Their Mountain Captive by Kayla Wren
15
Angelo
The Dante I knew was a fighter, not a lover. When we were teenagers, growing up together under the cold gaze of our father, Dante would take girls on dates, wine them and dine them, but barely acknowledge them the next time he saw them. It used to drive me fucking insane—they all liked him so much. He was so handsome, so slick, so sharp. And he brushed them all off like lint from his sleeve.
He doesn’t brush this one off so casually. When he turns away and leaves her there in the Mountain Rescue, his face is bleak.
I step back from the roof edge. It’s so easy to hide around here. The mountains loom up on all sides, and they make all the people feel so small, so insignificant, that they forget to look up. The match hisses as it strikes, glowing orange as I cup it in my palm. Lighting my cigarette out of the breeze.
It’s for Dante. He hates the smell of cigarettes. It reminds him of our father. And I want him to remember it all, every fucking detail about the place he left me. Alone. A young man grieving his big brother.
I shake out the match. Take a deep drag, then puff out a cloud of smoke, watching it melt away with the breeze.
I could follow them. Or stay here with her. Either choice is a gamble. Either way, there’s a risk of miscalculation.
He looked wrecked to leave her. But would he come back? Would he put his life on the line for this injured hiker—would he stay for her when he didn’t for me?
I have to know. The decision is already made.
I draw my phone from my pocket slowly. If I’d planned this better, if I’d been more of a morning person, I’d have made sure I could watch him while I make this call. I want to read the emotions splashed over his handsome face, but instead I’ll have to make do with interpreting his tone.
The phone rings twice. Then the line clicks open, but he doesn’t speak.
He knows it’s me. Only one person should have his number, and it’s the neighbor with the truck. That was another miscalculation—assuming Dante was alone out here. But when the fuck did he get a chance to make friends?
“Hello, big brother.” I’m the first to break. It’s so typical—Dante waiting me out with his cold silence. Me crumbling and showing my hand. But there’s a point to this phone call; it’s not just a pissing match. “Did you miss me?”
He doesn’t answer. God, why doesn’t he answer? It’s a simple fucking question. I pinch the bridge of my nose, breathing hard. The roof seems to rock beneath my feet, the sky spinning above as my head swims.
Did he miss me?
Fuck. He’s not even going to say.
“Where are you?” Dante asks quietly. He doesn’t try to bluff me. Doesn’t act like they’re states away, living it up. That’s something, at least. A little respect.
“Never took you for the romantic type. Remember those girls you used to date? You left a trail of broken hearts all the way through the family territory.”
Dante says nothing, but he’s breathing hard. It’s sloppy, this reaction. He might as well howl at the sky.
“This one is different,” I surmise. “Or you are.”
“Angelo,” he grinds out. “If you touch her, I will drag you to hell myself.”
I believe him. He’s a Marino, after all. We were born with the taste of blood on our tongues. But whatever Dante thinks, I have no interest in his cast-offs. If he truly wanted her, he’d have kept her around.
“Meet me. The town square in ten minutes—I know you’re near. We’re going to take a little drive back up the mountain, brother. I want to see where you’ve been living all this time.”
I’ve already seen it, obviously. But I didn’t get a chance to go inside. I want him to see me inside his space; want to go through his belongings and sniff the air.
There’s a long silence. I grind my teeth. “If you won’t show me your cabin, she will.”
“I’ll be there,” he snaps. And, faintly, a voice says: “We’ll be there.”
So much loyalty. I drop my cigarette and crush it beneath my heel.
He doesn’t deserve it. Dante doesn’t deserve any of this shit—not the girl, nor the friend, nor the quaint fucking cabin.
God, I hate mornings.