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Well. With me, anyway.
“It’s nice out here, right?” I jerk my chin up at the snowflakes tumbling all around. “I know it was a weird daydream, but it’s pretty good when you’re in it.”
“The best,” Diego says, and his throat sounds like it’s been scraped raw.
An icy breeze sweeps over our balcony and I shiver, burying my face in his warm throat. His arms wrap around me, holding tight.
One kiss will never be enough, but this is all we have.
And he’s right. It’s the best.
Six
Diego
The next morning, Santo finds me out on the grounds, doing a lap of the compound through the snow. Usually, I’d leave grunt work like this to the security team, but with prices on all our heads and one gunfight already this month, I’m not taking any chances.
Besides, I can’t sit still. Not today.
“I’ve already doubled up patrols,” the boss says, falling into step by my side. He’s wearing a long, dark coat, hands tucked in the pockets, and his pale cheeks are pink from the cold.
“Just making sure.” I walk faster, but he matches me easily. The bastard’s not even breathing hard, despite the knee-deep drifts of snow.
“There are more cameras, too.” He points one black leather glove at the nearest tree, where a red light glows between the branches. It might be obvious, except for the string lights wrapped around the tree, camouflaging the camera’s watchful eye.
Hiding something vicious under the holiday cheer.
Typical Santo.
“Any news?” I ask.
The boss hums, non-committal, and anger flashes through me, hot and bitter. Though I’ve been loyal to him my whole life, though we grew up together, there’s a part of me right now that wants to snap Santo’s neck and bury him in the nearest snowbank.
I could do it, probably. He’s faster than me, but I’m heavier.
And it’d be signing my own death warrant, especially with these cameras all around, but maybe Holly could get away. Maybe they’d forget all about her after my betrayal.
“Don’t do anything reckless, Diego.” Santo speaks softly, our steps crunching through the snow. It’s as though he can read my mind, and he knows exactly how tempted I am, and if anything, it amuses him. “I know you’re fond of the maid—”
“Holly,” I interrupt. The least this asshole could do is say her name. “Her name is Holly, and I’m not fuckingfondof her. That’s like saying the Sahara Desert is a bit warm.”
Santo sighs, like I’m being ridiculous. All these pesky feelings are so tiresome to him.
When he stops walking, I grind to a halt too. Old habits die hard, and I’ve been Santo De Rossi’s attack dog for most of my life. We both stare at the mansion, squinting against the cold wind, coat collars flapping.
“There’s something I want to show you,” Santo says at last.
My gut sinks all the way down to bedrock.
* * *
They’ve got her in a concrete room in the basement—the one with a drain in the floor. Holly’s tied to a chair, her wrists and ankles wrapped with duct tape, and her black maid’s dress is rumpled.
Her head hangs low, and her breathing is shallow. Have they hurt her already? I’ll burn this whole fucking mansion to the ground if they have.
“We spoke to the PI.” Santo follows me into the room, in shirtsleeves and a forest green waistcoat now. He nods at a paper file on a table near the wall. “Got some background on her. But I thought you might like to do the honors.”
Liketo? I’d rather jump off the roof. But if it means no one else touches her…
