Chapter Twenty-Nine

A n eerie feeling washes over me, and I expect nothing less as I gaze on at the grand estate from the gate as freezing rain begins to pelt the hood and windshield of my Audi. The house is far more intimidating underneath the grey sky. But I know a majority of my contempt is due to the history that lives within the walls.

Pulling up, I swallow hard and step out. Leaving my bag in my car, I grab the envelope from my purse that the management company sent me years ago along with the new key, security instructions and a schedule for those in charge of maintaining the late Roman Horner's estate. I palm the heavy key in my hand as I walk up the steps and turn back toward the driveway. Though the wind whips heavily around me while the stinging rain infuses the cold into my bones, I'm graced with a glimpse of my past, an image of a golden man waiting at the hood of his Nova, boots and arms crossed, a smile playing on his lips. The gilded tips of his spiked halo, lit by the sun as his eyes danced with promise and mischief. And just as soon as the ray appears, it's gone.

Taking a calming breath, I turn and unlock the door, pushing it open and standing frozen at the threshold baffled by the sight that greets me.

The interior is no different than it was the day before I left, though I can only imagine the damage done that morning. I'm fairly certain the walls house shells of bullets in between sheetrock and touched up paint. But all traces of that horrible night are gone, as if I imagined it.

If only that were true.

"No one leaves breathing." I shudder as I think of the look on Tobias's face when he gave that order. Tyler said Miami had pulled up ten cars deep.

If the ravens succeeded in carrying out that order, there had to have been a significant body count. And then there was the brotherhood side. I didn't know them all personally, but I hated to think they'd lost more brothers that day.

Odds are, they did.

I'd accused Tobias when we met of being a petty thief who threw parties trying to downplay the extent of what I knew, all the while they kept me cornered, shielded, and safe from the ugly truth of the reality of what the war they waged entailed.

Dominic had admitted as much to me the night he died.

"You were amongst liars, thieves, and killers."

And as many times as I was told, I still had to see to believe. And that night, I became a believer in the worst imaginable way.

But I understood their logic. They never wanted me exposed to it, so they distracted me, kept me ignorant to it for as long as possible because they didn't want me to see them for who they really were—dangerous criminals whose bad deeds ran more along the lines of corporate theft, blackmail, racketeering, espionage, and if forced, retaliation that included bloodshed.

They were never cold-blooded killers, but they all had blood on their hands, and I share in that secret now.

Though I searched the web for endless days of any report on what happened in this house, I came up completely empty. Not a word was spoken, no reports on any media outlet, not even an obituary or service announcement for Dominic, which infuriated me.

I have no knowledge of what transpired after I left, but it was covered up in a way that is unfathomable to me.

For months I checked the papers, the web, searching for clues, arrests, anything pertaining to that night and drew a blank. I also checked Miami papers as well and got nothing. Not even in the nearby counties. It was eight months later that I finally stumbled upon an obituary for Delphine, who'd finally succumbed to her cancer.

And after that investigation, I checked out. I had no choice. My health and sanity were at risk by that point, and I had to give in and do their final bidding.

I had to try and move on, start to live some semblance of a life.

I'd spent months and months between grief and anger in the waking hours before I made a decision to try. I never returned Roman's inquisitive emails on my well-being or progress at school, avoiding him altogether until the day he died of colon cancer two years after I left.

Not once after had I tried to contact anyone in the brotherhood. I knew it would be pointless. Anger and resentment had helped me with that task.

I played along for the sake of self-preservation, despite my eyes being pried wide open by what went down here.

It was the decision of preservation that helped me forge ahead and finally yanked me from the spiral. But shortly after, the dreams took over, threatening to destroy every bit of progress I made.

I'm declaring a new war by coming here, and I need to be ready. It's not just my sleep I want back. I'm not certain of exactly what my motives are. But my dream last night set this into motion, so for now, I'm going with it, knowing the truth will never really set me free, but maybe it will close a few doors, and I'm hoping it's enough.

Shaking off the freezing rain and unease of being back at this house, I take a step in and close the door behind me as history threatens to come at me from all sides. I shiver in my jacket and rub my arms, making my way over to the thermostat and cranking it up. Peeking over the couch in the formal living room, I note the chessboard still intact sitting where it rests on the lip of the fireplace. Unbelievably, the pieces are set up from the last time Tobias and I played.

"Your move," he prompts after taking another of my pawns.

I sip my wine and gaze at him bathed in the amber light of the few candles I lit when I came downstairs after my shower. We'd shared an intimate smile when I'd spotted him from where he'd stood, uncorking a bottle of wine. After lathering myself up in juniper lotion, which I learned was his catnip, I'd chosen an off-the-shoulder, thin sweater, and nothing else. I don't own any lingerie, except for the nightgown he bought me that I decided to save for our last night together, which will be the night before I leave for school, which I refuse to think about. The clear approval of my choice shines in his eyes as he sweeps me appreciatively while passing me my wine before we take our seats. The board rests diagonally on the fireplace, where we sit across from the other, very little space between us. The game itself, I still find incredibly boring, but the beauty and mystery of the company I'm playing with make it more than bearable. And if I'm truthful, it makes for some intoxicating foreplay.

"Is there another game you would ever play?"

"Non."

"And you never watch TV aside from the news?"

"I do when I'm sick."

"How often do you get sick?"

"Once every three to five years."

I roll my eyes. "I don't suppose we'll be bonding over any sort of binge-watch then."

He glances over at me, the touch of vulnerability evident in his gaze. "Is that what we're supposed to be doing?"

His question is serious. As na?ve as it is for a man his age. Over the last week together, I've learned that much like his brothers, the man truly doesn't at all run in any circle, or include any norms of his life that would indicate standard "American" living. Though he went to school abroad, he was raised in the States for a long period of time, but it doesn't seem to have rubbed off on him in the McRib way, which is crazy ironic for a man with his finger on the pulse of current events. A man who is so in tune with the world yet so far removed from it in a personal sense. One, he's very much a hermit and a creature of habit. His OCD making his routines hard to deter from. Two, he lectured me endlessly when I told him I was craving said McRib. In fact, he went full-on French snob. I barely got away with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and now have to hide my junk food.

The man's indulgences include expensive coffee beans, his food must be nothing less than fine dining standards, and his wine choices—though delicious—are very, very, expensive. And every one of his suits is designer and tailored, that much I knew, but I have yet to see a repeat in the two months he's taken me hostage. While his tastes may be a little over the top, I don't at all fault him for spending his money on the finer things because he didn't grow up in a house like the one we're occupying. He grew up enduring a "wrong side of the tracks" type of lifestyle answering to an alcoholic aunt who considered cockroaches a part of the family while trying to play father to his little brother.

He hasn't lived a charmed life, and I'm happy that he gets to not only experience these things but demand them for his daily life. If he's selfish about anything, it's these little indulgences that bring him joy. He's complicated, yet simple. And he doesn't seem to require the stimulation of the average man. He seems to consider most things an experience, not music, but a single song, not food, but a feast, not wine but a tasting. And sex, that he takes even more seriously. For him, it's an art form, and one he's mastered beautifully.

"What?" he asks, flicking his gaze to mine while contemplating his first move.

"I don't hate you anymore." I don't miss the slight lift of his lips. "You smile, but I really did hate you, Tobias."

"I know." His smile only grows.

"You love my opposition."

"You're the only woman in the world who's good at making me really angry."

"I'll take that as my first compliment, and that's quite a lot of honesty there. Sir, are you drunk?"

His lips lift even higher. "Maybe a little."

I narrow my eyes. "I knew you polished that half a bottle off while I was in the shower. I hadn't imagined seeing it. Stingy."

"Sorry," he says unapologetically.

It's so insincere, I laugh. "Oh, I can tell just how sorry you are, thief."

He makes his first move.

"Nous entra?nons-nous ce soir?" Are we practicing tonight? I ask when I push a pawn into play.

"Peut-être." Maybe.

"Où vas-tu m'emmener?" Where will you take me? I ask, licking my lips clean and savoring every drop.

"J'étais en train de penser à te pencher sur ce canapé." I was thinking I would bend you over that couch. "But if you keep looking at me like that, we won't make it that far."

I roll my eyes. "Je voulais dire en France, pervers. Où m'emmènerais-tu en premier?" I meant in France, you pervert. Where would you take me first?

"Easy," he says, frowning at the board, "The Eiffel Tower."

"En fran?ais, s'il te pla?t." In French, please. "And that's the last thing I expected you to say."

"Why? Isn't that what all those traveling to France dream of seeing first? Who am I to deny you?" He reads my deflated posture. "You had something more personal in mind?"

"Your favorite places. And I wouldn't mind going down memory lane with you. Seeing where you went to school. Meeting some of your college friends."

"I don't have friends."

"Not one?"

He sits back against the fireplace. "I don't have the type of friends to look up and have drinks with when I'm there. Not in that way." There's a hint of melancholy in his voice, and I understand why it's there. He was far too busy playing grown-up to have a life of his own. Been there.

"So, you never kicked back, relaxed? Aside from banging lingerie models?"

"Non."

"Well, I'll be your friend," I say easily. "I'll be your best friend, but that requires far more effort. At some point, you're going to have to tell me where you live, let me snoop through your bedroom, and tell me about the first time you got your period."

This earns me a dead stare just before he takes another of my pieces. I scrunch my nose in frustration. "I'm never going to get good at this."

"Because you don't want to get good at it. I'm going to beat you again. But the good news is your French tongue is no longer complete shit. Though it could use some improvements."

"Oh, yeah? I'm pretty sure you love my tongue by the way you were sucking on it not too long ago."

Face inscrutable, he nods to me. "Your move."

"I'll let you win."

He lifts burning eyes to mine. "Why?"

"Because I want you to win, so our tongues can negotiate your last statement."

"There you go, mixing business and pleasure. You'll never learn."

I drain my glass and set it down before lifting on all fours.

He shakes his head. "We're still in a match."

"I just said, I'm letting you win."

"No," he says sharply. "And I'm going to win anyway. Get your ass back in your corner. I'm into this game."

"You win," I say, my thin sweater gaping in the front as I lean in, giving him a clear view of my bare breasts all the way down to my navel.

He doesn't spare my girls or me a glance as he focuses on the board.

"You're really going to play immune?" I rasp out, covering some of his upper half where he sits with one leg stretched out and one leg drawn up, his forearm resting on the fireplace his other on his knee.

"Now, that's a game you are horrible at." I can hear the amusement in his voice as I latch my lips to his neck and suck. "I can always tell when you're turned on."

"Oh, and you think you've mastered it?" I taunt.

"I know I have."

"I'm calling your bluff," I drape myself around him despite his rigid posture, sliding my fingers through his hair and raking my nails along his scalp before tugging lightly. He doesn't give me any leeway as he remains hunched over the board while I try my hand at seducing my king. I don't initiate often. I don't have to because the man is just as much of an addict as I am.

"So," I whisper, licking the shell of his ear. "If I were to pull your cock out of your pants, right now, and start sucking you the way you like it, right now, the way you want me to, right now, you wouldn't react?"

"Non."

I bite his earlobe, hard, and he doesn't even grimace.

I pull away frowning. "You're never going to let me win, are you?"

"Non." He turns to me, dipping his eyes briefly as if I'm a stranger on a park bench before turning back to the board. I drop my jaw, insulted, but don't make a sound. I don't miss the slight upturn of his lips just before I slide my hand down his chest and palm his crotch.

Bingo.

He's rock-hard. Immune, my ass.

"Well played, Tobias, but unfortunately, you've got a very big tell."

"That is unfortunate," he grumbles "and an unfair advantage."

In a flash, I'm pinned beneath him, a yelp escaping me as he leans in running his nose along mine before I look up at him through my lashes.

"But in the spirit of full disclosure, you should know that every time I look at you, Cecelia, I want your attention, your lips, your tongue, your body. You have infected me with your sickness, and now I'm an addict too."

"I knew it!"

He tugs my sweater down suckling my nipple, eliciting a moan from me. "And while I do appreciate your beautiful face and your pretty peach nipples, it's this," he presses his palm to my chest, "and the fact that you use it as your mouthpiece. That is what is most alluring to me. I've never met a woman so willing to brave her own destruction for just a little truth."

Fully drawn into him, he gazes down at me as I stroke his jaw. "But I will never let you win. Not ever, not once, not out of mercy or due to a cease-fire. Not ever. And I don't ever want you to let me win either."

"Why?"

"Because if and when you stop fighting me, that's when I'll know I've lost."

He kisses me and pulls away, his expression going grave. "And you will hate me again one day, maybe soon or maybe later in the future, but you will."

I frown. "You're so sure?"

"Yes, and only you will be able to tell me why."

"Tobias—"

"Come with me," he murmurs.

Staring at the chessboard from the foyer, I can clearly see the two of us and the way the rest of the night played out. A night I've replayed over and over in my head. Just after his confession, he'd stood and taken my hand and I'd silently followed him up the stairs and into my bedroom. That night, he'd taken me so fiercely, with so much intensity, I'd practically convulsed in ecstasy, my jaw shaking as I'd called out his name. It was the best sex of my life.

But it was both an apology and a preemptive strike. At least that's the way I see it now. And the fact that I see one of the most beautiful nights of my life as one of manipulation only fuels my contempt for him. But it was one of the many apology attempts he made before the bomb dropped, and he destroyed three relationships.

When I left, or was forced to leave—after the initial shock wore off—I began to experience the blinding pain of losing him and all I thought we had. Even so, I told myself I was leaving him, and I was. He deserved it. What he did was unforgivable. But somewhere deep down, I had hoped he would come for me. My twenty-year-old heart probably would have forgiven him. And the kicker is...if he had come back to me, I would have fought him, more furiously than I ever had.

It's funny in retrospect just how you figure things out. Especially when you fell for a criminally deceptive man.

And where would that twenty-year-old heart be now if he had come back, if it had forgiven him?

But it's my twenty-six-year-old heart who never got an explanation, nor an apology, and will never forgive him.

But like all things that happened, it didn't play out the way I wanted it to or expected. He never came after me because he had again banished me.

My eyes drift to the dining room where I shared uncomfortable dinners with Roman. Tobias wasn't the only man to break my heart in this house.

Why did you come back, Cecelia?

The more memories that surface, the more I'm beginning to realize just how asinine it was to forsake a life that was, for the most part, working for me.

Breaking it off with Collin was inevitable. But to re-live these memories, and purposefully?

It's already too painful, and I only got here an hour ago.

Exhausted already from a day of confrontation, I head to the wet bar next to the kitchen, shooting up a silent prayer, and it's answered when I find it well stocked.

I uncap one of the bottles and pull down a rocks glass. Tossing back the whiskey, I savor the taste, remembering the first time I drank it at Eddie's with Sean. That now seems like a lifetime ago.

But it wasn't, it was here, in this place. And some part of me knows they are too. They probably never left. Another lie they told, to keep me at bay.

At some point, I'll have to make my presence known if it isn't already.

But not today.

I glance around the kitchen and past the set of windows that give a clear view of the pool and loungers.

Memories again threaten just as the liquor begins lacing my veins. The house may be freezing, but my blood is warming. For the first time in years, I need to allow myself to indulge in my recollections instead of fighting them. I have to let my mind continue to drift during my waking hours if I want to see this through. With another sip of whiskey, I climb the stairs to my old bedroom, stopping short where Dominic's body lay the last time I saw him.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I've been in love."

The sight of the new carpet devastates me as much as the sight of Dominic's grave. He deserved so much more than a silent burial. Needing air, I walk across the room and open the French doors leading onto the balcony, remembering all too well that it was my escape route the morning I fled. Closing my eyes, I can picture Sean's grief-stricken face as he lowered me to Tyler while shots rang out around us.

If I hadn't been here, I would never believe any of it happened.

What the fuck were you thinking coming back, Cecelia?

The only conclusion I can draw is the same I did last night. I can't out-live these memories. Moving on hasn't happened in the six summers that have passed.

There's no help for this, no psychiatrist who can shrink this away without the full truth. There's no pill to prescribe to help me forget.

There's no priest I believe in enough to confess our collective sins to. There's only a God I have taken issue with, who I'm not sure has ever heard me, and might not consider me worth listening to.

It's always been up to me to sink or swim. And I've been in the deep end for years without an inch of cement to grab onto while the kick slowly drained from me.

I chug more of the bottle as the grey sky greets me and I take in the view in the distance, the cell tower blinking at me as if to say, "welcome home."