A text this time.
1847 Industrial Way. 1 a.m. tonight. Come alone. This is not a trap. If you don't show, these four people die at the same moment. Their blood will be on your hands, not mine.
"Fuck." The word tears out of me.
I grip the phone so hard the case creaks. Four people. Three locations.
Alejandro isn't just hunting me. He's dismantling everything I care about. Everyone I?—
"Dante?"
Marina's voice comes from the hallway. I shove the phone in my pocket and turn.
"What happened?" She crosses toward me, concern creasing her forehead. "I heard you curse."
"Nothing." The lie tastes like ash. "Just felt a little pain."
Her eyes narrow. She knows my tells better than I'd like. "Your wound?"
"Yeah."
"You haven't complained about pain in two days."
Fuck. She's too observant. Too smart. Too everything.
"It comes and goes," I say.
Marina stops in front of me. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral that's become my favorite scent in the world. She reaches up and presses her palm flat against my chest, right over my heart.
"Your heart's racing."
"You have that effect on me."
"Dante." Her voice drops. Not angry. Worried. "What's wrong?"
I look down at her. This woman who crashed back into my life through blood and bullets. Who stitched me together when I was dying. Who let me into her bed and her body and maybe—maybe—something deeper.
The photos burn in my pocket. Her parents. Smiling. Unaware.
I can't tell her. If I tell her, she'll want to come with me. She'll want to help. She'll put herself directly in Alejandro's crosshairs.
"Nothing's wrong." I cup her face in my hands. "I'm fine."
Marina searches my eyes. I hold her gaze and lie through my teeth, hating myself for every second of it.
"Okay," she says finally. But she doesn't believe me. I can see it in the slight tension around her mouth, the way her fingers curl against my chest.
She doesn't believe me, and she's letting it go anyway.
For now.
I watch Marina for the next hour.
She's curled up on the couch, some reality show playing on the massive television. She's not really watching it—I can tell by the way her eyes drift, the way she keeps glancing toward the hallway where I disappeared earlier. She knows something's wrong. She's giving me space to tell her.
The photos cycle through my mind on repeat. Her mother's smile. Her father's hand on the car door. Vittoria's distracted expression. Aria alone at that café.
Four people. Three locations. One impossible choice.
