Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Dante
Jericho St. James is visibly put out when he walks into the living room of the penthouse suite. His hair is ruffled like he’s been running his hands through it, and he’s dressed more casually than I’ve seen him before. He’s in jeans and a white button down, the sleeves of which are rolled up to his forearm exposing a full sleeve dragon tattoo on one arm and the tail of a twin dragon creeping out from under the sleeve of the other. Along with his watch I notice a bracelet of worn wooden beads. Prayer beads. The tattoos fit. So does the watch. But that bracelet? Not so much. It’s not his. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.
“Have you come to thank me in person for providing Viktor’s whereabouts?” he asks, drawing my gaze to his face as he tucks his hands into his pockets. “Or anxious I don’t bail before giving you Pérez’s location on Saturday night?”
I grin, take out the folded sheet of paper from my pocket, unfolding it and holding it out to him. “I’m here to ask you about this.” It’s the photo Charlie had found.
For a split second, I see the expression of surprise on his face. Of shock, even. His eyes lock on the grainy 8x10 printout. It takes him a moment to school his features but when he shifts his gaze to mine, I see his Adam’s apple work as he swallows. See something in his eyes as he tries to appear indifferent.
“Drink?” he asks, turning to walk toward the sideboard where a decanter of whiskey stands. His posture is stiff, shoulders tight. I wonder if his hands are fisted in his pockets as he crosses the room on wooden legs.
Without waiting for a reply, he pours two glasses of whiskey and carries them to the sitting area. He makes a point of not looking at the picture I’ve set on the coffee table as he hands me one of the tumblers.
“What’s the real reason you want him?” I ask.
He swallows the whiskey and takes the same seat as last time, gesturing to his bodyguard to leave.
“Are you sure?” the man asks.
“It’s fine, Dex,” he says. “Just bring me the bottle before you go.”
I watch him as he finishes his drink. The giant of a man, Dex, sets the decanter on the coffee table before he leaves.
St. James puts his glass down and instead of pouring himself another, he pulls the printed photograph closer and picks it up. I’m not sure I’m imagining the slight tremble of his hand. For a long moment, he studies the printout, his face partially obscured by the paper. He then folds it over, sets it back down and looks at me.
“Do you think she’s safe with you?” he asks.
“What?”
“Mara. Do you think she’s safe with you?”
I narrow my gaze, sip my drink.
“I’m asking you a question. Do you think now that you have her in your possession that she’s safe?” There’s something urgent in his tone. Something hard and old.
My jaw tightens. I know where he’s going. “No,” I answer.
“Then you are wiser than I was.” He leans forward to take the bottle and pours himself a hefty glass full.
“Who is she?”
“Who was she,” he corrects and drinks a long swallow. “Kimberly.” His reaction isn’t what I expect. I don’t know if it’s the surprise of seeing that photograph or what. He’s rattled. Visibly upset. And he isn’t quite looking at me.
“Who was she to you?” I push.
“My fiancée.”
“The baby—”
He doesn’t answer but I see the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of his eye.
This isn’t the same man I’d met days before. He’s not the asshole who saved my life then threw me out of a moving vehicle. Not the same cool, collected dick dismissing us to fuck his maid as he casually gave me the location of a Russian mobster to kill. This man before me is simply human. And I see the cracks of his humanity. The brokenness of him.
But I steel myself. His pain has nothing to do with me. And this is about saving Mara. So, I reach for the photo, open it, study it. “Too bad. She was good looking,” I say. Dick move, I know.
He doesn’t comment. Just drinks.
“You all seem like you’re having a good time while a kidnapped girl sits just a few feet from you.”
“I didn’t know who she was. And I didn’t know Felix Pérez. Hell, I didn’t realize there was a photograph. I’m guessing a still taken from a video.”
It does look that way. But like his pain, I don’t give a shit. “You didn’t know him? Because you seem chummy to me. What were you doing there if you didn’t know him?”
“Business that doesn’t concern you,” his tone is firm, the mask of that other Jericho St. James back in place.
“Anything having to do with Pérez concerns me.”
“Not this.”
“What about Mara? You saw her and did nothing?”
“She didn’t seem distressed.”
“No? So, she didn’t stand out at all as not really belonging there?”
“Like I said, I didn’t know anything about her, not until after.”
“After what?” I ask, tossing the photo back onto the coffee table making sure it’s face up, so he has to look at it.
His eyes lock on it and there’s that crack in the exterior again. “She was eight weeks from delivering.” It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about the pregnant woman. “She was so excited. So happy. It was all she could talk about.” He takes a sip of whiskey. “But she never got to experience any of it. She was killed not a full week after that ill-fated visit to Pérez.”
He’s quiet, his pain palpable and immense. He then shifts his gaze to me and again I see the slight difference in the color of his eyes, the deep gray of one and dark blue of the other. How whatever is going on inside him makes the one go darker and the other lighter.
“My meeting with Pérez was on behalf of a client. I used to practice law but I’m sure you know that. Kimberly and I were traveling at the time and, well, I regret having brought her. If I’d left her at the hotel…” he trails off, shakes his head. “But I was naïve then.” He swallows more whiskey. “Stupid even. And she paid for it.”
His eyes lock on the woman and I see his regret.
“We were at a café a few days later. It was the morning we were due to return to the states. Just having breakfast on the beach. She wanted to feel the sand between her toes one last time, she said.” He smiles a rueful smile at that. “We had thought about building a house there. Beachfront. Made plans and even looked at some land.” He looks at me, face hard again. “Never make fucking plans. Never,” he advises.
“What happened?”
“I went inside to pay the bill. She was gathering up her things. I realized when I got to the counter, I’d left my wallet on the table and returned. She must have noticed it before I did because she was walking toward me as I got outside, flip-flops in one hand, a big smile on her face,” he pauses here. “She got in the way,” he finally adds. He shifts his gaze away, pushes his hand into his hair like he’s going to pull it out. “Fuck. She just got in the fucking way.”
He collects himself after a moment and turns back to me.
“You were the target?”
He nods.
“It was Pérez?” I ask.
“Not personally, obviously. I’m honestly not sure he’s ever actually killed a man. Just gives the orders. Piece of shit.” He swallows a big swallow of whiskey.
“Why did he do it? Who are you to him?”
“He was hired. He didn’t know me from Adam. I need to confirm who it was that hired him.”
“Confirm. So, you know?”
“I have my suspicions.”
I put two and two together. “And the meeting that was allegedly recorded will confirm your suspicion?”
“Not alleged and yes.” His gaze shifts and he’s studying me now. “Betrayal by those closest to you burns hotter, don’t you think?”
“Are we bonding?”
“Fuck you.”
“Where will he be?”
He tilts his head infinitesimally to the side. He’s got the upper hand on this one. He has the information I need. “You’ll need to bring the girl.”
“No.”
“Then you’re wasting my time.”
“Tell me where he’ll be. I’ll be there. I’ll get you what you need.”
“You need to bring the girl. It’s the deal.”
“Why? What deal have you made with him?”
“If I tell him she’ll be there, he will come.”
“So tell him she’ll be there.”
He breathes in a deep breath.
“This is my offer. Tell him what you need to tell him to get him there and I’ll get you what you want.” I put my glass down.
“I held her as she died, you know,” he says, his gaze is on that sheet of paper. That sliver of history. “I know what you’ve seen,” he continues. “What you’ve been through. But let me ask you something. Have you felt the life slip away from someone while you watch? While you cradle their body against you begging the god you once believed in to spare them? To take you instead?”
I clench my teeth and shift my gaze away.
“I can tell you it’s not something you ever want to experience. Never want to see or feel.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, the look inside them is different. Like there’s an infinite sadness locked inside there that this memory has unlocked. “Their eyes change as the soul slips from the body, do you know that? The good ones, at least. The innocent ones. You and me, we don’t have souls left to lose but the innocents? You see the light go out.” He picks up the bottle of whiskey and refills his glass then downs the whole thing. “So, if you’re smart, Dante, you’ll be rid of Mara for her own sake. Get her a new identity. Make her disappear. It’s the only chance she’ll have at a life.”