Page 45 of Freedom’s Inferno

“I know.” His voice came out rough, and he cleared his throat. “I haven’t forgotten.”

He looked up, pale green eyes locking on mine. The haunted look that crossed his face lasted only a second, but it sliced through me.

Guilt gnawed at my insides. I’d spent some of the worst years of my life protecting that kid from our foster house, and I’d just dragged him back inside it to win an argument.

Have I really protected him, though? Criminals beget criminals.

“Elliott. Please,” I said. “I need you to make a call.”

He shook his head. “Things are complicated right now. I’m… I need you to know this isn’t me being difficult. Costa’s off limits. I can’t touch this.”

The roar of the rain filled the silence between us. My clothes were soaked through, sticking to my skin. Somewhere in the distance a tree branch cracked with the force of the storm.

“You’re telling me you can’t help me.” My voice came out flat.

“I’m telling you I can’t help you with this.” His eyes didn’t waver. “I’m sorry. I mean that.”

I’d watched this man grow up from a frightened kid into whoever he was now, standing in the rain wearing a suit that cost more than my first car. The shared history that bound us was the same thing that made existing in the same room too heavy to sustain for long. We loved each other from a distance.

I exhaled through my nose. “Can I buy a gun off you, at least?”

Elliott’s lip twitched. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folding knife, holding it out between us with two fingers like it was a business card. “No. But try not to cut your thumb off.”

I took it, turning it over once in my palm, and tucked it into my back pocket. “If they find my body, I want you to know I tried.”

He snorted. “I hope you’re faster than you used to be.” Elliott stepped back, out of the narrow space we shared under the umbrella’s edge, and turned toward the Range Rover. “Get the fuck out of here, Chuck.”

I stood in the rain, the cold settling into my bones.

The Range Rover’s engine turned over, then he backed out of the driveway.

My hand slid into my pocket, wrapping around the folding knife, the handle cool in my palm. Then I turned and crossed the driveway to the Lexus, pulling open the door and dropping into the driver’s seat. The heat blowing from the air vents was such a harsh contrast against my damp skin that it burned. Water dripped from my jacket onto the leather and pooled in the seam of my jeans.

“Elliott,” I hissed his name like a muted curse, blood boiling.

“What was that all about?” Lana asked, arms crossing.

I reached for the ignition, keys cold in my wet hand. “It doesn’t matter. He can’t help us.”

She opened her mouth, a follow-up question practically visible on her lips.

“Drop it, Lana,” I said, cutting her off. I didn’t have the bandwidth for any of her sharp, pointed observations.

She must have seen something in my expression that warned her not to press, because her mouth snapped shut and she turned to look out the window.

I pulled out onto the road, the wipers cutting back and forth across the glass with a shriek. The knife sat heavy in my pocket the entire drive to the hotel.

Chapter 19

Chuck

The hotel reminded me of Old Hollywood. Built in the 1920s, the building maintained its regal charm with arched doorways, mirrored surfaces, and gold-trimmed fixtures that looked like they’d been stolen from a movie set. The lobby had a brass cage elevator, and the carpets were thick enough to swallow sound.

We reached our floor. The corridor was dim and intimate, lit by sconces with soft amber shades. It felt less like a hotel and more like the private wing of some forgotten mansion: lavish, lived-in, but aware of its own history.

Our two-bedroom suite was a study in contradictions: modern convenience wrapped in vintage decadence. Gold-veined mirrors lined the walls, and deep green velvet curtains framed tall windows that opened onto the glittering city. Built-in bookshelves curved along one wall, and the faint pattern of age still ghosted the crown molding. The furniture was indulgent—velvet and brass, plush enough to drown in—and the marble bathroom gleamed, clawfoot tub the statement piece.

Lana had disappeared into her room the moment we arrived.