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"If you get scared," I say, tightening my grip, "that's okay. I'll help you."
Wesley's eyes well with tears. "I don't want anyone to hurt me today." He stares at his feet. "I don't know how I escaped that stupid warehouse, but I don't want to go back."
I understand the gravity of his concerns. He still hasn't opened up about what exactly went on, but I won't rush him. Hell, he doesn’t remember. Our discussion of trauma earlier this morning in my guest bedroom confirmed that. All I know is that it was terrible as fuck and it wiped his mind clean.
After guiding Wesley away from the limousine, I lead him toward the back gate of his parents’ estate. "I'm taking you to a place I believe you’ve been before." I enter the combination into the lock that I learned by hacking into the Bettencourts’ surveillance cameras. "You can't tell anyone we’re here."
"I won't tell a soul." Wesley makes a zipping motion over his lips. "I'll keep it close to my heart."
"That's what I had to do at the warehouse." His voice is soft as he continues speaking. "No matter how much I hated certain things—no matter how badly I wanted to stab the person who hurt me—I had to keep it inside. I’m a good secret keeper."
Rage. It rams into me, red-hot and blinding.
I want to find the bastards who hurt Wesley and put bullets in their skulls. I remember the way I tortured Wilbertson in that alley after Rusty lured his father there.
The vicious, fucked up acts I performed on him will compare little to what I’ll do to the men who put their hands on Wesley.
If Wesley’s really the Bettencourt boy—which I'm certain he is, DNA tests don’t lie—I want to hurt his abductors even more. He was twelve when those sick motherfuckers stole him out of his backyard. I don't want to think that he's been servicing men this entire time, but it's a possibility. If they put him to work as a prostitute when he was that young, there'll be hell to pay.
I'll stop at nothing when I torture them. I'll chop off every fucking fingernail they have and it still won't satisfy me.
"This is the garden." After the gate unlocks, I open it and usher Wesley through. His parents and older siblings aren't home. They’re in a cabin in Vermont close to the Canadian border underneath Québec. That's why I'm bringing him heretoday. We won't run into the risk of confronting his family. "Let me know if you recall anything."
Wesley peers around the estate. He grits his teeth. "Nope. Nothing."
I try not to let the disappointment that crashes through me show. After all, Wesley needs me to stay calm, measured. He's been through indescribable trauma and I must earn his trust if I want him to recall anything from his former life.
Of course, his memories are there, buried underneath years of pain. But it’ll be an uphill battle to recover them.
"That's no problem." Tightening my grip on his hand, I lead him past the tulip garden and wildflower sanctuary. "I'll take you to a place I think you’ll remember."
Wesley rests his head against my arm. "I'm putting my trust in you. Some creepy guy better not jump out from behind these flowers."
"Of course not." It infuriates me that Wesley's so scared of the outside world. Of course, I know it's a natural reaction, because I don’t think he’s stepped foot out of the warehouse in eight long years. "I already told you I’ll protect you."
Wesley shakes as he burrows into me. "How can I be sure?" His eyes are watery. "No offense, because you've done so much for me, but other men promised to keep me safe, too. Clients. Look how that turned out."
My eyes survey the backyard. My second assistant who's a computer programmer turned off the cameras, so there's no danger of the Bettencourts seeing what I'm about to do. Reaching into my holster, I yank out my Glock and load it with fresh bullets.
Wesley gasps and pulls away from me. "Oh my God! You have a gun."
"Hold out your hand." I turn to Wesley and stick out the gun. "Now."
Wesley fights the urge to cry. "You brought me here to kill me." Tears stream down his cheeks. "I knew it. No one ever does what they say. I was bad last week and my captors paid you to put an end to me."
It hits me in an instant.
The realization that the Diavolos traumatized this poor boy more than I ever thought.
"Here." My voice is a gruff growl as I ram the gun in Wesley's palm, then flick off the safety. "I'm giving you this to let you know you’re safe with me. You don't have to worry about anyone leaping out of anywhere to hurt you, because now you have a weapon."
Wesley gazes at the gun in his hand, turning it over. It catches a sunbeam and sends a ray of light across the grass.
Confusion flickers across his features. "You're giving me your gun?"
"I'm letting you hold it this afternoon." I refuse to mince words. "This is still my property and you can't lose it. I'll get in major fucking trouble."
If the Bettencourts discover my Glock on their property, they’ll call the cops and it'll open my family up to a barrage of charges. The last thing we need with our upcoming mission to break into the Yonkers warehouse is police scrutiny.
