He shrugs a shoulder. “I saved your life.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do. I give you serious credit for taking Petrov out. That is no easy feat. But walking into his club afterward looking like you did, out of it like you were and dripping blood on their tacky marble floors, well, that was just stupid.”
“Fuck you. What do you want?”
“What I wanted was for the meeting between Petrov and Pérez to take place. Flush out that fuck. But I guess that’s out now.”
“What’s your relationship with Felix Pérez?”
“He has something I want.”
“And that is?”
He pauses. It’s just for a moment, but it’s all I need to see that this is it. This thing that Pérez has, that he wants, it’s his weakness.
“There was a meeting.”
“And?”
“The night of the explosion.”
Now it’s me who stops.
“Just before you and your brother started shooting up the place.”
“You were there?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know any of this?”
“Like I said, there was a meeting.”
“You’re just a fount of information, aren’t you?”
“A meeting that Pérez recorded unbeknownst to the participants.”
I lean back in my seat, fold my arms across my chest. It’s my turn to grin now. “Sounds like an important meeting. Maybe I can get a copy of the minutes.”
The waitress returns and he smiles at her, but I see how tight it is. Before he shifts his attention to me, he pours a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and stirs. I don’t touch mine.
“He has another buyer lined up, you know,” he says, clanking the silver spoon against the porcelain coffee cup.
I crack my neck. Flex my hands under the table. Another buyer for Mara? Doesn’t make sense.
He watches me intently, dark eyes zeroed in so as not to miss the tiniest tell.
“And now that Petrov’s out of the picture, he can move more freely.”
“Doesn’t add up.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“That there would be a new buyer. Considering who she is, or more accurately who she isn’t. Among other things.” Not that I believed Petrov would actually return her. He’d more likely have killed her in front of Pérez and then killed Pérez.
“I’m just sharing information I’ve vetted. It’s true.”
“Who is it?”
“That I don’t know. Whoever it is is keeping a very low profile, but he wants her specifically.”
“Why?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
I draw in a breath, study the enigma sitting across from me. “What do you want, St. James?”
“I want Pérez, like I said.”
“For the recording.”
He nods.
“What’s on it?”
He doesn’t reply but I watch how his eyes darken. Whatever it is, it’s very personal.
“Why am I here? Why make sure I walked out of Red’s last night?” I ask.
“The girl. You’ve got her well-hidden.”
I grit my jaw. Matthaeus signals for me to remain calm as I do the math.
“I need to borrow her,” the bastard continues.
“No.”
“I promise to take excellent care of her. You have my word.”
“Your word means shit to me. No.”
“He won’t be able to resist coming for her. I know the deal he’s struck is worth well over a million dollars and he’s already been paid half.”
“What part of no is confusing to you?” I push my chair back and stand. “Find your bait elsewhere.” I turn, take a step.
“What that recording shows will be just as valuable to you as it is to me, Dante.”
I pause.
“To your brother. His family.”
I glance at Matthaeus.
“You don’t want it known that your uncle was involved in, well, less than savory business.”
At that, I spin, return to the table, and slam my hands on the surface. He doesn’t even blink.
I lean in close. So close I can see that his eyes are actually different colors. One a dark blue, the other deep gray.
“I don’t give a fuck what my uncle was involved in. And you should have done your homework before you came to me if that’s all you’ve got.” I straighten.
“Oh, I did,” he says, standing. He takes a moment to button his suit jacket, but I don’t miss the shiny metal of a pistol holstered on his belt. I get the feeling he doesn’t need the soldiers standing just behind him. “I know you wouldn’t want your true parentage getting out.”
My jaw tenses.
“Or how that parentage came about.”
He looks at me straight on, eyes unblinking.
“I am not your enemy, Dante. But I do need what I need.”
“Who the fuck are you exactly?”
“Sit.”
I don’t.
He takes a breath in and sits, gestures to my vacant chair.
“Dante,” Matthaeus says. He lays a hand on my shoulder.
I want to kill this man in front of me. I want to wrap my hands around his neck and choke the life out of him.
When Petrov goaded me about David, about him being my father, I didn’t care how he knew. How he could have found out. All I was thinking about was Mara. What he’d done to her. What I’d do to him. It was necessary for survival, and it worked. I survived.
But this. This man knowing so fucking much, it gets to me.
“Sit down, Dante,” St. James says. “Please.”
I sit.
He reaches into his pocket and sets the same card he’d slipped into my pocket on the table. I don’t shift my gaze from his.
“My client, this organization here, has a serious stake in getting that recording back.”
“Who are they?” I remember I found the same card among David’s things.
“Just a group of wealthy, interested and influential people. A society, of sorts.”
“What did my uncle have to do with them?”
“Nothing good. And he wasn’t with them. It’s not something you can buy into. You’re born part of The Society or you’re not.”
I look at him. “And you?”
“I have ties.”
“Vague is your middle name, isn’t it? Give me something solid.”
“He thought to use The Society to shield himself, ultimately, and there were some in the order who may have allowed more than they should have. It was damaging and will be more so if that recording gets into the wrong hands.”
“My uncle was dead by the time that meeting took place.”
He studies me. Does he know it was me who did the killing? At this point, I would be more surprised if he didn’t.
“His name was mentioned. Along with your brother. Yourself. The cartel your sister-in-law is associated with.”
“And what will you do with Pérez if you succeed in flushing him out?”
“I will hand him over to you once I ensure the recording is destroyed.”
“What makes you think he’ll destroy it? Are you just going to ask nicely?”
“He wants the girl back. He’s desperate in fact.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” I ask, standing again. “The girl is not on the table. Period. You and I may have a common goal to find that fuck, but you’re not using her to do it. So, if you want to try to blackmail me, you’re welcome to fucking try, but you’re wasting your time. The dead are dead. I’m not keeping up appearances. And I don’t like being threatened. So why don’t you go fuck yourself?”
Anger makes his jaw twitch. “I’ll be here for a few days more.”
“Not interested.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Won’t be my first.”
“He’ll come for her. He’ll come wi
th a fucking army because you taking Petrov out allowed him that.” He stands again, buttons his god damned jacket again. “It was a stupid move. An emotional one.”
I study him. He’s right. It was definitely emotionally charged. But I’d do it exactly the same way if I had to do it over again. Maybe take more time to carve the fucker out.
But I wonder how far St. James is willing to go. Because he’s not telling me everything. I know that much. Hell, I don’t blame him. But he’s not using Mara. No one is.
19
Mara
I wake up slowly but the difference this time to the last time is I remember exactly what happened. Matthaeus drugged me after Dante said he wouldn’t do that again. Although he didn’t say exactly that. He said he didn’t want to drug me again. One word that makes all the difference.
It takes my muscles a little time to catch up to my brain’s order to move. To get out of this bed. I’m not in Dante’s bed even though I can tell from the room itself that I’m still in the warehouse.
The quiet around me is so complete, I wonder if I’m alone. I peel the blanket back and see that I’m still dressed. But I didn’t expect not to be. These men aren’t that type. They wouldn’t touch me like that.
But Dante did.
I pause at the memory. I imagine how he felt on top of me. How we were skin to skin. How he looked when he kissed me. How his mouth tasted.
And when he put his hand inside my panties… I close my eyes, my stomach fluttering. My body remembering.
When he put his hand inside my panties, I wanted it. I didn’t want to cringe away. Didn’t want to close my eyes and pretend it wasn’t me, pretend my body wasn’t mine. Didn’t want to not feel it.
And I came. I had my first orgasm. It was amazing. More incredible than I could have imagined.
I’ve never come before. Not alone. Not with a man. Never. I pretended when Petrov made me. It was over quicker that way. And I’ve never touched myself. Never wanted to.
Now as I lie here, I close my eyes and imagine him like he was, as I slide my hand down over my stomach between my legs. I touch myself gingerly over top of my panties. Not inside. And I imagine his fingers there. Imagine how I felt to him.
Just then a noise from inside the apartment startles me.
I turn to the closed bedroom door. Hear someone laugh. A cold shiver passes through me at that sound. Because I know it.
My legs finally get the message from my brain to move, and I push the blankets off. Sitting up I swing my legs over the bed. There’s carpet on the floor here. A small, scratchy circle with an ornate Persian design. Better than the concrete.
Another noise comes from one of the other rooms. Glass breaking.
I get up, go to the closed door, put my ear to it. It’s thick but I can make out some sound. Men. More than one. But it doesn’t sound like it did with Dante’s soldiers.
I gasp when someone curses loudly and something shatters. Not a glass this time. This is too loud for that. I turn the lock on the door and jump at the next crash. Inside this room is a large bed, a proper nightstand, and a dresser. At the far end is a large window but this one has the small squares of glass. It’s not an exit. This room is only half the size of Dante’s and there’s no attached bathroom. Nowhere to hide.
On the nightstand is a small lamp, a cheap, plastic thing. It won’t do me any good if whoever is tearing up the place out there comes in here. And they will. It’s just a matter of time.
I open the first of two drawers. Inside is a book, worn like it’s been well read. That won’t help me either, so I close it and open the next one. Here I find balled up socks, and when I rummage through, I close my hand over the cool, bumpy surface of a Swiss army knife.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look at my prize.
Helga used to have one similar to it. I took it from her when she died but Petrov took it from me before we even got into his SUV that same night.
This one, though, is better. It’s a pocketknife. The bright orange handle is solid. It fits perfectly in my palm. And the blade is sharp. Deadly.
I close it as I hear footsteps come nearer my room.
“Maaaaraaaaa,” someone calls out, drawing out my name. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” he sings.
My heart races. The blood inside my veins turns to ice.
No. No way.
It can’t be him.
I know that voice though. Know his taunts. I know the man it belongs to. I haven’t seen him in five years. I’ll never forget him because he terrifies me.
I get to my feet, walk around the bed and back away from the door as the handle jiggles.
“Empty,” another man says I guess of another room.
Someone pounds their fists against the door, and I jump with the violence of it. That pounding of fists will always make me jump. I feel my shoulders hunch, my body curling around itself.
I’m scared.
God. Will I ever not be scared?
And then it happens. The crash against the door, the wood creaking. It comes again, a kick making the door rattle, splintering the wood. The third kick sends his boot right through. I hear him curse then yank his leg out.
I don’t scream when he bends to put his face in the hole. I don’t scream when I see his eyes. His leering grin.
“There you are, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. It makes me sick when he says it. Makes me want to vomit.
He reaches his arm through, feels for the lock. It seems like a silly thing, that little lock. He could more easily kick the door in altogether. But he turns that lock and pushes the door open. I grip the knife hard, keeping it hidden in the palm of my hand.
He’s tall. Not as tall as Dante but taller than me. And I know how solidly he’s built. There’s no getting around him.
He stops when he’s a few feet from me, his fatigues dirty, a splatter of bright red on his chest. Some of it on his face.
“Well, aren’t you all grown up,” he says after looking me over.
Sweat slides down the back of my neck. I press myself against the cold, rough brick wall. He takes a step toward me, grinning all the while. I remember his breath. How stale it always smelled. Remember his yellowing teeth.
He cocks his head to the side. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”
I swallow hard, see the two men move into the room behind him. Felix’s men. I know because Miguel, the one in front of me, is one of Felix’s most trusted soldiers.
“Well, we’ve got time to get reacquainted,” he says, checking his watch as he steps toward me and takes me roughly by the arm.
I don’t even think then. I can’t. If he gets me out of this place, he’ll take me back to Felix. Or back to another man like Petrov. And I can’t do that again. I’d rather die than do that again.
So when he tugs, I let him, and I propel myself into him hard opening the blade and positioning it as I slam into his chest.
He’s surprised. Confused. I can’t tell. Maybe both.
And then comes a loud bang from inside. A door crashing open, boots of what sounds like a dozen men. Miguel’s soldiers turn to look behind them, but I don’t care about them. I push the small blade of the Swiss Army knife harder into Miguel’s soft belly.
He looks down between us, puts his hand over mine, pulls the knife out and squeezes my wrist. The knife clatters to the floor. When he opens his palm, it’s bloody. And when he looks back up at me it’s with a rage in his eyes that I recognize.
But he’s still got me, and I can’t run.
“You stupid little bitch.”
He shoves me backward, but he’s injured, and he stumbles into me. My scream is muffled by the sound of gun shots. I fall to the floor taking Miguel with me, his grip still a vise around my arm.
I can see the knife with its bright orange grip. I reach for it but can’t quite reach it. Miguel kneels up over me, trapping me between his thighs and I scream when he makes a fist to punch me. I scream and close my eyes, covering m
y face, remembering how much his fists hurt.
But the blow doesn’t come.
It doesn’t come and a moment later, his weight is gone, and I open my eyes to find Dante standing over me. The look on his face fierce and furious. An avenging angel. He throws Miguel backward against the wall hard and advances on him as I scramble away. Dante draws his arm back and punches Miguel in the face with a ferocity that makes me scream. Miguel’s head snaps back. Dante doesn’t look at me when I scream. And he doesn’t stop. He does it again and again and again until both men are on the floor. Miguel is on his back, arms at his sides, legs unmoving. His head at an unnatural angle. I wonder if the first hit didn’t break his neck.
Dante keeps beating him, though, pummeling him. And I realize he’s saying something as he punches him. Curses muttered under his breath, as blood from the dead man splatters up onto his face, as he slows down, worn out. Miguel is unrecognizable when Matthaeus finally comes into the room and forces Dante off.
Matthaeus looks at me, at the blood on my hand. At the dead man.
I watch Dante as he leans against the bed, knuckles red and raw, blood and sweat steaking his face.
I watch him as his gaze moves from the dead man, to the discarded knife, to me. And I can’t read him. Can’t read what I see on his face. But I do see how fury darkens the green of his visible eye.
Matthaeus moves toward Miguel’s body. Dante never looks away from me, his gaze growing more intense, more charged. More angry.
“No ID. Nothing,” Matthaeus says.
I’m the first to break the lock of our eyes. I look at Matthaeus. “He’s one of Felix’s soldiers. Miguel Alvarez.” I shift my gaze to the dead man. “He’s the one who killed Lizzie.” God. To say it out loud.
The room somehow grows colder.
Dante gets to his feet, uses the back of his hand to wipe his face. It just smears blood and sweat though. He comes to stand in front of me and I’m reminded again that he’s not the boy I knew, but a man. This man. This hardened killing machine.
I shudder.
He crouches down, puts his hands on my jaw and turns my face a little. He looks at something then brushes my cheek, I guess wiping away blood, before tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. He takes both of my hands inside his, looks at the back of them, then at my palms. With his thumb he smears Miguel’s blood across one.
Stolen: Dante’s Vow Page 12
