25. Tristan

TWENTY-FIVE

Tristan

The first thing I register is that I'm tied to a chair. I have an initial, hazy thought about Dante. This isn't the first time he's done something like this, and before everything comes back to me, my body prickles with anticipation of what he's planning. But my head hurts, and Dante has never actually hurt me before.

That realization stays with me as I blink the room into focus. I'm in some kind of formal dining room. What the fuck?

It comes back to me. Running from Dante, then running from Dominic.

I look down at my wrists. They're zip tied to the chair arms. I try to move my feet, but my ankles are bound to the chair legs.

"You're the brother," remarks a smooth voice.

My head whips up, making the room spin. Lorenzo Capelli pulls out a chair and takes a seat at the head of the table. I'm at the opposite end, staring down the stretch of glossy dark wood at the man who killed my brother. At least, that's what Dante claimed. I didn't quite believe him, even though it was my original suspicion.

I ask, dreading the answer, dreading that I was wrong to doubt Dante, "Did you kill Evan?"

Capelli shrugs. "He had it coming. I hired him to put a bullet in Dante's head. Not only did he not do that, he came after me. So he got the bullet in the head. That's how it works, kid."

"You fucking—"

"Let's stay civilized, hmm? We have some time to kill before your faggot boyfriend arrives. It really does shock me that two years of getting fucked by dirty old men didn't cure him. But I guess some faggots can't be fixed."

In the doorway, a dark figure shifts, but I only have attention for Capelli. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He smiles. Smug. Evil. "Oh, he didn't tell you? I guess Evan probably didn't either. But I'm not the one who sold Evan to the Society. I don't know who did that. But I did sell Dante."

I'm so numb with horror that I can't process what he's saying. Part of me knows what he means—the truth is in the awful churning in my gut—but my brain can't compute it.

The dark figure shifts again in the doorway. In a sort of haze, I look past Lorenzo to Dominic. His jaw is bunching. Hatred is burning in his eyes. He's staring at the back of his father's head.

His audible breathing makes his father look back at him, and Dominic's face instantly goes blank. His eyes empty. He leaves.

There are so many questions I should ask, but everything I grasp at slips away. I manage weakly, "What do you want?"

"It's more of a need. I need Dante put down. He's caused me far too much trouble and far too much money. But as you may have noticed, he's dangerous. He has few weaknesses, not even his parents, it seems. You, however, are a weakness for him. A vulnerability. Leverage, if you will. For you, he'll come to me."

No. He won't. Not after what I said to him. Not after what I called him. Not after I used the safe word.

It's ironic how that word was meant to protect me, to give me the ultimate power, but using it had the opposite effect. It severed me from the one person who could have, probably would have, protected me.

And the worst part is … I was never in danger from Dante. Clearly, other people are, given the murder cell in that warehouse basement, but I never was. He let me go. Because I told him to.

So, no, he's not coming for me. Why would he?

And if Dante was telling the truth about Evan, what does that mean about the rest of it?

And what did Capelli mean about selling Dante? Or someone selling Evan? To—what did he call it? The Society?

And Capelli said …

Two years of …

Understanding is still only an awful churning inside me when Dominic returns and whispers something in his father's ear. Capelli frowns. He's halfway out of his chair when the bay window alongside the dining table shatters.

Several men burst through with the spray of glass.

As gunfire erupts, I throw myself to the side, toppling the chair. The solid wood doesn't break. I'm stuck. From under the table, I see more boots pounding into the room. I hear shouts, a few screams.

Another set of boots thuds across the hardwood floor behind me. Whoever it is fires several shots then leaps over my fallen chair to tackle someone and wrestle them down. The fight is all punching and twisting, so fucking fast and vicious that it takes me a second to realize that one of the men, the one who hurtled over my chair, is Dante.

My heart leaps when a knife flashes toward his throat. He twists, but I can't see what happens before a shot fires and they both go still.

"Dante!"

He shoves the other guy away. His eyes jump to me then around. Shots are still firing all over the place. Dante crawls my way, keeping his head down. I can see blood on his throat, but I can't tell how bad it is. A knife appears in his hand. He cuts the zip ties binding me to the chair.

He's silent, focused, and cold as he hauls me out of the chair. I'm scrambling, trying not to be dead weight. He half drags me from the dining room through a doorway into a large kitchen.

Dante has one arm hooked around my torso. He stays in a crouched position, holding me tightly in the crook of his body. I don't know who's shaking, me or him. Both of us maybe. His face is pressed into the side of my neck. His breathing is short and sharp.

Someone says, "Dante, give him to me."

"No," Dante says, pressing harder into my neck. I realize that my hand is clamped on his thigh.

"Yes, Dante, now . Go help Rafael before he gets himself killed, or you will never forgive yourself. Tristan, tell him to let you go."

I peer around Dante at a man I've never seen. But I do know his voice. I called him once, in the middle of the night, for help.

Noah.

He looks like he's in his fifties, a little haggard but fit. He's wearing black, like Dante. He has a gun. Like Dante.

He says, "Tristan, tell him to let go."

My brain isn't processing enough to put anything together, to see Dante or myself in any kind of context. All I know is that I don't want Dante to let me go—but that he needs to. Because Noah said so. Because shit's happening.

I force myself to unclamp my hand from Dante's thigh. "Let go," I tell him as I pull away.

He lets out a broken, tortured sound but releases me. Noah grabs my wrist and pulls me toward him. Dante glares at Noah.

"If anything happens to him—"

"You know I won't let anything happen to him. Go help Rafael."