faint.

  “Pregnant.” He delivers it briskly. No bullshit. I can imagine him delivering a terminal diagnosis in much the same way. “By my calculations you’re already two months along. Shall I tell Dante the good news?”

  I can hear the ultimatum in his voice. It’s cracking like a whip against the backside of my disinclination.

  “No. I’ll do it,” I croak.

  “Soon, Eve. You’ll only make things worse if you don’t.”

  “Give me forty-eight hours.”

  “Very well.”

  He rings off and I turn to face the music. One look at Dante’s expression and I can hear the notes of Chopin’s Funeral March swirling around my head already.

  7

  Eve

  I didn't tell him about the baby. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, not with Anna’s life hanging in the balance the way it is. I can't explain it. I just know, deep down, that I’ll be more useful in Europe than stuck here.

  Somehow I ducked and dived Dante’s questions like a boxing champ – giving him phantom blood tests results that tested every facet of my imagination, not to mention my knowledge of random TV drama medical jargon. In the end he was so mad with me that my glass wasn’t the only one exploding against the stone-gray wall in his office before he was storming off down the driveway in his black Ferrari.

  I’ve made myself scarce by going back to his room and keeping out of his way for the rest of the day. I move my prenatal tablets to a new hiding place at the back of my make-up drawer in the bathroom, but not before popping the lid and tipping a small white capsule onto my palm. Pouring a glass of water from the faucet, I swallow it quickly and then shove the bottle away. I feel like an addict. Lies are my fix; my truth is an unreachable antidote.

  Since I’ve been upstairs I’ve received two more dropped calls. Now that Whit’s unleashed his heat-seeking missile on me, I need to get my cell to Joseph so that he can carry out all his computer stuff. First, I need to test the waters. I’m not brave enough to venture outside the safety of this mansion if Dante’s on the prowl so I message him instead.

  Phone’s all yours. Can we meet downstairs? Kitchen? E

  I pace up and down the terracotta-tiled floor while I wait for Joseph’s response. I’m not pacing long.

  Give me thirty.

  I bite my lip. Now for the next problem…

  Is Dante around?

  I count thirty laps of the bedroom before I finally get my reply.

  He’s with me, back at the base. I’ll make an excuse.

  I breathe out a long sigh of relief. After we were exiled from Planet Santiago, our time together in Miami planted a seed of trust between Joseph and me. I’d like to call him a friend but men like him don't do mawkish. I still marvel at how I managed to slip inside Dante’s defences. Well, maybe not today. I’m liable to be hung, drawn and quartered, medieval-style, if I stray within fifty feet of him right now.

  I pace some more and brush my hair, checking my wristwatch every thirty seconds and cursing horology anomalies. Why does time always drag when you’re in a race for answers?

  When the hour hits four pm, I make my way downstairs. The hallways are still cold and empty. The only sound is the portentous tick tick of the antique clock by the front door. The steady rhythm triggers a beat of apprehension, and pretty soon I have that damn Funeral March playing in my head again.

  Joseph is waiting for me just inside the kitchen, back against the island, ankles crossed, reading something on his iPad. Unsettling the place again with his sinister brand of calm. He looks up as I enter and I swear his gaze drifts to my stomach before fixing icy blue-grays to my face.

  “Here.” I march straight up to him and hand him my phone. “It’s rung twice more since we last spoke. Same thing. They hang up as soon as I answer.”

  He takes it with a nod. “I’ll trace the number and see what comes up.”

  “Do you think it could be Anna?”

  He scoffs like it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. “Not a chance.”

  I’d forgotten this man’s capacity to chuck oil at your hands when you’re clinging like hell to hope. “How can you be so sure?”

  “In the minute chance that she has worked herself free of restraints, she’d be dead already. These men don't fuck around.”

  “Whose men, Sevastien’s?”

  “No, the Romanian dickheads he’s gone into partnership with over there.” He frowns at me. “I assumed Dante had told you?”

  “Not about the Romanians,” I say faintly.

  Joseph shrugs. “I’m sure he has his reasons.” He springs away from the island and pockets my phone. “I need to get back before Dante beats the shit out of any more of my recruits.”

  “He’s still mad at me, huh?” My shoulders slump as my stomach gives an uneasy growl. I haven't had much of an appetite since yesterday morning and suddenly I’m starving.

  “Tell him,” he mutters, brushing past me.

  “Tell him what?”

  He slams his palm down on the counter. “I get why you’re doing it, Eve, I’m not a fool. You want to be close when we get her out, and you know Dante won’t let you anywhere near Amsterdam when you’re knocked up with his kid. Hell, maybe you want to fire a few rounds at these assholes yourself to even up the score after Miami. But I was there when he found out about his daughter. I saw what it did to him.” He stops to draw in a breath. “All of us on this fucking island know hurt and pain, sweetheart, but some of us ache more than others. His pain is immeasurable. He’s just better at hiding it than most. He needs this, Eve. You, him, a future... Don't deny him that certainty, even for a day.”

  “How did you guess?” I say, close to tears.

  He sighs and looks away. “My wife did the same thing when she was pregnant. She kept touching her stomach like you do, like she couldn't believe what was happening. Like happiness wasn’t just a fucking illusion after all. It took us two years to conceive. We called him a miracle.”

  It takes me a second to process this, to pass off my shock as mild curiosity. “I never knew you had a wife and child, Joseph?”

  He forces his lips into a grim smile. “Not anymore.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Dead.”

  He turns to leave and I’m left quaking with aftershocks. I never knew a simple answer could give so much insight into someone – suffering, hatred, loneliness – it’s all there, polluting every letter. He’d hinted at a relationship in the past to me, but a wife? A child? Two funerals. Two more reasons to hate this world.

  I watch him stalk down the hallway and out through the front door with one thought in my mind. This man is as damaged as Dante is
.

  8

  Eve

  Unable to get Joseph’s revelation out of my head, I find myself drifting from room to room. I don't know what I’m searching for – courage? A distraction? It’s certainly not guilt. I’m already feeling plenty of that. I end up sitting at the glossy black Steiner in the living room, tinkering around with the ivory notes until I can’t ignore the gnawing emptiness in my stomach anymore. The ship has started roiling and heaving again. I need to eat something before the sickness takes hold.

  Once I start, I find I can't stop. Sandwiches, fruit, biscuits… The anti-sugar thing seems to have disappeared and I’m making up for it with a vengeance. The food is fresh, the choice plentiful. Dante must have had a delivery from the mainland sometime this morning. Whoever re-stocked the bar in his office has done a number in here as well.

  With the bacon fried off and the salad bowl out, I’m just going in for my second BLT with extra mayo when Dante stalks in through the door. His dark gaze sweeps over the chaos of his kitchen. I know he’s taking in everything – the mess of cutlery, the used pans... “Hungry, are we?” he observes dryly, kicking the fridge door shut. If he’s surprised, he doesn't show it.

  I put the sandwich to one side. “I’m making up for lost meals.”

  He’s outwardly calmer but still simmering with resentment underneath. Dante’s moods are invariably different variations on the theme of black. His present one is inching into storm cloud territory. The shower will be short and sharp but there’s every indication it’s passing on.

  “Your beloved iPhone.” He tosses my cell onto the counter with more force than necessary and it smashes into the side of my plate. Here comes the storm. “Untraceable caller ID. Whoever keeps bugging you knows how to play the system.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “Not if you stay put and stop pretending you’re fucking Rambo.”

  Now the hail…

  “Joseph doesn't think it’s Anna.”