Their Mountain Captive by Kayla Wren

6

Angelo

My brother always had the same weakness: impulse control. He’s hot-headed, a Marino through and through, even when he runs off to play hideaway in the mountains. Dante could make the perfect plan, make it watertight, then ruin it at the last second with a tiny impulse.

For example: Dante would disappear. Have a charred body falsely matched with his dental records. Let our family mourn, weeping over the closed casket at his funeral.

Then he’d start a new life. Some ridiculous peasant existence in the mountains, and he’d hate his new trappings, and his impulses would win out.

Like impulses to trade art online. To keep a fingertip in the world he supposedly left.

I sigh, shaking my head, and hop down off my rocky ledge. A backpack slumps upside down in the dirt, but I’m not interested in some wayward hiker. After almost two years, I’ve found my big brother.

Nothing else matters.

He’s not alone. That was the first thing I noticed today, when I picked my way through the trees in the dying light. I traced him all the way from the east coast to this godforsaken cabin, and when I get there, he has company.

The least Dante could do is be lonely. Soul-shakingly lonely, like I’ve been.

It’s fine. He’ll pay for every insult, every day he let me think he was dead.

There is at least one person, possibly two. The curtains are drawn, and I can’t be sure.

They will pay too.

For stealing my brother. For taking my family, and keeping him here, away from me. For being his first fucking choice, it’s insult after insult, and I’m breathing hard through my nose. So loud I’ll freak out the wildlife.

So—okay. I suck in a long, slow breath and hold it for the count of five. And when I gust it out again, my head is clear, my heartbeat slowing to a dull tick. I pick my way back down the path, back towards the cabin that is already fixed in my mind.

I won’t go charging in, gun drawn. It’s not my style. And I’d hate to disappoint Dante after all this time. No—there are ways we do things. The Marinos are creatures of tradition, and I honor mine, pulling the small black business card from my jacket pocket. It looks out of place against my outdoorsman’s outfit—all rough, sturdy materials and warm layers.

God, how does Dante stand it? The chafing alone must drive him insane.

“Hello, big brother,” I murmur, my steps silent on the deck. I go right to the door and place it on the floorboards—I want him to know how close I’ve been. Then I pause, straining for voices, but all I hear is the crackle of a fire and the tap of keys.

More art trading, perhaps. Oh, Dante.

He can tell me all about it soon.