I step down, my insides still quivering from being onstage, and the crowd sweeps me up.
It’s gorgeous, transcendent. Who was your model? Do you take commissions? What’s your availability?
Honor manages to squeeze in beside me and encircles me in a hug. “You were wonderful up there,” she whispers.
“Thank you,” I say, eyes wet with tears.
She hands me back my silver clutch before people press their way between us again. I knew that I might get a commission or two out of this event, but I’m unprepared for the deluge of interest. I answer the questions as best I can, feeling overwhelmed.
I didn’t use a model for this piece. I’m not sure what my availability will be. No, I don’t have a website. No agent either.
It feels like I’ve been fielding questions for hours even though it’s probably just been twenty minutes. I’m out of breath and flushed.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to an older woman dripping in diamonds.
Without waiting for her response, I stumble away, ignoring the calls and the hands that reach for me. Is this how my sister felt when she danced onstage? Except worse because she was naked—and the men thought they had a right to her body.
I stumble across the courtyard, over the threshold of wide double doors, across velvety carpet. The first private places I see are the small vestibules that used to be VIP rooms. They’ve been converted into ticket booths, but they’re not operational right now because this is a closed, invite-only grand opening event.
Leaning back against the door of one, I close my eyes and breathe deep—trying not to think about all the things that have happened in these four-by-four feet of space: favors paid for, things taken without permission.
Once my breathing evens out, I reach into my clutch and pull out my phone. It’s blinking with notifications, which isn’t surprising. A bunch of my classmates are on Instagram with me…and now that I think about it, I guess I could have given this URL to the people asking about my website. Then I remember the goofy picture Amy and I took with the shot glasses shaped like high-heeled shoes. It’s probably best I didn’t tell them about my account.
There’s also a text message from Amy.
Hey—this is going to sound weird. You know the guy you always sketch? I think I saw him.
My heart immediately races faster than it did onstage. The shadowy shape of him that night in the alley. The missing orange pieces. I tell myself I’m imagining things, but it doesn’t help.
With trembling fingers I type,
That’s not possible.
After a minute my phone rings. “Hello,” I breathe. “What happened? Where did you see him?”
“It’s probably nothing,” she says, but her voice sounds strange, like she’s just seen a ghost. “I left my makeup bag at your place, and I have a date with Mr. Bouncer tonight, so I went back to get it. I used my key and went straight to the bathroom. I was just packing up the eyeshadow when I heard this sound in the apartment.”
“Oh my God.”
“I went out and I didn’t see anything, so—I don’t know why, but I walked over to the window and looked down. There was someone at the bottom. I just saw a flash of his face with the streetlamp. Then he was gone. It freaked me out, that’s all.”
“Of course it did. That’s scary.” The neighborhood isn’t exactly the safest. Not as dangerous as where I am now, though. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. I peeked out at the street before I left, and waited until the Uber pulled up before I stepped outside. But I didn’t see anyone. Just some students walking around.”
“I’m sorry it scared you, but I bet Lupo got spooked and that got your attention. Then you saw some random guy—”
“But he looked like
him
, Clara. I must have seen a hundred sketches of him by now.”
Something that feels uncomfortably like hope shifts in my chest. I push it down. “I wish you were right, but it’s just not possible. He’s…” I’ve never told her who Giovanni was to me—or what happened to him. “He’s dead.”
“Oh,” she says, voice quiet. “I’m sorry.”
“Look, don’t worry about it. Go out with Mr. Bouncer—who has a name, I presume?”
“Probably.”
I snort. “Well, have fun with him and his muscles. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
When I hang up, I have a smile on my face. It fades as I remember what she said.
He looked like
him,
Clara.
She really has seen a lot of sketches of him. But there are bound to be men who look like him. Dopplegängers. And she saw him in the dark, from one story up. There’s no way it’s him.
I know this, and yet somehow my fingers are pulling up the Uber app and ordering a car. Then I’m slipping through the crowd, avoiding my sister so she doesn’t see me leave.
I’m breathless by the time I reach my building’s door and run up the stairs. I throw the door open, but my loft is empty. Of course it is. The window reveals an empty fire escape and an empty sidewalk below.
Disappointment burns in my gut.
I curl my fingers under the wood frame, painted over with swirls of blue, and lift the window.
“Lupo,” I call, my voice hushed. The word bounces off the brick walls and echoes back. With a sigh I put out a bowl of dog food in case he comes back later.
Then I shut the window. At least he’ll be able to relax better with me gone.
Exhaustion drags at my limbs, the euphoria of the night collapsing into grief. Giovanni is gone. I need to accept that. Sometimes I feel like my life depends on it.
My gaze drifts over to the bare nightstand surface. No oranges. I must have gotten up during the night and eaten them. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only thing left is a full glass of water.
I take a sip, and the liquid feels so refreshing, so calming, that I take another sip. And another.
Soon the glass is half-full. Sleep drags my eyelids down. This is crazy. I’m still dressed in a silver sheathe, still holding my clutch in my hand, makeup on my face and high heels on my feet. I’m not ready for bed at all, but I feel like I’m a breath away from sleep.
The night must have taken more out of me than I thought. I guess it’s not that strange for me to be sleepy—I woke up early and then had to deal with Shane. Then there was the unveiling and the impossible hope of seeing Giovanni. Maybe I can take a little nap.
I drink the rest of the glass of water and barely set it down before my hand slips. My eyes are already closed by the time I curl up against the pillow, on top of the blanket.
A little nap.
So strange, though, how quickly I fell asleep. Completely dressed. All of a sudden.
Only as sleep claims me do I remember that the glass was half-full last night. And I didn’t refill it today. Someone else did, my mind sleepily fills in. But I’m too tired to care. Sleep pulls me under.
S
omething moves me
gently, constant and rhythmic like waves. I’m warm. There’s something soft curling around my arms, wrapped inside my fists. Padding beneath my cheek that smells like home.
An unnatural darkness weighs down on me, keeping me from waking up—a demon’s whisper in my ear.
You’re warm, you’re safe. Sleep.
But something is wrong.
I remember falling asleep, so suddenly, remember drinking water that I hadn’t filled. And I remember the phone call from Amy telling me that Giovanni’s alive. Impossible.
Awareness pricks my skin like a cold breeze. Wherever I am, I’m not alone.
I blink rapidly, forcing my eyes open. They adjust to the darkness quickly, taking in the tinted windows on either side and the wide leather bench curving beneath me. I’m in a car. A limo, to be exact. And it’s moving.
On the opposite side of the long space, a large body reclines. I can see the wide stance of his legs, the pale white of his shirt. A suit jacket tossed beside his hip. His face is hidden in the shadows of the vehicle.
I was raised by the head of the Las Vegas mafia, the capo. I grew up around guns and violence, so I know when a man is armed. It’s the way he holds himself, the warning shimmering around him like a dark halo.
This man is armed and extremely dangerous.
Every muscle in my body tenses. My mind still swims in thick water, because I must have been drugged.
He
drugged me, this faceless man. Why did he take me? It won’t be anything good, that’s for sure.
Even worse, I suspect this has something to do with my past, with my family. It’s messed up that I’d rather be taken by some random psycho. But at least then I’d have a chance of getting away.
“Who are you?” I demand, my voice hoarse from whatever drugs they gave me.
There’s a long pause, the weight of his regard as heavy as a finger trailing down my neck.
“Have I really changed that much, bella, that you don’t recognize me?”
The deep timbre runs over my skin, filling the hollows that have been there for years. Years when I believed he was dead, that he had been killed protecting me. Except he’s here.
“How?” I manage, unable to take in any oxygen. The car might as well be a black hole. There’s no air here, no light. It’s crushing me.
“The water. It had a sleeping pill. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.”
I blink at him, fully awake now. And shocked. Shocked that he would think I was asking about the water, about the damn drugs, when he’s
alive.
After all these years, alive.
It’s not enough to hear him. I can’t believe my ears. I have to see him. I have to feel him. I’m across the floor of the limo before my limbs have even registered the movement, my hands reaching for him before I can think twice. I’m on my knees in front of him, because somehow sitting on the seat beside him feels presumptuous—but I don’t mind. I look like a supplicant. I feel like one. He’s some kind of altar, and I’m praying that he’s real.
The hard calves beneath my palms feel real enough. Warm. Strong. Muscles flex where my fingers stroke. I can’t identify him through legs alone. I didn’t even touch Giovanni here before, never had the courage for that.
I’m braver now—and more desperate to know the truth. I slide my palms up his thighs. A slight hitch in his breathing tells me I’m not the only one affected. My hands fall to his hands where they rest on the smooth leather. There’s ink there, black and harsh, that wasn’t there before.
I run my fingertips over the fine linen of his shirt on either side, up to the open collar, a shadowed V above the white fabric. Coarse hair and rough skin. Rigid bones and tender flesh. The bristle of a jaw that hasn’t seen a razor in more than a day.
It could be anyone, I tell myself. Any tall, muscled man in a finely tailored suit.
Except I wouldn’t touch any man like this.
I have to lean forward to reach more of him, my hips slipping between his legs. It’s an intimate position. Too intimate for strangers. The pads of my fingers brush over his lips, his breath warming me.
I’ve stared at these lips for enough hours to know the exact place they dip in the middle, the smooth expanse of them at the edge. The rough hair is new, as is the scar bisecting his top lip. I run my fingers over that place, back and forth, as if I can somehow smooth it out, wish away the hurt.
His nose is the same proud shape—a Costas nose, passed down from father to son, inevitably broken more than once by a life of violence. I try to smooth that away too, clay beneath my hands.
He isn’t clay, though. He’s living, breathing, and letting me explore.
His eyes fall closed when I reach them, eyelashes tickling my fingertips. My hands are trembling now, shaking as I trace the curve of his lashes, then higher, his brows. There’s another scar here, something jagged and hard that just missed his eye. So much pain.
It’s his hair that breaks me, the way one lock falls over his face no matter how much he pushes it back. My heart clenches. I finger the silky-smooth strands, wondering how something so soft can exist on a man so hardened.
“How is this possible?” I breathe. “How are you alive?”
“The same way you are, I imagine. I survived.”
It wasn’t the same, because I had my sister to protect me. He had no one. A sob escapes me. “Gio, let me see you.”
I pull his neck to bring him forward, out of the shadows, but I might as well pry the seats away from the car. I can’t move him at all if he doesn’t want to go. “Let me see you,” I beg softly.
A slight shake of his head. “Soon enough, bella. I want to look at you like this.”
He must have looked at me plenty while I slept on the opposite bench. And it occurs to me he’s been watching me for some time—in my loft and outside the club. He was the one who took those orange slices. He’s the one who hit Shane.
“Like what?” I ask, almost a whisper.
“With that hope in your eyes, like you know me.”
“I do know you, Gio.” Sometimes I felt like he was the only person in the whole world I really knew. Not my father and definitely not my mother. Even my sister had an otherworldly grace, a fairy watching over me more than flesh and blood. But Giovanni held my hand, whispered confessions in the dark. He was my first kiss.
He shakes his head slowly. “You don’t know who I am now.”
The gravity in his voice gives me pause. I was overcome by the realization that he’s alive, the pure joy of it. Part of me understood what he’s done, what it means. If he grew up in that world, he’s become what he was meant to be—a foot soldier for the mafia. I don’t know who took over for my father, but they would have a vested interest in taking me. For leverage? A blood debt? Whatever it is will be violent and awful, and Giovanni is helping him do it.
Maybe I should condemn him for that. The severe expression on his face tells me he expects that. Except I know the penalty for disobeying an order. Death. And not a quick one. How can I blame him for surviving? I can’t, I won’t, not when I’m overjoyed to see it. Whatever he’s had to do to survive, whatever he’s endured, I’m grateful because it means he’s alive.
“We don’t have to talk about that now,” I say, and I mean it. There will be plenty of time later for fear, for bloodshed. Plenty of time to find out who’s orchestrating this. “Tell me how you are. Tell me how you survived. God, Giovanni, tell me the weather report if you want. I just have to hear your voice.”