Somehow, it superimposed itself over the others, smothered them as the dead weight smothered me. Until Noah rolled the body off.
I lose everything for a second. There’s just white space all around me and no sound.
Then Piero’s hands slam onto my desk and he shouts, “Where the fuck is Ernesto?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, and I don’t. I have no idea what Noah and Wes did with his body. But I leave that out, of course.
Piero’s nostrils flare. He’s frustrated. He expected to be able to intimidate me.
And still he says nothing about his son. And his son remains silent and hidden under my desk.
Piero says, “You need to understand, Mr. Black, how easily you could end up in a dozen pieces.”
The problem is, fear is disconnected for me. I haven’t felt it in a long time. I enjoy it through others. I get a little flash of it when I cause it, but it’s mostly dead for me. It got overused.
“Leave me your number,” I suggest, still acting out the role of businessman. “I’ll call you if I hear anything about your nephew.”
Piero straightens from his lean on my desk. He gives me an almost appreciative look. He pulls his wallet from his pocket and draws out a card, which he flicks onto my desk.
“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, Mr. Black.”
With that, Piero Valenci turns and walks across my office to the door. It thumps shut behind him.
My office goes silent and still. I’m locked up, like I’m made of stone. I’m not dissociating. I’m here. I’m just locked.
I’m aware, vaguely, of how dangerous this is. It’s happened to me before. With enough time, it might pass, but—
A hand settles on my knee, and it triggers me so hard, so fast that as I explode up, I don’t even feel the weight of the desk as I grip the edge of it and flip it so hard that it rolls and crashes into the couch. I barely hear the scream that comes from my own mouth.
Dimly, I register the naked form at my feet, the head tucked down, the arms above, blocking. I storm away.
I catch sight of myself in the wall of mirrors, and I hate it so much that I slam my fist right into it, shattering the image of my own face. I don’t feel pain in my hand. I feel only relief as the image vanishes and the cracks spiderweb out across the wall. Shards fall to the floor in a scatter of shining pieces.
The relief doesn’t last. It only takesenough of the edge off my rage that my brain starts to work.
I turn back to Elio. He’s crouching where my desk was. His dark eyes are huge. He knows exactly how much danger he’s in. I stalk his way. He’s already rising to his feet when I grab him by the collar.
He doesn’t beg me. He doesn’t say red. He knows we’re not playing now. This isn’t a game anymore.
His hand settles on my wrist, but not to stop me, nor to push me away. His touch is gentle, and his eyes, though afraid, are soft.
He’s still mine.
Hechoseto still be mine.
He didn’t speak out, didn’t reveal himself. And his father didn’t ask about him or hint at any information that he’d gathered from him.
Because there was none.
I can fucking see it. I fuckingknowit.
He’s mine—Eliasis mine—because he always was. I start shaking so hard that my knees buckle. I let go of Elias’s collar, but he doesn’t let go of my arm. He falls with me.
My ass hits the floor. Before I can pull away from Elias, he crawls into my lap. Instinctively, I drop my head and curl around him, wrapping tight. He huddles in the cave of my body, like it’s safe there.
The tremors go through me in waves, seizing and releasing, easing slowly until they stop.
When I raise my head and see the black collar banding Elias’s neck, I reach for it. But when I start to unbuckle it, something, life, fades from Elias’s eyes. His expression dies. I see him begin to withdraw into an empty, lonely space inside himself.
