I snorted. That sounded impossible. "Not happening."
"Mm," she hummed. "We'll see."
I looked at her with amusement, and the camera captured the exact moment my mouth curved.
It still hurts looking at her. I think of Heathcliff, her son. Heathcliff. What a stupid name. But I guess she had to so that Damiano would recognize him.
"She looks happy." Audra leans over my shoulder, looking at the picture.
"She was." Saying those words is like a burden slowly lifting, not vanishing, but lifting a little.
Catarina's life may have been short, but she was happy. I know that now. Damiano and I had a few talks before Audra decided to come home and all hell broke loose.
"I would have loved to have met her." Audra's hand dangles down my chest while she leans against me, studying the photo on my phone.
"She would have loved you, and you would have loved her. You two are very similar. She was stubborn as hell, too. And adventurous."
"Oh yeah?" Her fingers slide to the image, and she presses and slides them to enlarge my face. "Oh, look, how handsome you were."
"Were?" I laugh, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. Audra. My wife. God, I love saying that. Wife. Mine.
"Hm," she murmurs, shifting the picture. "Oh—look, there's Massimo and Enzo… and—" She goes still. Not subtle. Not curious. Frozen.
"What?"
"How the hell do you know him?"
I frown. "Know who?"
She turns the phone toward me, finger already pointing. "That's him, Gabe. The cartel man who wanted to buy me from Razor. In the desert."
My stomach drops. In the picture? Impossible. But if it is, I'm going to find the bastard and string him up. She taps the screen, zooming in on the group behind us. I know every single one of those men. Every. Single. One.
My entire body locks when I realize who she's pointing at.
"Him?" I take the phone, enlarging the image myself now. The red birthmark stands out, twisted, unmistakable.
"That's him," she confirms. No hesitation. No doubt. "I'm positive. That mark? You don't forget something like that."
I stare at it. At him. Alive. Breathing. Smiling.
"That was six years ago?" I ask, my voice going flat.
She nods. "Yeah, about that."
I shake my head slowly. "No."
Her brows pull together. "Gabe, I swear?—"
"I killed him ten years ago."
Her head turns to look from the phone to me.
"I put a blade between his ribs," I continue, unable to stop. "Drove it in until I felt bone… then it gave."
The memory slams into me. Hot. Violent. Real. His breath hit my wrist. Wet. Shallow. Then nothing. His body went slack under my hand. Dead weight.
"I felt his heart stutter," I add. "Felt it stop."
