Denial (Careless Whispers #1)

by Lisa Renee Jones

“Are you telling me that even if I remember who I am, I don’t exist?”

  Kayden holds up his hands. “Back up. We don’t know you were erased. We’re just talking through reasons you might think you have a passport but you don’t.”

  “And if we find out who you are,” Matteo adds, “I can re-create your identity.”

  I gape at him. “Re-create my identity? Forgive me if that isn’t comforting.”

  Kayden rotates the bar stool around, his hands coming down on my arms. “You aren’t a stack of documents. No one can erase who you are.”

  “They don’t have to. I did it for them. My fingerprints were my link to my past. My way of finding me.”

  “We both know you can find you, when you’re ready.”

  “I don’t have a switch the way you seem to think I do. I can’t just flip it. Why would someone wipe my identity?”

  “For all any of us know, you had your identity wiped.”

  My lips part in shock. “Why would I do that?” I ask, but even as the question leaves my mouth, I picture myself opening that box and revealing that gun.

  He pushes off the stool, his hands settling on his hips. “You were running when I found you,” he reminds me.

  “From the Italian mafia,” Matteo adds. “That’s a good reason to disappear.”

  “And you colored your hair,” Kayden says. “You knew you were on the run before you lost your memory.”

  Again, I see a flickering image of that box and that gun. “What now?” I ask, rotating to face the table again.

  “We keep working on my plan,” Kayden says, motioning to Matteo.

  Matteo responds by sliding the folder in my direction. “This is your new identity,” he announces. “It’s what Gallo will find when he pulls your fingerprints.”

  “New identity,” I repeat, tension stiffening my spine. “I don’t even know my real identity.”

  “That’s the point,” Kayden explains. “If you don’t have an identity, Gallo and Niccolo will keep focusing on you. We need you to become someone distinctive that shuts down all interest in you from all directions.”

  It makes sense. I don’t like it, but it makes sense. “Yes. Okay.”

  Kayden jumps on my acceptance, already moving ahead. “A few important details. Since you’re sure your name is Ella—”

  “It is Ella,” I say, jumping on his hint of doubt. “My name is Ella.”

  “Then we can be certain that anyone looking for you will be searching by the name Ella,” Matteo interjects.

  “So no more Ella,” I say, knowing there is no other way. Not with a mobster after me.

  “Yes and no,” Kayden confirms while Matteo announces, “Your new legal name is Rae Eleana Ward.”

  Kayden’s hand comes down on my shoulder, and I look up at him as he adds, “We went with Eleana so you could use Ella as a nickname. It’s a bit of a stretch to turn your middle name into a nickname, but it’s still doable.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, my throat thick with emotion, and I’m pretty sure I just lost all objectivity with this man, who seems to have understood my need even before I did.

  His eyes soften, and I watch what’s left of his anger evaporate. “The hospital staff said you need stability and the familiar. Right now, that’s me and your name.”

  My brow furrows. Is he trying to tell me I did know him before that alleyway?

  He squeezes my shoulder, drawing my gaze to his. “No,” he says softly, for my ears only, as if I’ve spoken my question. “That’s not what I’m saying, and right now”—he releases me and taps the folder—“everything you need to know about your new identity is inside this. Study it and know it before you let Gallo trap you, because if you make a mistake, he will catch you.”

  “And when he says everything,” Matteo interjects, “he means everything. I backtracked to make it look like you arrived here from the United States two weeks ago, including flight data. And since a passport allows you to be here for ninety days, no one will question you being here for quite some time.”

  “Does this mean I’ll have an actual passport?” I ask, wondering if I can travel to the States and put distance between me and Niccolo.

  “Not yet,” Kayden answers. “Gallo believes you were mugged and your identification stolen. Let him run your prints, figure out who you are, and then I’ll have to take you to the passport office to have identification issued.”

  “I have amnesia,” I point out. “Won’t he want me to contact my family?” And the word family punches me in the chest, making me wonder about my real one.

  “You have no family,” Matteo says, as if reading my mind. “I made sure of it. We don’t need anyone looking for your relatives to confirm who you are or aren’t and finding out they’re fake.”

  “I understand the premise of your strategy,” I say, “but that leaves me alone in a strange country and I can tell you right now, Gallo will use that as an excuse to stick around. He wants dirt on Kayden, and he’ll use me to get it.”

  Kayden responds unfazed. “I’ll make it clear to Gallo you’re with me. End of subject, and he can kiss my ass.”

  I don’t have time to process how I feel about the nonnegotiable tone of his statement before Matteo announces, “Picture time,” and starts snapping pictures on a camera he has produced from who knows where.

  Glowering at him, I hold up a hand. “Can you at least warn me or something?”

  “I did,” he says, glancing at his watch and back at me. “And I’ll make the shots I just took work. The passport system is about to do its weekly security update in an hour that, ironically, allows an easy breach. Within an hour you’ll be Rae Eleana Ward, and no one will be able to say different.”

  A knot forms in my throat. “I have a love/hate reaction to that news.”

  “Make it all about love, sweetheart,” Kayden encourages, “because no one is going to look for Rae Eleana Ward. And we’ve made sure the hospital and police report have different dates and don’t include my name. Once we’re done, you can hide in plain sight, and no one will connect the Jane Doe that was taken to the hospital to you. We’re completely disconnecting you from that identity.”

  “What about the hospital staff?”

  Kayden dismisses my concern. “You were registered under an alias. We’re covered.”

  My lips press together. “I’m still worried. What about the men who followed me? Won’t they keep asking around?”

  “I paid a security officer to let me know if anyone is asking around at the hospital,” Kayden replies, apparently having an answer to everything.

  “Those men that were following me will know what I look like,” I argue.

  “They’re dead,” Kayden announces, not bothering with a preamble.

  Stunned, I blanch. “What? How? When?”

  “The details don’t matter,” he states, his words as cold as ice. “They would have killed you if they got the chance.”

  I give him an incredulous look. “They were human beings that probably died because of me.”

  “That would infer Niccolo is a human being,” he replies, “and I assure you, he is not. Moving on. Your passport will have a picture. We’re going to hack in and replace it as soon as it goes live.”

  “That includes the police report as well,” Matteo interjects. “I’ve set up a notification ping. I’ll know the minute anything changes on the police report. Basically, then you’ll be a ghost.”

  Only there is no “then” about it. I was already a ghost before this, wiped from existence, with no connection to a past I fear I’ll never remember. No one who cares about me will ever be able to find me, and if they did, they might end up as dead as I fear I will be soon.

  nine

  My eyes meet Kayden’s and his gaze narrows, telling me he’s read my reaction to the word ghost even before he says, “This is a good thing. You know that, right?”

  I am suddenly angry at him, at me, at everything. “Like those men being dead?”

&n
bsp; He doesn’t react to my attack, his expression hard, his eyes sharp but unreadable. “Yes,” he says tightly. “Like those men being dead.”

  I open my mouth to ask if he killed them, but a flickering memory of me on my knees, staring at that gun, rushes through my mind and shuts me up. Suddenly needing out of this tiny space, I scoot off the bar stool, facing Matteo and in profile to Kayden, my hands flattening on my hips to hide the way they stupidly shake. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “There’s one off the living room,” Matteo offers.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, already moving to make my escape, but Kayden isn’t about to allow it.

  He shackles my arm, rotating me to face him, his touch a branding I both welcome and fear. Proof I need space to get my head on straight. “I didn’t do this to you,” he says, proving he’s read my anger, and the blame I didn’t even realize I was placing until this moment.

  “That’s not the answer I want,” I say, afraid he’s a killer. Afraid I am, too.

  “You didn’t ask a question.”

  “You know the question without me asking it.”

  “Did I kill those men?” he asks.

  “Yes. Did you kill those men?”

  “They attacked Adriel when he tried to leave the scene of your attack, and he made sure he was the last man standing. So no. I didn’t kill them, but I’m also not sorry they’re dead. They would have killed any of us in a heartbeat.”

  It’s as good of an answer as I could want, considering people are dead and I’m at the root of the reason. “Can I please go to the bathroom?”

  A muscle in his jaw tics, telling me he wants to push me toward acceptance, but he doesn’t. He releases me, and I don’t give him time to change his mind, darting for the door without daring to look behind me. Entering the living room, I make fast tracks toward the stairwell, intending to head to the bedroom, where I will be free to pace and perhaps indulge in pounding the mattress a few times. I’m already on the bottom step when I think better of being trapped in a room with a bed, with Kayden surely to follow me sooner rather than later.

  Detouring, I cross to the second stairwell and boldly climb to the next level of the house. Once I’m at the top, I am beyond pleased to discover a wall of windows, and a door leading to a covered outdoor space. Somehow, watching a storm while one rages inside me is positively perfect. I reach for the gray wood door handle and open it, cringing as a buzzer goes off, alerting Kayden that I’m not in the bathroom. I don’t turn back. I need every second I can get to be alone and think, without Kayden distracting me by being an overwhelming presence.

  I exit onto the concrete patio that extends the length of the narrow house, the cold, wet air rushing over me, the door slamming behind me. It’s shutting me outside, but then, I’m already outside every reality fathomable. Shivering, I fold my arms in front of me and walk to the waist-high concrete wall, rain and a grayish shadow draping a magnificent view of hills and rooftops. Knowing I have only a few minutes alone, I consider the situation. It seems evident that my issue is control, or rather lack thereof. I’m letting Kayden dictate everything that happens to me, and though I could give myself a pass while I was in so much pain that I was incapable of moving, I can’t anymore. It’s time to make decisions for myself, starting with what happens next.

  Behind me the door buzzes, and already the little bit of freedom I have is being taken away. I know now that he allowed my retreat to simply relocate our conversation to a place with privacy. I face him, and while adrenaline radiates through me, the control I so want radiates from him. “I wasn’t looking for a way to run, if that’s what you think,” I declare, backing up as he stalks toward me, tall and broad, his longish hair framing his handsome features set in hard lines.

  I hit the wall as he stops a breath away from touching me, and it terrifies me how much I want him to touch me, how much I want a hero, and anger surges in me at my weakness. “If you were afraid I was running again,” I lash out, “there was nowhere to go.”

  “Were you thinking about it?”

  “You didn’t give me time to think about anything.”

  “You didn’t say you needed to think. You said you wanted to talk to me. So let’s go inside where it’s warm and talk.”

  “I like the cold,” I declare, darting around him into the open space, and only when I have several safe steps between us do I turn to face him, as he does me.

  “You didn’t like it last night.”

  “I like it now,” I say. “I like it a lot. It’s real, when not much else is.”

  His eyes glint. “Why do I know that’s about me?”

  “It’s about everything, including you. It’s about you feeling familiar when you say you aren’t. And me believing I’m Ella, but I’m not in the passport system. Now I’m Rae Eleana. She’s not real, and yet she’s me.”

  “A name doesn’t define you. We talked about this.”

  “A name is a part of the identity I’ve lost. Someone just snapped their fingers and I was gone.” Laughter bubbles from my lips, bitter, almost hysterical. “It might have been me. How brutal is that, when I’d do anything to have me back right now? So you see, I need the cold. The rain. I need things that are definable. That are real.”

  His eyes flash, and before I even know he’s moved, I’m crushed against his chest, the fingers of one hand tangled in my hair, the other molding me to him. “How’s this for real?” he murmurs, his mouth claiming mine, his tongue sweeping past my teeth in a deep stroke I feel in every part of me. A moan escapes my lips, and I both hate him and crave him in this moment. He knows it, too, deepening the kiss, his tongue doing a slow, seductive dance against mine. I want to fight. I want to push him away, and the more I can’t, the angrier I become. He just keeps making me angry. Keeps caressing me with his seductive tongue, keeps making me want more. And when he does tear his mouth from mine, he softly declares, “That was real. I’m real. And you are not alone.”

  “Until I am again. Matteo just set you free.”

  He leans me against a beam, one hand pressed above my head, his leg nestled between mine. “And you think that means what?”

  “I … You’re out.”

  “I was in from the minute you opened your eyes and looked at me in that alleyway; I just didn’t know it yet. So if you think I’m done with you, sweetheart, you’re wrong. I’ve barely gotten started.”

  Suddenly he is my hero, and that means my instincts to trust him were right. It also means I have to trust my instincts about that box and that gun. “I need to go underground. If you can lend me money—”

  “No. You stay with me. I’ll protect you.”

  “And who’s going to protect you?”

  “Sweetheart, I have nine lives and I’ve only used four.” He links our fingers. “Come with me.” He starts to move.

  I dig in my heels. “No. No. Stop. Please.”

  He turns back into me, his hands rubbing my arms. “You’re shivering. Let’s go inside.”

  He’s right. I am. “Not because I’m cold. I can’t stay here. There are things—”

  “You can and you are. End of subject.”

  The command in his voice hits a nerve in some deep, dark part of me, and I do not like it. “Are you protecting me or keeping me prisoner?”

  His eyes narrow, yellow flecks of heat in their depths. “I’m not the man who hurt you. I’m the one who’s fucking keeping you alive, and I can’t do that if you aren’t with me.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “ ‘Please don’t be him,’ ” he says, quoting me again. “I understand fine. You can’t get past the fear that I’m him. I’m not him.”

  I grab handfuls of his shirt. “I know you’re not him,” I hiss. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you and you wouldn’t listen.” I drop his shirt and try to scoot away again.

  He’s still not having it, his hands bracing my hips, his legs shackling mine. “Who is he?” he says, his tone hard.

  “I
still don’t remember.”

  “Yet you suddenly know he’s not me.”

  “I never thought he was you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Adrenaline is buzzing through me at this point, and I don’t even try to contain my anger. “Bullshit yourself, Kayden. You still aren’t listening. You’re attacking. So hear this. I have to leave. In case you still don’t get it: I have to leave.”

  His fingers close around my wrists, grounding me in a way I don’t understand, his tone a soft caress that is still stronger than I feel, as he promises, “I’m listening now. Talk to me.”

  His voice is silk, his eyes warm, and the contrast in this gentleness and the wolf that would kill for me undoes me. My eyes and chest start to burn and I lower my head to his shoulder. He releases my hands, his settling on my hair. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

  “It’s bad,” I whisper.

  His hands come down on my head and he lifts it, forcing my eyes to his. “I’m no angel, just like I’m no hero.”

  “And yet you’re trying to save me.”

  “No ‘trying’ about it. I am going to save you.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “Tell me.”

  “I think I killed him. At the very least, I tried.”

  To his credit, he doesn’t so much as blink. “The man in your flashback?”

  “Yes. The man in my flashback. I had a gun, Kayden.”

  He takes my hand, his bigger one swallowing mine, and starts for the door, and this time I don’t try to stop him. My head is spinning, and not from the pain. Because somehow speaking my fears makes them more real. I might have killed someone and I can’t breathe with the idea. I try and I just can’t get air into my lungs, let alone process where Kayden is leading me. I blink and we are inside a small, round room wrapped in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and I don’t even remember how we got here.

  Kayden sits me in one of two gray leather chairs, kneeling in front of me. “Easy, sweetheart,” he says, his hands settling on my legs. “We’ll deal with this. Tell me what you know.”

  I finally draw in a deep breath and let it trickle from my lips. “I was in his room and I knew he was about to return. I was pacing and giving myself a pep talk that ended in me walking to a dresser and opening a drawer. Inside was a gun.”