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“Why did you?” I whisper.
He gives me that twitch of a smile. Just one side, so he looks roguish, but I know—I think I still know—that’s a smile he does when he’s not happy. “We were in the neighborhood.”
“You and Isabella.”
“Isa,” he says. His lips bend into a small frown, and a notch forms between his dark brows. An awkward moment passes before his blue eyes meet mine again. “Are you happy—with the job?”
“Why do you care?”
He blinks, and I watch as his features school themselves into something more neutral. He shuts his eyes, so brief I can’t be sure it happened.
He gives me a long look. “Have a nice night.”
Then he’s walking toward the door. I look up, searching the roofline for cameras. I can’t see—it’s too dark—but I can’t stop myself from moving in his wake.
“Don’t go yet.”
He turns slowly to me, the poker face gone. He looks like he did after I slapped him.
“I still want to know.” I’m startled by my own words and the painful hoarseness of my voice. “Were you in love with Isa? No wrong answers. I won’t prosecute. For that.” My cheeks are burning and my eyes sting slightly.
He regards me with the poker face back up—at least it mostly is. It’s like he’s looking back in time and so his eyes aren’t focused.
His mouth…there’s just this little twist of some emotion. I can see him inhale. “Elise…” He blows the breath out. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
His dark form glimmers as my eyes well. “So you were. And I’m a fool for asking. Probably on camera.” I throw my hands up, glancing dizzily up at the roofline.
“There’s no camera.” He holds up a cell phone. “They’re my cameras.”
That makes me laugh. “Well, I know you’ll delete it.”
He steps closer to me. “I’d delete it for you.”
I shut my eyes. I don’t want to move. Not ever again. His hand on my upper arm. His gentle fingers firm around my shoulder. “You’re still everything I thought you were,” he murmurs, his eyes on mine as he says that. My knees are wobbling like they might buckle. He shifts his weight, coming close enough that I can smell his marijuana breath, the bite of liquor under it. He kisses my cheek near the jaw, and for a tiny moment, I can feel his forehead brush my temple.
“No, rosa.” He’s looking down, and there’s an inch of space between us. “It was…my father.” His shoulders rise and fall, and his hand tightens on my shoulder. “He…died. And—” His hand lets me go as his eyes flicker to mine. “I had…problems.” I can see him swallow, see the regret in his features. “Didn’t want to fuck your shit up,” he rasps. “Is it better if I say I fucked her?” He smiles sadly. “I don’t want to be your tragic story.”
“You’re a tragedy without a sequel, Luca. So it just ends that way.” Tears shimmer in my eyes so I can’t even see his face now.
His hand catches mine, the motion so quick that it startles me. He leads me over to the rail, right near the door but in the shadows. His hands frame my face. “It doesn’t end like that. You want another ending?”
I nod, brainless, just a throbbing heartbeat.
“Here.” He kisses me, and it’s so hard and rough that when we break apart, I press my fingers to my lips to see if they’re bleeding.
“It ends like that.” He lifts his brows, and there’s the face I knew.
Then he turns around and walks away.9LucaIn the dream, the ringing phone is in his pocket. I can see the pocket clearly, each thread of his denim jeans stained bright, wet crimson. That snapshot—the pocket—has been haunting me for years. I feel pissed off that it’s in my dream. There’s a reason why it shouldn’t be. There’s something else? There’s something else I should be dreaming about— something important.
I try to remember, but the phone is ringing. I open my eyes. Elise. Just a second to feel that before I’m fumbling for the phone. Fuck, it’s not the one in my pocket. It’s one of the ones in the nightstand.
I’m unsteady on my feet, confused from dreaming. The clock says 2:41 a.m. My heart hammers as my hand dives into the top drawer, filled with a dozen flip phones. The one with the pink sticker is the one that’s ringing. The pink ops phone.
I frown at the unknown number—on these phones, they’re all unknown—and then I answer, trying not to sound asleep. I’m greeted with the sound of someone ranting. Aren? Yes. It’s Aren, and he must be pissed as shit. I don’t think I’ve ever heard his accent this thick. I can’t understand him.
“What?”
“That cunt has” —something garbled— “on your second and three of my ones. It happened in the place…at the place which is like Georgia to Armenia.”
