Chapter 5
Chapter Five
I don’t recognize the hotel we arrive at.
It’s not one of the big casinos that dominate the Atlantic City skyline.
This hotel is smaller. More discreet and with an old money vibe.
The facade is elegant but understated, with cream-colored stone, wrought-iron balconies, and the kind of architectural details that suggest it was built over a century ago.
It’s called The Obsidian, according to the bronze letters lit by a backlight so that they seem to glow above the entrance. And looking at it, that name seems to fit.
A doorman in a crisp uniform stands at the main entrance, but the car goes right past him, pulling around instead to a side entrance. The driver gets out, circles the car, then opens Gabriel’s door.
Gabriel climbs out without even a glance back at me.
I consider just staying in the car, but since that would just piss him off, I follow, sliding across the bench seat with my heart pounding.
Besides, despite Gabe’s strange distance and horrible accusations, I’m curious.
Or maybe that distance and the hard look in his eyes are the reasons I’m curious.
Either way, I’m not losing him again.
The side door leads into a service corridor with poured concrete floors and fluorescent lights. I don’t see even a hint of the elegance outside. Not surprising, though, since we’re apparently in the bowels of the building.
But why? Why are we here at all?
Gabriel walks fast, and I have to practically jog to keep up with his long strides.
“Gabriel, wait—”
He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all. Just keeps walking, leading me deeper into the building.
The corridor gets even less polished as we go. The industrial carpet gives way to bare concrete. The already unimpressive sconces replaced by harsh overhead bulbs. Even the air changes, taking on the slightly damp quality of a laundry room.
Despite a million questions, I stay quiet and follow him onto a service elevator.
Gabriel punches the button for SB2, and the elevator descends with a mechanical groan as the voices in my head bombard me with questions—What is this place?
Where is he taking me? Why won’t he just freaking talk to me?
I don’t know. And worst of all is the truly dark question that keeps repeating itself—is he going to hurt me?
I tell myself no. If that was his plan, he would have done it already. Would have had the driver pull over to the side of the road and then used his well-known temper to do more than a little damage.
The thought makes me shudder. No. He wouldn’t do that. No matter what he thinks, he wouldn’t do that to me.
I hope I’m right. I think I am. But at the same time, there are a lot of ways to hurt someone that don’t inflict bruises or break bones. And I don’t know this Gabriel anymore.
I realize my pulse is pattering along in double-time, and I try to breathe and calm myself. It’s not easy. This is Gabe, and I’m teetering on terrified.
How is this even possible?
Another breath. Another reminder to myself to just stay calm.
So far, I’ve been more curious than scared. More in shock than in distress.
Now though…now I’m starting to think a healthy dose of terror might be called for.
I’ve never wanted to be wrong more in my life.
That’s when the doors slide open onto Sub-basement 2, and I stare into a completely different world.
“Welcome to The Beast,” Gabriel says. “Or one level of it. My club.” His voice is flat, like he’s daring me to be impressed. Or horrified. Or to comment on the club’s name. Maybe all three.
Honestly, I don’t know what I expected. I was already in Wonderland, after all. Maybe I assumed we were going down into a storage facility. Someplace where he could lock me in a box, then toss me away. Or even just something mundane like a parking garage.
This is none of those things, and I hurry to catch up to him while taking it all in.
The place is like something from a noir movie—all exposed brick and dramatic shadows cast by pools of amber light. The distant thump of a musical bass line vibrates through the concrete floor. And somewhere deeper in the building, people are talking. Even laughing.
A speakeasy, maybe?
I jump from a sudden roar—crowd noise, boisterous and drunk—followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the ground. So, apparently not a speakeasy.
I frown, wanting to ask Gabriel, but I’ve already figured out that he’ll tell me only what he wants to tell me—and that only in his own sweet time.
I quicken my pace so I can get a bit ahead of him, then catch his eye. “All right. I give up. What is this place?”
He holds my gaze for exactly one beat, then looks away, very pointedly not answering me.
Seriously, what the fuck?
Is he trying to intimidate me? To freak me out?
Yes, dummy, my better angel whispers. What reality have you been living in?
I grimace because, well, yeah. Duh.
But screw it and screw him. I have absolutely no intention of giving him the pleasure of watching me gawk and gape. So I do my best to look bland. Not impressed or intrigued. Just hanging out. Just existing. As if this place isn’t a walking question mark on the forehead of the man I love.
Or, rather, on the man I used to love.
Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t know this Gabriel.
More, I’m starting to fear that the tidal wave of hope I’d felt upon getting Leo’s text was premature.
That my Gabriel really did die in that fire, and this man in Gabriel’s clothing rose from the ashes, a new man whom I don’t know, and who doesn’t love me.
No.
I can’t believe that. I won’t believe it.
Somewhere in this Gabriel-clone is the man I love. He’s traumatized, yes. But I’ll fight for him.
I’ll get him back.
I will. Because I don’t think I can survive losing him all over again.
As we continue to move, we pass a doorway, and through it, I catch a glimpse of what looks like a high-stakes poker game—men in expensive suits gathered around a table covered in chips, the air hazy with cigar smoke, the tension palpable even from here.
Another doorway. Another glimpse. This time it’s a bar—sleek and sophisticated, all dark wood and leather, with beautiful people draped over beautiful furniture while bartenders in black mix drinks with exotic colors and pour shots of whiskey for the hard-core patrons.
Then we pass a doorway that opens onto a sight that makes my breath catch.
A boxing ring.
Not the kind you’d find in a gym. This is something else entirely—a raised platform surrounded by well-dressed spectators, two men circling each other with bare fists, blood already speckling the canvas beneath their feet.
I can barely see through the crowd that watches with the kind of avid attention usually reserved for high-stakes auctions.
They’re betting on this, I realize. They’re betting on men beating each other bloody.
“What is this place?” The question comes out barely above a whisper.
I glance at Gabriel, and something that might be amusement flickers across his face. “Home,” he says, and keeps walking, until we finally arrive at a door at the end of a very long corridor.
He unlocks it with a keycard and holds the door open, waiting.
I draw a wary breath, then step inside.
The space is Spartan. Expensive, but cold. And small.
A leather sofa in charcoal gray. A bar cart stocked with top-shelf liquor. Floor-to-ceiling screens on one wall, currently dark. Everything sleek and modern and completely lacking in personality.
Home, he’d said? The hell with that. This isn’t the home of the man I’d loved.
Gabriel’s apartment in Manhattan had been a glorious disaster—canvases stacked against every wall, paint-splattered drop cloths covering the furniture only when he remembered, half-finished sketches papering every available surface.
The smell of turpentine and linseed oil.
The sound of classical music or brutal hard rock playing while he worked.
The feeling that here was a space where creativity and passion came to party.
This place has no passion. No creativity. No life at all.
It’s a bunker. Hell, it’s a lair.
There’s no art on the walls. No books, no plants. Not even a magazine or a grocery bag. Absolutely no evidence that anyone actually lives here.
Except—
There’s one photograph, taped to the wall near the dark screens.
The paper is crumpled—like someone balled it up, then changed their mind.
From where I stand, I can’t tell what it is because the image is hidden by the shadows cast by the crinkles.
Still, there’s something about it that feels familiar.
I glance toward Gabe, and when he stays perfectly still and silent, I walk toward the wall, curiosity pushing me forward.
It only takes two steps before the shadows shift.
That’s when I see it.
My body tightens, and I suck in a stuttering breath.
Me. David.
Our kiss for the cameras only hours ago.
My stomach twists— I know why the paper’s creased. He crumpled it. Twisted it. Treated it like trash.
And then he taped it to the wall.
I turn toward him, part of me wanting to cry. Part of me wanting to race out of here.
All of me wanting answers.
I thrust a finger at him like an accusation. “You were there. And you just stood in a corner and watched.”
“I wasn’t in the mood to greet old friends.”
A shiver cuts through me. He’d been there. Right there. But he’d never said a word to me.
I want to go to him. To shake him. To ask him to please, please tell me what is wrong with him. Why aren’t I in his arms right now? Hell, why aren’t I in his bed?
Why is he being this way?
But I ask nothing. I’m too scared of the answers.
Instead, I whisper, “You bastard.”
He stays silent, but takes one single step toward me. As he moves, the overhead light catches that scar on his cheek like a warning.
“Now, sweetheart,” he says, and his voice is so cold it makes me shiver. “I think it’s time for you to explain—in excruciating detail—exactly why the fuck you tried to kill me.”