Stolen: Dante’s Vow

by Knight, Natasha

  Something’s different. I move toward her, peer closer. She’s cut her hair. It’s just at her shoulders now. I reach out to touch it, feel the soft waves fall through my fingers.

  She moves, mutters something, but stays asleep. The blanket shifts a little. She’s wearing one of my sweaters. It’s big on her and her shoulder is exposed. I touch the star-shaped birthmark. It’s smaller than it used to be. She’s grown into it.

  I push the hair back from her face.

  She’s a woman now. I don’t know what I thought when I started this quest. She was fifteen when we learned she was still alive. Still a girl. Now, although I sometimes see glimpses of that girl, looking at her like this, eyes closed, face soft, her lips full and slightly parted, what I see is the woman she’s become. This beautiful, broken creature. A stranger but not.

  And I find myself remembering how she felt beneath me.

  No, not a girl anymore.

  Her body, the softness, the curves, those of a woman. But still too young for the things she’s seen. For the things she’s experienced.

  I move closer and slip one arm around her shoulders, the other behind her knees. She smells like me. My shampoo. My soap. My aftershave.

  She startles, her eyes fluttering open, her back going stiff. One hand comes to my chest, and she pushes readying to fight, eyes suddenly wide with panic.

  “Waiting up for me?” I ask, and she realizes where she is.

  Her body relaxes. She blinks, shifts her gaze away. She’s stubborn. Good. It’s probably one of the things that’s kept her alive so long. Kept the fight from going out of her.

  I hold her tighter, carry her to my bed. The blanket drops to the floor. My sweater has ridden up, so I catch a glimpse of her panties. Just white cotton. Plain. But not. Not at all. Not on her.

  And why the fuck am I thinking this? Am I looking at her like this?

  When I meet her eyes, I find them on me. She saw me looking. I clear my throat and tug the blanket up to cover her.

  She takes it, adjusts it.

  “You smell like a bar,” she says.

  “Perceptive,” I tell her as I walk toward the bathroom. I need to piss. I see the hole on the door where the doorknob used to be. Fucking Matthaeus. He’s nothing if not thorough. “So, were you?” I call into the room.

  “Was I what?”

  “Waiting up for me.”

  “No,” she calls back, her tone defensive.

  “Little liar.” I chuckle.

  I lift the toilet seat and piss, flush, then wash my hands, unable to avoid looking at my face in the mirror as I do.

  Dante didn’t look like you.

  The shadow of my smile vanishes. No, he did not. But Dante, the boy is gone. Long gone. He was gone before Cristiano ever woke up. He died the day I walked into my house and found my family massacred. The only thing that saved me at all was finding Cristiano still breathing, still fighting for his life.

  I bend to splash water on my face not wanting to see this man’s face. A monster’s face. I’m not sure how she can stand to look at me. I switch off the bathroom light and stalk back across the room to find her sitting up watching me.

  “What?” I ask, moving toward the bed.

  “Are you drunk?”

  I slip the holster off my shoulder, keep the gun inside and set it on the makeshift nightstand.

  “Not drunk enough.” I am about to take off the patch. I do when I sleep. But I think better of it. I reach back to pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor. It stinks of this too-long day. I then undo my jeans.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, pulling the duvet closer.

  I pause, look at her. “Not playing twenty questions.” I push my jeans off. She gasps but I catch her looking before she makes a show of turning away.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t take the briefs off, and I won’t touch you.”

  She turns back to me as I pull the blanket up and get into the bed. “You’re sleeping here?”

  “It’s my bed.”

  She pushes the blanket away and swings one leg out, but I catch her wrist.

  “You’ll stay.”

  “I’ll sleep somewhere else, thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a question and I’m fucking tired so lie down and go to sleep and don’t make me fucking chase you around the apartment.”

  “Why?”

  I lie down on my back but keep her wrist in my hand. It’s tiny. I stare up at the ceiling “Because I didn’t child-proof it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I turn my head to look at her. “You cut your hair.”

  She reaches up with her free hand and touches it. I see her hesitate.

  “I like it,” I say. “Now lie down and go to sleep. You’re safe from me.”

  “What do you mean you didn’t child-proof it? I’m not a child.”

  I let my gaze drop to her chest where the too big sweater exposes skin, the soft swell of one breast. “No, you’re not. But after today’s escapades and until I can trust you, you’ll be supervised by myself or Matthaeus.”

  She seems to accept this and lies down. I still don’t let go of her wrist.

  “Why did you come for me?” she asks after so long I wonder if she hasn’t fallen asleep.

  “I told you that. You just don’t want to believe it.”

  “He’s going to kill you when he finds you.”

  I look over to find her staring up at the ceiling, her profile outlined by the cool light reflecting off the fallen snow.

  “Is that what you’re scared of?” I ask her. “Or just plain scared?”

  She doesn’t shift her gaze and doesn’t answer right away. I watch a tear slide down over her temple. “Both.”

  I already knew the answer, knew there could only be one answer, it does something to me. Twists something inside me.

  Over the last five years, I’ve felt hate mostly. Apart from those closest to me, I trust no one. I’ve come to expect the worst from people. But this, that nod, her lying beside me so small and scared, it fucking does something to me that somehow hurts more than any of the rest of it.

  I get up on one elbow and turn to her. “Hey.”

  Nothing. She still doesn’t look at me, but I can see she’s crying quiet tears.

  “I can tell you that you don’t have to be scared anymore but I don’t think that will make a difference.”

  She wipes the back of her hand over the tip of her nose.

  “I’m here now, Mara. And I may not be the boy you remember, but I am the man you’ll come to know. The man who will destroy your demons.”

  She turns her face a little, eyes wide and I see her wanting to believe.

  “I’m never going to let anyone hurt you again. Ever. I swear it on my life.”

  12

  Dante

  The night is short. She doesn’t sleep peacefully. Not for more than an hour at a time. I wonder if this is normal for her. If nightmares always plague her. Make her nights so restless.

  I woke her twice when it got bad. This last time she seemed to wake herself up. She went back to sleep easily enough only to be haunted by more demons. It’s only when the first light of the sun shines through the window that she finally falls quiet and by then, I can’t sleep. So, I make coffee and sit on the couch with Matthaeus, who is an insomniac worse than me, to video call Charlie. It’ll be early afternoon in Italy.

  He answers on the second ring, and I see he’s at his home office.

  “Glad to see you in one piece,” is his greeting.

  “You look like you’ve slept about as much as I did,” I reply.

  He turns to Matthaeus. “Matthaeus. Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”

  Matthaeus just nods once.

  “Petrov,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee.

  “Petrov,” Charlie says and the screen switches to a different view. The interior of one of David’s—now mine—penthouse properties in the city, the rooms torn apart, furniture shredded, ar
t broken to pieces, antique furniture destroyed.

  “The Wallingford property,” Charlie says.

  I smirk. “I guess I should send him a thank-you card. Saved me the trouble.”

  Charlie’s face is back on the screen. He is unamused. “I know you don’t care about the properties you inherited, and I understand why, but you could donate the furniture, give it to a charity. Make something good out of something bad.”

  “I don’t want to stain anyone else’s life with anything David touched. Is that what you’re so upset about? The broken crap? It’s just stuff.”

  “No, Dante. What I’m upset about is if he can find the penthouse, it’s only a matter of time until he finds the warehouse location.”

  “It’s buried deeper. You know that. And besides, I already told you. I’m not hiding. What aren’t you telling me?”

  He glances at Matthaeus for a moment, then the screen flips again, and I realize why he looks like he hasn’t slept. He hasn’t. I read the handwritten message on a torn off sheet of letterhead that once belonged to David.

  You sent a message. I’m sending one back.

  Return.

  My.

  Property.

  Red’s. Midnight. I’ll reserve the cellar for you.

  If you’re late, she gets hurt. You show up on time and only you’ll get hurt.

  You don’t come at all, and I have my friend pick up your nephew and take him out for an ice cream cone. I hear he has a sweet tooth.

  There’s a photo next to the note of Alessandro and Scarlett in a café somewhere. They’d have been guarded. There’s no way Cristiano would let them go anywhere without protection so the fact that he has this photo at all is alarming.

  “Does Cristiano know about this?”

  “Yes. He’s doubled the guard.”

  “Good.” I re-read the note.

  Red’s. A private club in downtown Manhattan owned by one of Petrov’s sons.

  Matthaeus opens his laptop and starts typing.

  “Do you have a contact inside?” I ask Charlie.

  He looks hesitant.

  “Neither Mara nor Scarlett not to mention Alessandro or anyone else is safe until he’s dead and you know it,” I add.

  “You can’t take her near that place. I’m sure he’ll pick you up before you get close to the club.”

  “I don’t plan on taking her. But I won’t be able to take a weapon in.”

  “No, you won’t.” The screen switches again to show a couple of shots of a large mostly empty room with a counter taking up one wall. There’s a large deep, dirty sink, tile floors, a drain in the center of the floor. Makes clean up easier. The wall behind the counter is tiled too and on the counter are various items which at quick glance may appear to be for use in a kitchen.

  But this isn’t the kitchen at Red’s.

  “The cellar,” Charlie says.

  I take in the single round table. It’s small. Two chairs set across from each other. Several more chairs along the wall. A set of handcuffs dangles off the rung of one of the chairs at the wall. Deep red stains the grain of the wooden back and seat.

  “If you walk in there, you may not walk out.”

  “You have a contact inside?” I ask again, still looking at the shot of the cellar. Memorizing my limited options.

  “Yes. But this is more than risky. They own the damn building.”

  “We got Scarlett out of that house and that was riskier. My men will be nearby.”

  “The cellar exit is sealed,” Matthaeus says, turning the laptop around to point out a photo of the exterior of the building. “Closest exit is the front door.”

  “You can’t be thinking to do this,” Charlie says.

  “What’s the alternative?” I ask him and he’s quiet. He knows there isn’t one. Petrov needs to die. Period.

  “What do you need inside?” he asks.

  “You can’t go to the cellar,” Mara says before I can answer. She’s standing barefoot on the edge of the living room, her hair like a white cloud around her, hands at her sides, eyes locked on me. “You won’t come out if you do.”

  13

  Mara

  Dante and Matthaeus both look up at me at the same time. I pull the sleeves of Dante’s sweater down and tuck my hands inside.

  “You should go back to bed,” Dante says, getting to his feet.

  “I mean it. I know what happens in the cellar.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been there. Once. Only for a few minutes.” That was enough.

  “Why were you there?”

  I shift my gaze to my bare feet. It’s why I’m cold. The floors are so cold here.

  “Mara?”

  I look back up at him. “There was a soldier once. Samuel. He was…nicer to me than he should have been, I guess.”

  Dante and Matthaeus are both watching, and I am aware of the man on the phone or computer that I can’t see.

  “He was my friend. Someone saw us holding hands once. It wasn’t anything, he was just...” I shake my head, force the tears back and swallow the lump in my throat. It’s a memory, that lump, with too much emotion balled up inside it. It’s one of the ones that makes it hard to breathe. “He was going to leave. He was going back home. But they didn’t let him go. Petrov had me tell him which hand he held mine with then made me watch when they sawed it off.” I will never forget that night. I look away. “Sometimes, I swear I can still hear that saw work through the bone over his screams.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Matthaeus mutters and I give a small shake of my head to clear it.

  “They took me out of there after that. I think they killed him then. I never saw him again. This was his,” I say, pulling the sleeve up and showing them a delicate gold bracelet. “He gave it to me and when Petrov found out, he decided to let me keep it. He wasn’t going to at first but then changed his mind. He said it was so I could remember our friendship. But really, it was so I remember what happens to my friends.”

  Dante’s jaw is locked so tight I wonder if his teeth will crack. He walks toward me, takes my hand, and pushes the sleeve farther. He touches the thin gold chain.

  “Take it off,” he says.

  I shake my head.

  He looks at me and I remember what he said last night. About the boy Dante being gone. This man now in his place. This man who would destroy my demons.

  “The bracelet makes me remember him. Not what they did to him. And I want to remember him.”

  He studies me for a long minute then finally nods. I wonder if he’s aware he’s still holding my hand.

  “Do you remember Charlie?”

  Matthaeus turns the phone around and I look at the face on the screen. The man is older than them, middle-aged, I guess. And he has a patch of gray in his hair. He’s smiling.

  “Hello, Mara. It’s good to see you.”

  I blink once, twice. Study the man, then shift my gaze up to Dante. I shake my head.

  “It’s okay,” he says, and Matthaeus gets up, taking the laptop and the phone into another room.

  “I’m hungry,” I tell Dante.

  He nods, leads me to the table where I sit down in the same chair as last night. I wince when I do and touch my hip.

  Dante doesn’t miss it. “Let me see it.”

  “It’s fine. I just have to be more careful.”

  “It’s not fine. It’s infected. If the ointment isn’t enough, we’ll need to get you something stronger.”

  “You really can’t go to the cellar,” I say, changing topic.

  “We’ll discuss the cellar after I get a look at the brand.”

  “There’s nothing to see.”

  “I’ll judge for myself.”

  “You’ll listen to me if I let you look?”

  “I’ll hear what you have to say.”

  I study him, not sure, but it’s something. So, I stand and lift the sweater enough to expose the side of my hip. I look away when he bends closer, holding my breath so as
not to gasp when he draws my panties down a little, enough to be able to peel the bandage away. I know it’s not meant in any way but to look at the damage, but I can’t help that flutter in my stomach.

  “Does this hurt?” he asks, pressing the skin around it.

  “A little.”

  “We’ll get you something stronger today.” He puts the bandage back on and adjusts my panties over it.

  I sit down more carefully and watch as he takes eggs out of the refrigerator and scrambles them along with several strips of bacon. My mouth waters at the smell and I watch him standing at the stove barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, doing this very domestic thing. I remember him last night when he stripped off his clothes. When he lay down beside me and it took all I had not to curl into him. To let him hold me. I have to be careful with him. Losing people hurts and I can’t let myself get to a place where it will hurt when I lose him. Because I will lose him. I know it.

  He plates the food and sets it in front of me, then opens a drawer to hand me a fork and knife.

  I start to eat as he pours coffee into a mug and sets it in front of me before refilling his own. I pour cream and three heaping teaspoons of sugar into it. Dante watches. I stir, then pick it up and drink a steaming sip, savoring the sweetness, this simple thing of eating breakfast. Of feeling hungry and wanting to eat.

  “It’s sound proofed, the cellar,” I tell him as he watches me. “Elegant people upstairs drinking fancy drinks while downstairs men have their hands sawn off before they’re killed.” I eat a strip of bacon wondering if he finds it strange that I can talk about this while casually eating. Because it is strange. It says something about me. Something a little terrifying.

  “Is that what the dreams are about?”

  I stop chewing, look up at him. I remember him waking me once or twice. I always wonder how loud I am. If I scream in real life when I scream in my nightmares.