Chapter 11
ELEVEN
SEBASTIAN
Shame is an emotion I’m well acquainted with, but this time it’s different.
I’ve never been ashamed of myself, disgusted with myself, the way I am as I get out of the shower, dry off and dress. It feels wrong to seek Nicolo out after what I thought about, what I did in the shower. But I know if I don’t, he’ll start to worry.
I find him in the kitchen, hair damp and plastered to his forehead, face flushed, drying the dishes. I roll my eyes. “You could’ve put them in the dishwasher.”
“It’s fine,” he says, shoving a plate in the wrong cabinet.
“Do you want to shower while I finish up here?” I ask.
Today has been a lot for both of us. We’re running high on emotions, trying to find our new normal. Jerking off in the shower while imagining my little brother with his legs wrapped around my waist, begging me to fuck him harder is about as far away from normal as one can get. I’m calling it a crime of passion that got out of hand, and never telling a soul the sick shit I thought about doing tonight.
“Yeah. Okay.” Nicolo shoves the cloth he’s using into my hands and hurries from the kitchen. I frown, but maybe he just needs a minute to himself.
I dry the dishes, and when he’s still not back, do what I should’ve done hours ago. As soon as Nicolo recognized me at the recreational center. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I unlock my phone and navigate to a number I rarely use.
Calling the US Marshals Service once a year to update my handler is bad enough. Doing it with Nicolo in the next room, not entirely sure if they’ll let him come with me when they descend to drag me to a secure, undisclosed location while they scrub my current identity and create another one, has a nervous sweat breaking out on the back of my neck.
I take a deep breath and tap the number. The line rings, and a moment later, a crisp feminine voice says, “US Marshals Service. How many I direct your call?”
The expected song and dance takes a few minutes, but before long the familiar rumble on the other end of the line has me on the verge of hanging up.
What if they don’t let Nicolo relocate with me and I can’t protect him? It’s too late to question myself. If they refuse to relocate him with me, I can refuse to go with them. Forfeit any and all protection and assistance provided by the Marshals. Hope for the best. Plan for the worst. Since he’s considered immediate family, though, most likely they will let him come with me.
Besides, it’s better to know now, when we’re not in danger, than to find out later when we are.
“Henry. You’re the last person I expected to hear from.”
“Hi, Simon. My identity has been uh . . . compromised.” There’s no better way to say it. He sucks in a sharp breath, and I rush to fill the silence. “There’s no present danger. Just . . . Nicolo—my little brother. He’s attending Oregon State University and signed up for one of my self-defense classes . . .”
Simon swears, a low but long line of profanity. “Does the Family know where you are? Where he is?”
“I don’t know. His—our mother argued against his baptism. He’s been shelved, so to speak. But Vincent could change his mind at any time.”
There’s no way in hell—after everything I did to protect Nicolo, now that he’s out, really, truly, one hundred percent out—I’m going to let him be dragged back into the fold.
I already sacrificed one life for him; doing it again is, in some ways, easier because this time—hopefully—he’ll be coming with me. Or I’ll be running away with him, to a faraway country Vincent will never think to search for us.
“Pack. I’ll take the next flight. Is he coming with you?”
I blow out a breath, some of the tension leaking out of my shoulders, and look up. Nicolo is frozen in the doorway. His eyes are wide, lips parted, and he’s breathing heavily as his pink flush from the warm shower darkens into a horrifying shade of red. Despite the relief my body just achieved, the sight of him, looking like that, has my cock twitching in my basketball shorts.
His hair is still damp, water dripping from the tips to land on the shirt he’s wearing. One of the MMA shirts I often wear to work. It hangs to his thighs and—fuck, does he have anything on under it?
“Yes,” I choke out while holding Nicolo’s gaze. “He’s coming with me.”
Nicolo braces his weight against the doorframe, his knees seemingly no longer able to support his weight as he pants for breath.
“Be ready to go when I arrive. I’ll text when I’m thirty minutes out.” Simon hangs up.
I toss my phone onto the counter and hold my hands out to Nicolo. No matter how confused my body is, I’m not. He’s my little brother and he needs me to offer him comfort and reassurance. “Come here, Nico.”
He stumbles out of the doorway and into my arms, body wracked with shudders even as he winds his arms around my midsection. “You’re leaving?”
The way his voice cracks has me pulling back, cupping his face in my hands. “We’re leaving. Together.”
A tear streaks down his cheek. “Promise?”
I nod and press my forehead against his. “I promise.” My shirt tightens across my shoulders as he fists the fabric. “We’ll be relocated tonight, stashed somewhere while they work out the details, before being punted into a new life.”
Not just a new life. A new everything. Henry Salman will disappear as if he never existed. Nicolo Rastelli will become a missing person if he opts out of telling Mother he’s being placed in Witness Protection.
Someone will pack our belongings and ship everything to us once we settle into our new identities. Everything I currently own will be sold, my bank account emptied, and the proceeds given to me since they aren’t illegally gotten gains.
Even though I’ll have money on hand, the Marshals Service will provide funds until I find a new job and settle into my new life alongside my brother.
As for Nicolo, I’ll make sure they make arrangements for him to attend online school like I did, or in-person classes if we’re placed in another college town.
“O—Okay.” He burrows under my chin and I wrap my arms around him, hold him tight until he’s not on the verge of crying or shaking out of his own skin.
He feels more like my little brother now, taking shelter in my arms, than he has since he showed up late this morning. Because this is who I am—not Sebastian Rastelli or Henry Salman or any other name I may be given. At the end of the day, I’m my little brother’s fiercest protector—his sword and his shield.
“Everything is going to be okay,” I whisper against his temple as I slip my hand under the shirt he’s wearing, ignoring the fact that no, he’s most certainly not wearing anything underneath it.
He sniffs and nods. “Do we get to choose our own names?”
“If we want.” Before, I simply let the Marshals do whatever they thought best. This time, maybe I’d have an opinion about one or two things. Like my own name. Being called Sebastian again won’t be so bad, not when Nicolo will probably struggle to call me anything else.