Chapter 9
NINE
Dante didn't give her time to think; his hand closed around her elbow, not rough but unyielding. He guided her out the front door, down the steps, and into the open air where the pale wash of morning made everything look exposed.
Jessica moved with him, her body keeping pace even as it seemed her mind lagged somewhere behind, caught in the echo of the gunshot she'd fired.
“Dante—” she started, her voice thin.
“We gotta get the fuck out of here,” he said, not raising his voice. “Now.”
She hesitated at the curb, glancing back despite everything, and he followed her line of sight for half a second.
Then he opened the passenger door and guided her in, his hand steady at her shoulder until she sat.
Her movements were automatic, like she was following instructions she hadn't consciously heard.
She stared straight ahead, breathing shallowly, her fingers curling into the hem of her dress.
He leaned in to fasten the seatbelt, and she flinched, just slightly, but enough that he felt it.
He pulled away from her immediately, shutting the door with more care than necessary, then circled the car and slid into the driver's seat, the familiar feel of it grounding him in a way nothing else had since he'd heard her voice again.
Only once the engine turned over and they were moving did he let himself breathe.
Jessica sat rigid beside him, her hands clenched together, her gaze fixed on the windshield as if looking anywhere else might fracture whatever control she still had.
“I have to call Trent. He'll think I've been kidnapped.”
“No.” Dante's grip tightened on the wheel, his knuckles whitening.
“He's a cop, Dante. He can help.”
“He's a joke,” Dante shot back, the anger rising fast. “And I'd bet money he's the reason they found you in the first place.”
Her eyes narrowed and she gave a quick shake of her head. “What are you talking about?”
“He's got gambling problems bad enough that people talk about it, and the only reason you haven't heard is because no one wanted to be the one to tell you.”
Jessica's expression shifted, confusion cutting through the fear for just a second. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Word gets around when a cop starts owing the wrong people money.”
She shook her head again, but he couldn't tell if she were disagreeing or just being stubborn.
“He doesn't know you, Julia,” Dante added, quieter now, her old name slipping out before he could stop it. “He knows whatever version of you you've been selling.”
She leaned back into the seat as if it had weight, her voice steadier now but colder. “You don't know him.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“And you don't get to decide who I trust.”
A humorless laugh slipped out of him. “You're still choosing men who make you feel safe,” he said, and even as he said it, he knew he wasn't talking about Trent anymore.
Her gaze shifted to him then, sharp despite everything. “Is that supposed to be about him,” she asked, her voice dropping, “or about you?”
The light ahead turned red, and Dante braked harder than necessary, the car jolting as it stopped.
Her hands were shaking now, no way to hide it.
“Jessica,” he said, the edge gone from his voice whether he wanted it gone or not.
“I'm fine.”
She clearly wasn't. He pulled into the first empty lot he saw and killed the engine.
“Hey,” he said, quieter now, turning toward her. “Look at me.”
She tried but couldn't quite meet his gaze.
He reached across the console and wrapped his hand around her forearm, firm enough to ground her without trapping her.
“Breathe,” he said. “With me.”
Her breath stuttered at first, catching on something, then slowly began to follow his rhythm.
She leaned forward without meaning to, her forehead brushing his shoulder. The contact was brief, almost nothing, but it tore through him anyway, straight down to the places he'd spent two years pretending didn't exist.
He didn't move.
Up close, he saw everything he'd been trying not to imagine—her soft, wavy hair, her impossibly blue eyes, her incredible body beneath the hugging fabric of that ridiculous sparkly dress. She was still the girl he’d pressed against his car on a summer night many years ago.
Still the one who had looked at him like he was something worth believing in.
For a second, he forgot why they'd ever let each other go.
Then she pulled back, and the moment broke.
“This is all your fault,” she said quietly.
He nodded, because there was no version of this where he didn't own at least a part of it. “I know.”
Silence stretched between them. He started the engine again, the decision already made whether she liked it or not. “We're going to Santiago's,” he said.
Her head turned sharply toward him. “No.”
“Yes.”
“It's not safe.”
She was right. Bringing this to Santiago's door went against every instinct he had, every line he'd drawn about keeping his brother out of the messes he'd made of his own life.
But everywhere else was worse. At least at Santiago's, they'd see trouble coming.
At least there, Dante could stand his ground.
“No, it's not,” he said, glancing at her. “But it buys us time. Right now, that's all I need.”
“He hates me.”
“He doesn't hate you,” Dante said, though even to his own ears it sounded like he was negotiating with something he didn't fully believe. After a beat, he added, “He just doesn't forgive you.”
“That's the same thing. Actually, it's worse.”
“Call it whatever you want,” Dante replied, pulling back onto the road. “He's my brother, and right now he's the only person I trust to keep you alive.”
She looked at him then, really looked, like she was trying to decide whether that was true.
He didn't look back.