Epilogue
EPILOGUE
EVE
Six Months Later…
“ T his is good, Eve. This is really good.”
My editor’s enthusiasm rouses me from my thoughts. I turn away from the window to watch him pore over my copy for the third time this morning. I’ve spent the last few months investigating the rise and downfall of a Ponzi-style scheme that has gripped and devastated the upper societies of New York in equal measure. Dante was right. It seems that dangerous criminals lurk in every facet of life.
“Thanks, Rob,” I say, grinning at my overweight, overworked, but perennially cheerful boss, as he sits back in his chair to consider printing schedules.
“We’ll run it this weekend. Front page. Excellent work again, Miss Miller.”
“Does this mean I get a corner desk?”
He tips his balding head back and laughs. “Let’s see what the circulation figures look like first, eh? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
I return his good humor with another smile as I head for the door, running my fingers along the delicate chain of my necklace. I’ve given up biting my nails. I have this new habit now, and I catch myself doing it often.
The necklace arrived fourteen days after I was rescued from the dockside, dressed only in a sweatshirt and covered in blood. Mute from shock and surrounded by bodies.
It was delivered without a note, but I knew who had sent it even before I opened the black velvet box with the embossed lettering. Resting on a light gray cushion was an exquisite silver necklace with a pendant like no other. It consisted of three numbers spelled out in dozens of tiny diamonds:
‘666’
The mark of the devil.
The mark of Dante Santiago: a man who has branded himself across my heart and my soul.
The authorities aren’t buying my story of wrong place, wrong time , even though Rick had Manuel’s body removed and my apartment cleaned up for me. I recognize a tail when I see it, and the FBI aren’t exactly discreet. I’m being watched, twenty-four-seven, and I tell myself that this is the reason he hasn’t returned for me yet.
I may have forgiven Dante for what he did to my family, but my family won’t forgive me . I’ve put my father in an impossible position, and I hate myself for it. He knows exactly who Sebastian Días is. He knows it was him who stole me away. He holds the key to linking me with the man who murdered his son, but he’s keeping my secret safe for now. I may disgust him, he may think that I’m a traitor to my brother’s memory, but he doesn’t want to see me locked up, either. I’m holding on to hope that one day he’ll understand my motives and lessen the burden of his hate for me.
“Are you coming for drinks tonight?” calls out Rob.
“Sure… You’re buying, right?”
“After you turned in a piece like that? Damn straight I am.”
“I’ll see you at six.”
I make my way along the hallway and back to my desk, pausing for a moment to take in the sprawling Miami skyline.
I know he’s out there.
Sometimes, when I’m watching the news, I’ll find myself face to face with the hallmarks of his handiwork: The African dictator cut down in a hail of bullets, the rogue sniper who assassinated a wanted terrorist. He’s still slaking his bloodlust. He still hasn’t broken the cycle, but perhaps in time…
In the immediate weeks and months following that night, I found myself questioning my place in the world and my whole identity. How could I profess to be a good person, and then kill a man and feel no remorse for it? How could I love a man like him?
I’m still searching for the answer to that. I guess we’re all flawed and broken in some way, and it’s up to us to find happiness in the unlikeliest of places. Sometimes in the unlikeliest of men.
My pulse begins to quicken when I think about his hard body and those deliciously tense moments right before he thrusts inside me.
I miss his touch, his scent, his words .
I miss the way he makes my body scream.
I miss the dark and dirty way he twists my emotions to satisfy his every whim.
I miss how he pushes me to my limits and beyond, smashing through my barriers in his haste to claim me. Like I’m the only woman alive who can calm the storm that’s raging inside.
I close my eyes and touch my necklace again, willing the beat between my legs to fade. Maybe it’s okay to hover on the edge of morality for Dante Santiago. We will never be conventional, after all.
My dangerous lover.
My reason for living.
“Where are you, Dante?” I murmur for the twentieth time that day. And just like before, I swear I hear him answering me from the shadows:
“ I’m here with you, my angel… Always.”