“Then why are you so worried about him in prison?”
The question cuts right to the heart of my terror. “Because he’s strong, not invincible. And his grip on reality...” I pause, trying to find a way to explain without revealing too much. “It’s fragile. When he gets desperate, when he feels cornered, he doesn’t always make rational choices.”
“Like stabbing a policeman.”
“Like stabbing a policeman,” I agree. “And in prison...” I trail off, unable to voice my worst fears.
“You’re worried he’ll snap again,” Dante finishes. “Do something that gets him hurt or killed.”
“He’s entirely capable of stabbing the wrong person,” I say quietly. “Someone who’ll retaliate in ways that...” I can’t finish the thought.
Dante leans back in his chair, considering this. “The boy who charmed Molly with his wedding planning ideas?”
“The same boy who put a kitchen knife between a constable’s ribs in broad daylight,” I remind him.
“Fair point.” Dante’s expression grows thoughtful. “But that wasn’t random violence, was it? That was calculated desperation. A man making the only play he could see to change his circumstances.”
I want to argue, but I can’t. Because Dante’s right. I strongly suspect that Ginni didn’t stab that policeman in a fit of rage or in an episode of heightened delusion. He planned it, chose his target carefully, made sure he’d be arrested rather than shot. It was the act of someone who saw no other options and decided to create one.
“Which means he’s probably not randomly attacking people in prison,” Dante continues. “He’s more likely to be calculating his survival, figuring out the social dynamics, looking for angles.”
“Or he’s terrified out of his mind and about to do something monumentally stupid.”
“Maybe. But I think you’re underestimating him.”
I sigh heavily. “Perhaps. But you’ve seen him. He is beautiful. He looks small and delicate, and he’s locked up with men who aren’t exactly gentlemen. All the brains in the world can’t defeat brawn, in a small enclosed space.”
Dante’s expression shifts. Something that might be pity fills his dark eyes, and seeing that, makes me wince. Part of me was hoping he’d dismiss my fears, tell me I was jumping to conclusions.
The fact that Dante agrees with me, the man who excels at reading situations, is turning my blood to ice.
Dante pulls out his phone, scrolling through contacts. “Let me make another call. See if my guy has heard anything about a pretty Italian boy in trouble.”
While he goes through his contacts, I try to convince myself that his first assertion was right. That Ginni’s strength will carry him through this. That the same intelligence that helped him plan my kidnapping down to the smallest detail will help him navigate prison politics until I can get him out.
But all I can think about is how he looked that night at Christmas. Beautiful and delicate. My best friend’s little brother. All wide eyes and short skirt.
“He’s young,” I say quietly. “Twenty-one. Sometimes I wonder if I’m...” I trail off, not sure how to voice my doubts without sounding like I’m fishing for reassurance.
“If you’re what?”
“A creep. For wanting someone so much younger than me.”
Dante shrugs with the casual indifference of a man who’s seen every possible variation of human depravity and found most of it boring.
“He’s an adult. He chose you. And you’re right, he’s very pretty, like a little china doll. I can see why he caught your attention.”
The last comment hits like a punch to the gut. Something possessive and violent ignites in my soul, and I find myself halfway to my feet before I catch myself.
“Careful,” I growl.
Dante’s eyes narrow immediately, and for a moment the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. I remember, suddenly and vividly, exactly who I’m talking to. This isn’t just my friend Dante who helps with difficult problems. This is the man who can extract any secret from any person given enough time and the right tools.
The man who could probably kill me with his bare hands if he decided I was a threat.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with the promise of violence. Dante’s posture hasn’t changed, but something in hisstillness reminds me that predators are often most dangerous when they appear calm.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, sinking back into my chair. “I didn’t mean to...”
