23. Tristan

TWENTY-THREE

Tristan

I've been at the homeless shelter, one I've used in the past, for two days before it occurs to me that I have enough money for a hotel. I actually have a lot of money, at least by my standards, because Dante has been paying me. Paying me for sex.

Calling it an allowance doesn't change that fact.

And I told him that I loved him. It felt like the truth at the time, but now that I'm back in a familiar space, one that means failure, one that means alone , I'm not so sure. This is more what I am.

Maybe I'm hiding from those words as much as I'm hiding from Dante.

I realize that he'd just had a nightmare, one bad enough that it made him throw up. I'm not even upset about him pinning me against the wall in a completely not-sexy way. That's not what hurt. What hurt were his words. I don't want this. I don't want you. Get out, get the fuck away from me.

What hurts even more is that he hasn't tried to contact me.

I suppose I could have gone to the apartment he rented for me after all. Not that I would have. I need space. I need to be completely separate from anything that he's touched.

The trouble is, there's no part of me that he hasn't touched. But I need to forget those touches and think .

I get a bit of clarity standing in line for mac-n-cheese. I get a bit more sleeping on a cot in the old, converted gymnasium. And here's what I discover: I allowed myself to need him. That's not me. I don't need people. I don't beg people.

I know better than that because people can't be depended on. They don't care about you. They vanish. Or throw you out. And then you're alone again.

The weird thing is, it's not like I let myself believe that Dante was some kind of noble person, like in the fantasy novels I used to devour. I never thought he was some hero come to rescue me from my lonely little life. I just got swept up in his vortex, in his heat and intensity, in his raw, gritty realness.

And all of that was real.

The only problem was that I started to think I had a place in it.

But that's not the only problem, is it? There's also the fact that I have no idea where he goes on the nights when he's missing. That sort of got overwritten by my worry and my need, but it's rising to the surface now, that question.

What the hell does Dante really do?

My first suspicion was underground fighting, but he has bullet scars. There wouldn't be guns in those kinds of fights, would there?

There's also the question of his connection to Lorenzo Capelli. I don't think they're partners or friends or anything like that, but they're clearly in each other's business somehow.

Dante completely sidetracked me from my original goal: to find out what happened to my brother Evan. He was gone for sixteen years, presumed dead, before popping back into my life, dropping Capelli's name, promising all kinds of shit that wasn't going to happen, and vanishing again.

If he's dead, why? And where was he all that time?

I'm not sure how to get back onto that hunt for answers. I think I blew my chances at Lush. I missed work last night, and with Dante so tightly connected to Rafael—which is another what the fuck —I don't see that avenue being open.

I guess I could start stalking Capelli, but I prove to myself that Evan isn't my primary concern when I start stalking Dante instead.

For six hundred bucks, the Uber driver agrees to clock out and spend the night as my personal chauffeur. He also agrees to not ask any questions about why we're parked outside Dante's building until 2 a.m.

I'm just starting to think this is a waste of time when a motorcycle rolls out from the parking garage. I recognize the bike even though I've never seen Dante ride it. I recognize him even though he's wearing a helmet. I would never not know that body. The power. The sharp intensity.

I say to the Uber driver, "Follow the guy on the bike, but don't be obvious."

He makes some obnoxious quip about his stealthiness, but I'm busy watching Dante. I haven't seen him for two days. Even from this distance, even though all I can see is his motorcycle jacket and helmet, my heartrate speeds up.

My heart has been so dull and heavy for two days that it surprises me to feel that familiar quickening. It upsets me too. I thought I had talked myself out of wanting him.

We follow him to an old warehouse, staying well back. He parks his bike in the loading bay and goes inside.

The place looks abandoned. There are no other vehicles, no other people. This definitely isn't the site of some underground fighting ring. It's something else.

"Okay, thanks, this is it," I say as I open the door and get out.

"You want me to wait?"

"Nah. I'll take the train."

"Cool."

And he's gone. It's just me, standing on a sidewalk at 2 a.m. outside an old warehouse in a not-so-safe neighborhood. With Dante inside.

I get out of sight mostly because I'm worried about random people fucking with me, but it's a good thing I do because Dante comes back out sooner than I expect.

I freeze in the shadows as he walks to his motorcycle. I get one glimpse of his moonlit face, only enough to see how gorgeous he is, before he puts his helmet on. He's sexy as fuck when he swings a leg over and straddles the bike. It roars to life. He backs it out of the loading bay and goes coasting away.

I wait until he's long gone. Then I start hunting for an access point. It's something I'm good at. I've been stealing for most of my life. I've never been caught.

But I don't usually enter buildings. You can get trapped, and there are often cameras. This time, though, it's worth the risk.

It's the rooftop entrance that gets me in. It has a simple, manual lock that's very little trouble. I descend to the main floor and find it basically empty. The loft office that overlooks the vast space appears deserted as well.

A stairway leads down to a basement level, and there I find a steel door with a keypad. Shit.

The only code I know is the one to Dante's penthouse. I try it, not really expecting anything, but holy shit, the lock clicks.

I push the door open and enter some kind of weird … office? I don't know what to call it, really. There's a computer station with several monitors, way more elaborate than what Dante has at his penthouse or even his formal office. There are file folders stacked a foot high.

There's a mattress on the floor and shelves with spare clothes, food, and other essentials. There's a mini fridge, coffeepot, and electric burner.

Okay, so I guess that answers the question of where he sleeps when he doesn't sleep at home. But why here? This place is depressing. And kinda creepy. There's a barebones bathroom and another door.

The door is steel and has a heavy lock. A heavy lock on the outside . My heart gives a little skip at that realization.

I'm prepared for a cell of some kind and though I'm relieved it's empty, I'm freaked as fuck by the drain in the middle of the floor, the sharp scent of bleach, and the rack of tools. And they're not handyman tools. Well, some of them are. There's a hammer. A saw. A chisel. A blowtorch. But there's a shitload of knives and forceps and other creepy-as-fuck implements. And there's a chair. Complete with shackles.

I back out of the cell.

I should run. Of course I should fucking run. My heart is hammering. I'm dizzy. Saliva is pooling in my mouth and my stomach is churning. I close my eyes and try to think.

The desk.

The computer.

The files.

I'll get into the computer if I can, but I start with the files because they're accessible. I probably don't have much time. There are undoubtedly cameras in here. Dante likely already knows I've broken in.

I find a lot of photos and handwritten notes. The first ones I look at are about Lorenzo Capelli. Others are about people who work for him.

I keep going until one picture freezes me. It freezes my brain. It freezes my blood.

If Evan hadn't come to see me a few months ago, I wouldn't have paused long on this picture. I would've felt only a vague sense of horror at seeing a guy with a bullet hole in his head, his eyes open and empty. I wouldn't have recognized him as my brother.

I don't look at the rest of the pictures in the file. I can't. I fucking can't. I close it. I put it aside.

Numb but shaking, I move on to the next file. What I find there is even more horrifying. So horrifying that I can barely take it in. So horrifying that I forget to hurry and get out of here.

They're pictures of children.

They're all boys between maybe twelve and seventeen. Their eyes are empty. Some of their faces are bruised. With each boy, identified by name, there's a list. Some of what's on the lists are names. Some are physical descriptions. Tall, reeked of cologne, dark hair, mustache, liked to use the word "sweetheart."

What the fucking hell .

I find pictures of two dark-haired boys, each about fifteen or sixteen, that aren't identified. One, with gray eyes and a refined face, has a list. The other, with dark eyes and an equally beautiful face, doesn't. Both have that dead-eyed look.

"Please don't look at those."

I yelp and whip around, losing my hold of the pictures. They flutter to the ground.

Dante is standing in the doorway. In his black jeans and motorcycle jacket, he's as darkly sexy as ever, but now I know what a lie that is—because now I know what he is.

My heart is racing. I'm trapped in a creepy warehouse basement with a man who has proven many times that he can overpower me. A man who captures and tortures and murders people. A man with a whole stack of pictures of children . And one of my dead brother.

As Dante approaches, I skitter back, bumping into the edge of the desk, making the monitors wobble. Dante crouches and gathers up the pictures of the boys. The picture of the unidentified dark-eyed boy is on top. His hand hesitates as he reaches for it, then he grabs it quickly and puts it on the bottom of the stack.

As he straightens and returns the pictures to their folder, his movements are slow and careful, like he's trying not to startle me. He sets the file folder on the desk.

"Are you going to kill me?" I ask breathlessly. My body is humming with adrenaline.

"No," he says, sounding tired. He looks it too. The bruising on his face has faded a little, but there are dark circles under his eyes. Like he hasn't slept in the last two days.

He's not exactly blocking my exit, but he is standing between me and the door. He could grab me if I tried to run. He could put me in that cell.

He must see the thought in my eyes because he says, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Why not?"

"Because I—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard and looking almost panicked, like whatever he almost said is locked up inside him.

"You hurt other people," I say. There's a note of question in my voice, and I know it's pathetic, like I'm hoping this place isn't what it looks like. But it is, of course, and he confirms it.

"Yes."

"Why do you have all those pictures of kids? What the fuck is that?"

"It's … complicated."

Anger overrides my fear. Of course he won't fucking tell me. "What about that picture of my brother? Is that complicated too?"

"Your—what?"

"My brother! The picture of my brother!"

He looks genuinely confused. "What are you talking about? Which …?" He seems to realize that I'm not about to step closer to him, so he backs away. Dante backs away. I've never seen him back away before.

Maybe that's what gives me the guts to stride forward and open the folder I set aside. I pick up the photo of my brother with a bullet between his eyes.

"My brother ," I grit out.

"Evan … is your brother?"

"Don't you mean was ? And do you expect me to believe you didn't know? Same last name as me?"

"I never knew Evan's last name. I had no idea he was your brother. But that's … how can that be? That's too big of a coincidence. Wait—did you know? Before we … started?"

"I certainly didn't know that you killed my brother!"

" What? No. Tristan, no . I didn't kill Evan. I would never have—"

"You were obviously there when he died, so don't fucking tell me—"

"Lorenzo Capelli sent me that picture. He killed Evan. He'd hired Evan to kill me, but when Evan realized who I was, he refused to do it. I told him to get the fuck out of New York, out of the fucking country, but he said …"

"What?" I snap when Dante trails off, his gaze going internal.

"He said he had to get his brother. He meant you ."

It takes me aback. If Dante knows that, then he did talk to Evan. Of course, that doesn't prove that he didn't kill him.

Dante shakes his head like he's trying to clear it, but his eyes are still glazed with confusion as he asks, "But how did you end up at Lush?"

"I was looking for Evan, or at least trying to find out what had happened to him. My only lead was Capelli. Evan had mentioned him. I couldn't get close to Capelli, but I knew that he sometimes went to Lush, so I got a job there. I knew it was just the kind of place that rich, dirty-as-fuck assholes like him would go—why are you smiling?"

Dante's smile dies, but he still looks a little awestruck. "It's just … yeah. You're right. That's exactly what Lush is. A honeypot. That's why Rafael—never mind. So you were working at Lush to, what? Spy? On Rafael?"

"What the fuck does Rafael have to do with this? I was after Capelli . Then I saw him talking to you—"

"Oh, I see." Dante's lips curls back from his teeth. "And when I offered you the contract, you thought it was your lucky fucking day."

Dante's anger startles me. He's been reserved, almost subdued, since he first set foot in here. "That's why you were with me, isn't it?" he demands. "You were spying on me. Everything was just a goddamn lie."

Abruptly, my focus shifts as the agony of the past two days floods in, takes over. "What the fuck are you so indignant about? I'm just your whore, aren't I? Available to fuck until you change your mind?"

Dante recoils. "Tristan—"

"Then when you decide you don't want me there, I'm as disposable as anything else."

"Goddamn it, Tristan!"

He comes at me so fast that I only manage to scramble back and hit the wall before he reaches me. His hands slam onto the wall on either side of me. His face, lit with fury, is inches from my own.

"It wasn't like that!"

My throat constricts because I want to believe him. In spite of everything that happened, in spite of everything I've stumbled upon here, I want to believe him.

But I can't let myself forget: "You threw me out."

His anger dissolves into something I can't read, something complicated. "I couldn't … I wasn't safe to be around."

Those words make me acutely aware of where we are. His secret torture chamber. And yet, I find myself saying, "You said you didn't want this. Didn't want me . After I said …"

I can't finish the sentence, but I can see in his eyes that he's remembering the same thing I am: how I told him that I loved him.

"Fuck, Tristan, I wasn't … I don't even remember saying anything like that. I wasn't thinking straight. Tristan, I …" For half a second, I think he's going to say I love you , but he doesn't. Thank god he doesn't. But he does say, "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry."

I can't accept that. I can't tolerate it. Not here. Not now. He has a folder stuffed with pictures of kids . He has a picture of Evan, and I don't know if I can believe him that he didn't put that bullet in Evan's head.

I say, "You asked me if everything was a lie, and, no, it wasn't—but I fucking wish it had been. I wish I could say that Evan was the reason I signed your contract. I wish I could say that I was never attracted to you, that I never wanted you, that I didn't love every fucking second that I had with you. And you know why? Because then maybe I wouldn't feel so fucking sick to my stomach at the memory."

Dante's eyes are darting back and forth over my face. His breathing is short and sharp, his chest heaving. He's panicking. "Tristan—"

"Get the fuck away from me, you sick fuck."

He doesn't. He just lets out a sound like I punched him in the chest. I don't know if anything will make him let me go. He's a murderer—no, he's worse than that. He's the worst kind of predator.

But there's one last thing I can try, and even if it doesn't work, I need to say it. I need it to have left my tongue. So I look him dead in the eye and say, " Red ."

Dante's face drains of color. He looks absolutely gutted. He looks like he can't breathe.

But he steps back.

I bolt for the door. I half expect him to chase me, but there's no thud of footsteps, no shout. There's nothing to stop me from racing out of the warehouse and running away as fast as I can.

I don't know how far I've run before I realize there's a car behind me. My first thought is Dante, but he was on his motorcycle. There was no car at the warehouse.

Maybe I'm paranoid. I turn down another street to see if the car follows. Shit!

I dart into an alley. Tires screech. A car door opens. Footsteps hammer the pavement behind me.

A chain link fence cuts off my escape. I throw myself at it. I'm halfway up when hands grab me. I shout and kick, landing a blow to someone's face. But it doesn't stop the hands from grabbing me again. I'm yanked off the fence and thrown to the concrete.

The last thing I see is Dominic Capelli snarling in my face before he punches me and the world goes black.