Stolen: Dante’s Vow

by Knight, Natasha

  She looks up at me, sleepy-eyed. “I can walk you know.”

  I smile, tuck her in then climb in beside her.

  The brand at her hip is healing. I don’t want to bring it up now, though. I don’t want to talk about any of that, but I will have to think of what to do with it. How to somehow cover it up so she doesn’t have to see it daily, a constant reminder of the horror that happened to her.

  No. I stop myself.

  The horror she survived.

  She is strong. A survivor. I should not forget that. She is a fierce warrior in her own right. My fierce warrior. She just needed my help to ascend to her rightful place. The place she always belonged.

  “How did you do it?” she asks, eyes half-closed. She must be exhausted. She hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours.

  “A knife in his kidneys. In his gut.”

  “Bloody?”

  “Very.” She’s dark.

  “Did he know why?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Was it only Viktor?” I don’t want to say the rest of the question out loud. Was it only Viktor who touched you?

  Her eyes shift away and she’s momentarily that little girl again. But she collects herself and I can almost see her steel herself. She nods. “Sacha didn’t like that I was there. He tried to stop Viktor once, but Viktor was bigger than him. Stronger.”

  She grows quiet, rests her cheek against my chest, fingers tracing a scar along my shoulder, slowly moving up to the one on my face. We lie like this for a long time and just when I think she might be falling asleep, she speaks.

  “Do you think I’ll ever forget?”

  “No,” I tell her. It’s the only honest answer.

  She’s quiet for a long moment before speaking. “In a way, I don’t want to.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t lose another part of myself, you know?”

  I tug her closer to me. “You’re a survivor. It takes strength to survive and you’re strong.”

  She shifts her head a little and I can feel her looking at me as she begins to caress the scar on my cheek. “Do you want to forget all the things that happened to you and your family?”

  “No. I only wish I could undo them.”

  “Do you miss them?”

  I nod once.

  “Is it strange that I don’t miss anyone? Not even my grandmother?”

  I turn my head to look at her then. “What do you mean strange?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

  “I think you did what you had to do to survive. Stop thinking about it. You can’t change what happened to you. You can only move forward.”

  Silence again. And again, I think she’s asleep but then she brings her fingers to the patch. The instant she does, I capture her wrist.

  “Don’t.”

  She gasps, not expecting that. “What’s under it?”

  “Nothing you need to see.”

  “Why? Do you think I’ll find it ugly? Do you think I could find anything about you ugly?”

  I switch my grip so I’m tracing a circle on her wrist with my thumb and close my eye. “Leave it alone, Mara. Get some sleep.”

  “You know what happened to me. The things they did.” Her eyes fill up. “Do you think I’m ugly?”

  I look at her. “No. Fuck no. Never.”

  “Then how can you ever think I’d find anything about you ugly?”

  “Sweetheart, I’m not worried about you finding it ugly. I just don’t want to scare you.”

  She laughs outright. “Scare me? Dante, I’ve lived with monsters. I can’t be scared by my angel.”

  I must look confused because she lays her hand softly on my cheek.

  “It’s what you are. An angel who fell and broke when he hit the ground. Who has now become my guardian angel.”

  “You mean your avenging angel. Or devil more likely.”

  She smiles again. “Angel for sure. My avenging angel.” She grows quiet, the sad smile vanishing. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. You’re like the other half of me. Always were all those years. I thought of you every day. You’re the only person I thought of. How can I be scared by something that is so much a part of me?”

  I just watch her, take in her honesty, her strength. And what I want to do is keep her with me forever. Spend the rest of my life slaying her demons. But there’s a part of me that’s torn. That knows why she thinks she loves me. That part that knows there’s better for her. Better than me. Knows if I were a better person, if I were truly the angel she believes me to be and not a devil, I’d let her go.

  “It’s empty. Under the patch. I don’t wear the prosthetic.” I reach up, pull the patch off. I don’t know what I expect. A gasp. A cry. Her hand covering her mouth. The disgust she’ll try to hide.

  But her expression is unreadable and a moment later, she leans in and kisses my eyelid. And I think how good she is. How much better than me she deserves.

  38

  Dante

  The next night I leave Mara in the kitchen when I get a text from Charlie to contact him right away. Matthaeus and I make our way to the study where my laptop is already set up to log on to FaceTime Charlie. He answers on the second ring. He’s in Cristiano’s office on the island.

  “Matthaeus updated us on Viktor Petrov,” Cristiano says.

  “One more down. One to go. Plus, whoever Pérez’s buyer is. Any word on that?” I hope that’s why he’s reaching out because it’s late in Italy.

  “No, but there is something else. I got my hands on a photo that I’m not sure what to make of,” Charlie says. “It’s old, I’m thinking five years.”

  “Five years?”

  “I’ll show you why I think that in a second. I can’t be sure where it’s taken but I’d guess Mexico, not the states.” The screen flicks and I’m looking at a photograph where Felix is sitting on the couch. Behind him stand two guards. There’s a couple beside them. The woman is heavily pregnant. But it’s not her that has piqued my curiosity.

  “Is that Jericho St. James?”

  I peer closer, try to figure out what’s changed because yes, that’s him. But not. This man is younger, obviously. And his expression is happy. He has his arm wrapped possessively over the shoulders of the woman.

  “Is he married? Is that his wife?”

  “No, not married. At least not that I could find. And no kids. I’m doing more digging but look at the far corner. I’m going to zoom in.”

  I look and am again surprised. “Mara?” She’s sitting across the table from a woman and they’re rolling dough together. She’s smiling at the woman, and it looks like one of her legs is mid-swing beneath the table. “She can’t be more than fourteen, fifteen.” Which explains the timeline Charlie came up with.

  Matthaeus gets up, goes to the door, and instructs a soldier to get Mara. He returns with her a few minutes later.

  “What is it?” she asks anxiously.

  I turn the screen to show her the photograph. “Do you remember this?”

  She walks to the desk, peers down. Her face is a little paler when she looks back up at me.

  “That’s Flora,” she says, pointing to the woman sitting across from her. Tears fill her eyes. “She left a few weeks after that day. Just disappeared. Never even said goodbye.”

  I watch her, wanting nothing more than to go to her, take her in my arms and tell her it will be all right.

  “I think he hurt her,” she adds.

  Fuck. I hate this. I hate this so much.

  “Do you know this couple?” Matthaeus asks as if sensing my reluctance to bring her any more pain.

  “I don’t know them, but she was nice. She let me feel the baby kick.”

  “Any idea who she is?”

  “Kimberly. It’s what he called her. This man.” She points to Jericho St. James. “I think he was her husband.”

  “Was?”

  “She died soon after that
day.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Felix told me when I asked if I’d get to see her and the baby. Kimberly had said I could visit. She thought it was going to be a girl but wasn’t sure.”

  Listening to her, I hear how young she is in so many ways. How inexperienced even given what she’s been through. She has been almost sheltered in her captivity and at the same time, so not. Guilt gnaws at my gut. She shouldn’t be here. She should be home. Out of harm’s way. It was selfish of me to bring her.

  But I shove those thoughts aside and something else nudges at me. I ask a question I’m not sure I want the answer to.

  “Did Felix have anything to do with her death?”

  She shifts her gaze to me, and her eyes darken. “I don’t know why you need to ask. He had everything to do with it.”

  39

  Dante

  Jericho St. James is visibly put out when he walks into the living room of the penthouse suite. His hair is ruffled like he’s been running his hands through it, and he’s dressed more casually than I’ve seen him before. He’s in jeans and a white button down, the sleeves of which are rolled up to his forearm exposing a full sleeve dragon tattoo on one arm and the tail of a twin dragon creeping out from under the sleeve of the other. Along with his watch I notice a bracelet of worn wooden beads. Prayer beads. The tattoos fit. So does the watch. But that bracelet? Not so much. It’s not his. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.

  “Have you come to thank me in person for providing Viktor’s whereabouts?” he asks, drawing my gaze to his face as he tucks his hands into his pockets. “Or anxious I don’t bail before giving you Pérez’s location on Saturday night?”

  I grin, take out the folded sheet of paper from my pocket, unfolding it and holding it out to him. “I’m here to ask you about this.” It’s the photo Charlie had found.

  For a split second, I see the expression of surprise on his face. Of shock, even. His eyes lock on the grainy 8x10 printout. It takes him a moment to school his features but when he shifts his gaze to mine, I see his Adam’s apple work as he swallows. See something in his eyes as he tries to appear indifferent.

  “Drink?” he asks, turning to walk toward the sideboard where a decanter of whiskey stands. His posture is stiff, shoulders tight. I wonder if his hands are fisted in his pockets as he crosses the room on wooden legs.

  Without waiting for a reply, he pours two glasses of whiskey and carries them to the sitting area. He makes a point of not looking at the picture I’ve set on the coffee table as he hands me one of the tumblers.

  “What’s the real reason you want him?” I ask.

  He swallows the whiskey and takes the same seat as last time, gesturing to his bodyguard to leave.

  “Are you sure?” the man asks.

  “It’s fine, Dex,” he says. “Just bring me the bottle before you go.”

  I watch him as he finishes his drink. The giant of a man, Dex, sets the decanter on the coffee table before he leaves.

  St. James puts his glass down and instead of pouring himself another, he pulls the printed photograph closer and picks it up. I’m not sure I’m imagining the slight tremble of his hand. For a long moment, he studies the printout, his face partially obscured by the paper. He then folds it over, sets it back down and looks at me.

  “Do you think she’s safe with you?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Mara. Do you think she’s safe with you?”

  I narrow my gaze, sip my drink.

  “I’m asking you a question. Do you think now that you have her in your possession that she’s safe?” There’s something urgent in his tone. Something hard and old.

  My jaw tightens. I know where he’s going. “No,” I answer.

  “Then you are wiser than I was.” He leans forward to take the bottle and pours himself a hefty glass full.

  “Who is she?”

  “Who was she,” he corrects and drinks a long swallow. “Kimberly.” His reaction isn’t what I expect. I don’t know if it’s the surprise of seeing that photograph or what. He’s rattled. Visibly upset. And he isn’t quite looking at me.

  “Who was she to you?” I push.

  “My fiancée.”

  “The baby—”

  He doesn’t answer but I see the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of his eye.

  This isn’t the same man I’d met days before. He’s not the asshole who saved my life then threw me out of a moving vehicle. Not the same cool, collected dick dismissing us to fuck his maid as he casually gave me the location of a Russian mobster to kill. This man before me is simply human. And I see the cracks of his humanity. The brokenness of him.

  But I steel myself. His pain has nothing to do with me. And this is about saving Mara. So, I reach for the photo, open it, study it. “Too bad. She was good looking,” I say. Dick move, I know.

  He doesn’t comment. Just drinks.

  “You all seem like you’re having a good time while a kidnapped girl sits just a few feet from you.”

  “I didn’t know who she was. And I didn’t know Felix Pérez. Hell, I didn’t realize there was a photograph. I’m guessing a still taken from a video.”

  It does look that way. But like his pain, I don’t give a shit. “You didn’t know him? Because you seem chummy to me. What were you doing there if you didn’t know him?”

  “Business that doesn’t concern you,” his tone is firm, the mask of that other Jericho St. James back in place.

  “Anything having to do with Pérez concerns me.”

  “Not this.”

  “What about Mara? You saw her and did nothing?”

  “She didn’t seem distressed.”

  “No? So, she didn’t stand out at all as not really belonging there?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t know anything about her, not until after.”

  “After what?” I ask, tossing the photo back onto the coffee table making sure it’s face up, so he has to look at it.

  His eyes lock on it and there’s that crack in the exterior again. “She was eight weeks from delivering.” It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about the pregnant woman. “She was so excited. So happy. It was all she could talk about.” He takes a sip of whiskey. “But she never got to experience any of it. She was killed not a full week after that ill-fated visit to Pérez.”

  He’s quiet, his pain palpable and immense. He then shifts his gaze to me and again I see the slight difference in the color of his eyes, the deep gray of one and dark blue of the other. How whatever is going on inside him makes the one go darker and the other lighter.

  “My meeting with Pérez was on behalf of a client. I used to practice law but I’m sure you know that. Kimberly and I were traveling at the time and, well, I regret having brought her. If I’d left her at the hotel…” he trails off, shakes his head. “But I was naïve then.” He swallows more whiskey. “Stupid even. And she paid for it.”

  His eyes lock on the woman and I see his regret.

  “We were at a café a few days later. It was the morning we were due to return to the states. Just having breakfast on the beach. She wanted to feel the sand between her toes one last time, she said.” He smiles a rueful smile at that. “We had thought about building a house there. Beachfront. Made plans and even looked at some land.” He looks at me, face hard again. “Never make fucking plans. Never,” he advises.

  “What happened?”

  “I went inside to pay the bill. She was gathering up her things. I realized when I got to the counter, I’d left my wallet on the table and returned. She must have noticed it before I did because she was walking toward me as I got outside, flip-flops in one hand, a big smile on her face,” he pauses here. “She got in the way,” he finally adds. He shifts his gaze away, pushes his hand into his hair like he’s going to pull it out. “Fuck. She just got in the fucking way.”

  He collects himself after a moment and turns back to me.

  “You were the target?”

&nb
sp; He nods.

  “It was Pérez?” I ask.

  “Not personally, obviously. I’m honestly not sure he’s ever actually killed a man. Just gives the orders. Piece of shit.” He swallows a big swallow of whiskey.

  “Why did he do it? Who are you to him?”

  “He was hired. He didn’t know me from Adam. I need to confirm who it was that hired him.”

  “Confirm. So, you know?”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  I put two and two together. “And the meeting that was allegedly recorded will confirm your suspicion?”

  “Not alleged and yes.” His gaze shifts and he’s studying me now. “Betrayal by those closest to you burns hotter, don’t you think?”

  “Are we bonding?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Where will he be?”

  He tilts his head infinitesimally to the side. He’s got the upper hand on this one. He has the information I need. “You’ll need to bring the girl.”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re wasting my time.”

  “Tell me where he’ll be. I’ll be there. I’ll get you what you need.”

  “You need to bring the girl. It’s the deal.”

  “Why? What deal have you made with him?”

  “If I tell him she’ll be there, he will come.”

  “So tell him she’ll be there.”

  He breathes in a deep breath.

  “This is my offer. Tell him what you need to tell him to get him there and I’ll get you what you want.” I put my glass down.

  “I held her as she died, you know,” he says, his gaze is on that sheet of paper. That sliver of history. “I know what you’ve seen,” he continues. “What you’ve been through. But let me ask you something. Have you felt the life slip away from someone while you watch? While you cradle their body against you begging the god you once believed in to spare them? To take you instead?”

  I clench my teeth and shift my gaze away.

  “I can tell you it’s not something you ever want to experience. Never want to see or feel.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, the look inside them is different. Like there’s an infinite sadness locked inside there that this memory has unlocked. “Their eyes change as the soul slips from the body, do you know that? The good ones, at least. The innocent ones. You and me, we don’t have souls left to lose but the innocents? You see the light go out.” He picks up the bottle of whiskey and refills his glass then downs the whole thing. “So, if you’re smart, Dante, you’ll be rid of Mara for her own sake. Get her a new identity. Make her disappear. It’s the only chance she’ll have at a life.”