CHAPTER 28 MAURO
Present Day
I curl my hands into fists, staring at the two cars as I weigh my options, and that's when I see one of the doors swing open.
One of Rocco's closest men steps out, his loyal soldier, Nico Rossi.
Both of his hands are raised as he walks toward my Jeep.
I watch him carefully, every muscle in my body tense, but he doesn't appear to be armed. I keep my pistol in a firm grip, angled so he knows that if he tries anything, I'll react with deadly force. With my free hand, I quickly type a message into my phone.
"Stay at least fifteen feet away from me."
"Mauro," Nico says, "I'm here on Rocco's behalf. He wants to talk to you."
I roll my eyes because I have absolutely no interest in hearing anything Rocco has to say, then type my reply.
"I'm not talking to him. Funny how he changed his mind so fast and suddenly wants a conversation."
Surprise flickers across Nico's face before he frowns.
"Changed his mind?"
I let out a frustrated breath.
"I'm not playing these games. I have nothing to say to him. The only thing I want is Jared’s safety. I couldn't care less about Rocco. As far as I'm concerned, he can rot."
Nico sighs.
"He just wants a few words with you. Jared is free."
That stops me cold.
What? Why? How?
I type another response.
"Doesn't matter. I still have nothing to say to him. Move your cars, or none of you are going to like what happens next. I'm not backing down."
At that exact moment, the passenger door opens, and Rocco himself steps out.
My eyes bulge. What the fuck?
"Nico, get back in the car!"
His voice carries clearly across the distance. It's calm, almost unnaturally calm, nothing like the Rocco I know.
I stare at him in disbelief because the last time I saw him, maybe four minutes ago, he was speeding away in his Mercedes with half his shirt soaked in blood.
But that's not even the strangest part.
The scar… is gone.
It's Rocco in every other detail: the same face, the same build, the same movements, except the deep scar that has always split his face simply isn't there.
What the hell is this? Some kind of prosthetic? Makeup? None of it makes any sense. How did he even have time to put it on?
Nico climbs back into the car, and from farther away I hear Rocco call out.
"I'm unarmed. I just want to talk for a few minutes, then we'll all go our separate ways."
"Where did you leave Jared?" I crank my speech synthesizer up to its maximum volume.
"Jared is safe. He's still at Renato's estate. Nothing is going to happen to him."
The words refuse to fit with reality. A few minutes ago, he was threatening exactly the opposite, and now he's saying Jared is perfectly safe.
Am I dreaming?
Maybe it's the shock that keeps me from stopping him as he walks a little closer. His pace is slow and calm, and every instinct tells me this has to be another trap, another one of Rocco's twisted games. I'm not falling for it.
He stops about fifteen feet away from me, the same distance Nico kept.
"I made sure Jared would be safe," he says quietly.
"Believe me, I was given very different orders, but I never intended to carry them out.
If anything, I planned to sabotage them.
The only thing I want from you is… I need to know who my True Mate is.
Tell me his name, and everything between us ends here. "
My face must look completely ridiculous right now. My mouth is hanging open because absolutely none of this makes any sense.
"Who are you?" I type in. "Did Rocco hire himself a body double?"
The resemblance is too perfect, down to the smallest detail… except for the missing scar.
A faint shadow passes over his face, so subtle I might have missed it if I weren't watching him so closely, and I just know something here is terribly wrong.
"Just tell me his name," he says. "I have to know."
For several long seconds, I can't answer because this feels like some kind of glitch in reality. Nothing about this is possible.
"Tell me his name," he pleads, "or I'll be dead by tomorrow."
His voice breaks with desperation, and it doesn't sound like Rocco anymore. Or maybe I've simply never heard Rocco cry?
Well… except when we were children.
Back then he'd come home from our uncle Tito's sick little ‘training sessions’, and whatever that man forced him to witness and do shattered another piece of him every single time. Month after month, year after year, until there was nothing left inside him that wasn't twisted, broken, or rotted.
I was a small kid then, but I still remember him lying on the floor of his bedroom, trembling and crying for hours.
But that was a lifetime ago.
He was turned into a monster, and eventually he wore that skin with pride.
I start typing because I honestly have no idea what I'm supposed to think anymore.
"What new game is this, Rocco? Stop screwing with me, or I'll put a bullet through your head. This time I won't waste it on your vest."
I raise my pistol, aiming it squarely at his head, so he knows I'm not bluffing.
Rocco—or whoever this man really is—slowly lifts both hands.
"I'll explain everything," he says. "Give me five minutes, and after that… you can decide for yourself what happens next."