“I’m not going to tell you, Rocco.” Her voice softened. “You’re not expendable.”
But she gave herself away. Her gaze fell on a painting of Costin hanging on the wall behind me.
There it is.
I headed over to it.
Something surged through my chest — not triumph, not exactly. Relief. The kind that made my knees weak. One shard. One handoff to Angelo. And then I could disappear back into my miserable life and my mother would be safe.
She grabbed my arm. “Rocco, no.”
“I’m not going to let my mom die.” I jerked free of her grip and took down the painting. Behind it was a safe.
Fuck.
Selena paced behind me, her heels clicking a restless rhythm on the hardwood. Every few steps she paused at the window, peering through the glass like she expected someone to come through the door any second.
I glanced over at her. “Tell me the combination.”
“No.”
The word hit me like a slap. I grabbed her shoulders, my fingers digging into the soft curve of muscle and bone, and pulled her close until our faces were inches apart. Her eyes widened—not with fear, but with that stubborn, infuriating defiance that made me want to shake her and kiss her in equal measure.
“Tell me the fucking combination.”
She struggled beneath my grip, her hands pressing flat against my chest, pushing back. But she didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Her jaw was set, her eyes blazing, and I could feel her pulse hammering beneath my fingers—fast, furious, but steady.
“I’m not going to let you die.”
I wanted to stay angry—needed the anger, needed the fire, because without it there was only fear and I couldn’t afford fear right now.
My fingers bit into her shoulders. “So you’d let my mother die?”
Panic bloomed in her eyes—not from my grip, but from the accusation. I watched it land, watched it cut, and hated myself for throwing it at her. But my mother’s face flashed behind my eyes, and the guilt burned hotter than the shame.
“No.” Her gaze held mine like iron. “We have to tell Costin. It’s the only way.”
I stared into her eyes, searching for a crack. A hesitation. Anything I could pry open and exploit.
There was nothing. She’d made up her mind, and no amount of pleading or threatening or breaking apart in front of her was going to change it.
I released her shoulders and stepped back, my hands trembling at my sides.
Think, man. Think.
Costin.
That was the key.
I released her. Every student at Red Rose Academy knew Costin’s birthday—it was practically a holiday. I punched it into the keypad.
It didn’t work.
My mother used to talk about Costin and Julienne like they were royalty—which, I suppose, they were. She’d always sent them flowers on their anniversary.
So I punched in the date.
Nothing.
