Chapter 12
TWELVE
NICOLO RASTELLI
From brown cardboard boxes to black fabric duffle bags.
If I’d known Sebastian was going to call the Marshals Service, I wouldn’t have unpacked. If Sebastian had known he was going to call the Marshals, he would’ve told me not to bother because we’d have hours to decide what we want to take with us, and what we’re okay receiving at a later date.
The only good thing about him not taking more time to think about what to do, the best way to keep us together and safe, is that I don’t have time to think about what I witnessed—what I did —while Sebastian was in the shower.
We fit what we can into the duffle bags, and I quietly accept leaving the rest behind.
The one thing we can’t take, even if they can fit in our bags, is any electronics. No phones. No smartwatches. No tablet. No computer. Not even my eReader. Basically, nothing that can connect to the internet.
Sebastian shows me how to move all my important files onto a USB drive.
It won’t just be new names we receive. New numbers, emails, bank accounts—the whole works. Henry Salman and Nicolo Rastelli will disappear, never to be seen or heard from again.
From here on out, neither of us can have social media accounts. Or, I suppose we can but not splashing our new identity with our old face all over the internet is probably a good idea. One reverse image search and we’ll be packing our bags and disappearing again.
I should’ve been upset—furious at Sebastian for making a final decision that impacts us both without even speaking to me beforehand—but I’m not. I understand why he called his handler.
For the last ten years, he’s lived out from under the Family’s long shadow, safe from them because they assume he’s dead. My presence endangers him, the life he’s built for himself. I’m not stupid enough to believe Mom and Uncle Vincent don’t know where I am, even if I’d like to pretend otherwise.
As Sebastian throws food that doesn’t travel well or will expire quickly into the garbage, he doesn’t seem upset. Focused on his task, but otherwise no different than he has been most of the day.
He must be a little upset though, right? He owns his home and business, has friends and acquaintances—a whole life he’s forced to leave behind because I darkened his doorstep. Does he wish I wasn’t here? Or is he distracted by thoughts of what he did in the shower earlier?
“Sebastian?” I shift on the barstool I’m perched on and push around the fruit on my plate. It’s not as if I’m hungry, not since we just ate. Sebastian just set the food in front of me before he started throwing things away.
He glances over his shoulder. “Doing okay?”
I shrug. “I guess. Just . . . I’m sorry.”
He pauses as his brow furrows. “For what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”
The fact he believes I haven’t done anything is astounding. He doesn’t know I watched him touch himself, but he knows I’ve torpedoed his life as Henry Salman.
Part of me is over the moon to know Sebastian is alive and well—to be here with my big brother again—but I still feel ashamed of watching him earlier, and guilty now that he has to leave his whole life behind. If not for me, he’d probably be settling in for a day at home, not preparing to abandon it.
“You’re not mad about all this?” I gesture to our bags, already set by the door and waiting to be taken with us when we leave.
“Nicolo.” Sebastian shuts the refrigerator and comes around the counter before pulling me against his chest. I curl into him, breathing in the scent of his soap—a different brand than he used as a teenager—and soaking in the warmth he emits.
I shouldn’t, not after earlier, but I can’t help myself.
The need to be close to him hasn’t lessened in the slightest. If anything, it’s worse now than it was before I jerked off while watching him jerk off.
“I always knew one day my identity could be compromised. That I’d have to pack up, sell the house and the gym, and start over somewhere new.” He pushes me back and tips my head up.
“It sucks because settling in somewhere else is going to be a massive pain in the neck—buying a new house, finding a building, rebranding . . .”
His gaze goes unfocused before he shakes himself. “It won’t be easy, not by a long shot, but having you there with me, knowing we’re both safe from the Family—” He shrugs as he cups my face in his warm palm. “Letting this life go so I can build one that has you in it, honestly, is not a hardship.”
I surge forward and wrap my arms around his neck. He grunts but holds my weight easily as I climb him like a tree. “I’m really glad I’m coming with you.”
“Me too.” His hands fall to my thighs before he sits me on the counter. “And if you’re worried about college, don’t be. The Marshals will set you up with an online school if you prefer, or relocate us near another college town if we ask.”
I nod and rest against him. Sebastian’s hands span my midsection before creeping under the shirt I’m wearing. It’s one I took from his side of the closet after my shower. The fabric is well worn and soft—smells like the detergent he prefers, and him.
“Did you go to school?” I mutter against his throat.
Sebastian shudders, presses against me but quickly pulls back, turns away and makes a beeline for the fridge. I miss his warmth, the comfort of his hold, but don’t follow and beg him to never let me go. “During the trial, I took some classes online, but afterwards, as Henry, I attended Oregon State.”
“What did you get your degree in?” I kick my feet and my heels tap against the counter while he works to throw more food away.
“Eat.” He points at my plate. “I majored in business.” His laugh is dark. “The legitimate kind, with a minor in accounting.”
I blow out a breath and ignore the fruit. “I thought about psychology but Oregon State has a really good business major program.”
Sebastian empties a drawer of vegetables into the trash. “They have a good psychology program too though.”
“Yeah. No. I know, but—” I smooth my hands over my thighs and pick at the fabric. “It felt dumb to go for psychology. What right do I have to advise anyone on their mental health when mine is a shit show?”
“I think a lot of people who are struggling with their mental health would benefit from talking to a licensed professional who can empathize with their struggle. Give it some thought. Yeah?”
“You really think so?”
“I do.” Sebastian shuts the empty fridge and ties off the overstuffed trash bag. A knock on the front door echoes through the house. I suck in a sharp breath and slip off the counter. The tile is cold under my bare feet.
Sebastian digs in his pocket and pulls his phone out. “It’s just Simon.”
“Are you sure he’s going to let me come?”
“I’m not going anywhere without you, Nicolo.”
I choose to believe him because thus far he hasn’t given me a reason not to.