“I can’t prove something I don’t remember.”
“Convenient.”
“Damn you.” My voice cracks. “You don’t know him.”
“No,” Lorenzo says, and now the fury in him is cold enough to frost over. “But I know men. I know power. I know timing. And I know exactly what kind of man starts gathering soldiers the second his secrets are threatened.”
“He was trying to get me back.”
“Or keep me from asking the right questions.”
I stare at him, horrified by how deeply he believes this. By how quickly he has built a battlefield out of scraps and suspicion and rage.
“This is insane.”
His mouth curves, but there is nothing kind in it. “Perhaps. But until I know who took you, I assume the worst.”
My arms fold around myself, less for warmth than because I suddenly feel exposed in every possible way. “So that’s it? You’ve decided Dante is guilty and now you’ll burn the world down?”
“If I must.”
The simplicity of it chills me. I search his face for some crack, some hesitation, some sign that he hears himself. There is none. Only violence held on a leash and the terrible promise of what he’ll do if that leash slips.
Then, as if he’s merely changing the subject, he says, “We leave for Chicago in a week.”
For a second I just stare at him. “What?”
“One week,” he repeats. “That gives me time to settle things here.”
My pulse spikes. “No.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes.”
“I’m not going to Chicago with you.”
“You are.”
“I said no.”
“And I said yes.”
I laugh, and it comes out sharp and unbelieving. “You really do think your word is law.”
“In my world,” he says, “it is.”
I wipe at my face with angry fingers. “Why Chicago?”
“Because I can protect you there.”
“From Dante?” I snap.
“From everyone.”
The answer should comfort me. Instead it feels like another cage.
“I don’t want your protection.”
“Your wants are no longer the deciding factor.”
