“He what?” My head spins. “He stayed with me when I had the fever?”
Sal drops his gaze. “Fuck, Iris. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Sal?”
“He wouldn't let any of us sit with you. Jackson wanted to keep you here, but el Fantasma arranged for your transfer to the cabin. He’s the one who administered the antibiotics and nursed you back to health. I know this because I hand-delivered clean linens and meals. He slept on the floor, Iris.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me this before now?” My hands fly to my cheeks, causing me to wince when I slap my wound.
“Look, I’ve stepped over the line. He’ll kill me if he finds out I blabbed.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Fuck, you can’t let on that I told you.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word, Sal.” My heartbeat stalls and restarts. It was Dante all along. “What happened to him? I can sense there’s a good guy beneath all that bravado. Do you know why he’s so broken?”
He shakes his head. “Broken men are dangerous because they have nothing to lose. Once they gain something to protect, they become fucking lethal.” Sal glances over his shoulder, checking that we’re alone. “I’ve known him for a few years, and he’s never opened up. Carina has a girly way about her which he responds to—like an uncle or elder brother. They talk about her future. Never about his past. I just know it was something bad. Something that tore him apart.”
My knees turn to jelly and a dull throb builds at my temples. “I’ll use the bathroom, and then I’ll make a start on cabin ten.”
Sal runs a hand down his face. “Sure. Okay.” His heavy sigh is acceptance of his choice to divulge the unbelievable truth.
He was my hero and my prison guard.
I manage to walk the breadth of the room without crashing to my knees. Dante pretends to be evil. He’s erected impenetrable walls of self-protection. That same complicated man is fighting natural instincts, warring with inner demons, and safeguarding his heart with boundaries and rules.
Rules he evidently struggles to obey.
That doesn’t change how he’s wiped out my life and clipped my wings. I should loathe him for that alone.
Dazed and lost in thought, my feet carry me to the elegant bathroom. Granite countertops and lacquered stalls are nothing less than immaculate. A duo of floral hand wash and moisturizer line the basin, and still no mirrors.
My mind runs riot. Am I really this naïve? To think he has salvageable qualities. I desperately wish that to be true. I grunt with disgust at my immaturity. This is a perilous situation, with genuine emotions and a slack tightrope hanging in the treetops. One wrong foot and he’ll not just talk about my death, he’ll plan it.
I’m nothing special to him.
He trusted me to catch him.
My turmoil is justified.
El Fantasma is the one who dictates. He lays down the law. He demands respect. He offers nothing and takes everything. Even his nightly visits were under his control. I don’t pity the man; I pity the twenty-three-year-old woman with an infatuation for his alter ego, Dante.
Moments pass with my hands under the waterfall faucet. I miss gazing in a mirror at my unruly spirals and faint scattering of freckles. That’s how I recognize myself. Without that image, I don’t know who I am now or who I’m becoming. My identity has altered, and I haven't been privy to the change. I crave to see the grotesque cut carved into my skin. He must wince at the ugliness. Recoil at the imperfection. I’d give anything to find out how unsightly it really is.
We’ve both suffered.
We’re both damaged.
His bitterness bleeds into his veins.
Mine has been watered down to unshed tears.
Wiping my hands on a square of muslin, I toss it into the designated laundry basket and break out into the hallway. Instead of going back to reception, I wander further into the warren of corridors. His distinct fluid accent draws me closer to Jackson’s office. It is destruction anointed as seduction.
“That’s two lives taken care of. I’m sure that will send a message to the other two motherfuckers.”
“How did this one respond to justice?” Jackson’s blue-blooded baritone is more friendly than thuggish.
Dante sneers. “The loser thought it was his lucky fucking year. We set up a trap in a swanky hotel room. We invited him to a VIP party, which turned out to be a party for two. He was bitterly disgruntled when the lines of cocaine were toxic, and the hookers were knuckle dusters. The prick ruined my life for tits and grams. He aimed for the high life, and I gifted him a ticket to an early grave instead.” He laughs coldly. “My guy secured his wrists with a thin wire and roughed him up. As evidence, he filmed the asshole in a puddle of blood, his own blood, choking like a gutted fish. Putting a bullet in his tiny brain was a satisfactory conclusion to the fucker’s pathetic life.”
Horror scurries under my skin like an infestation of insects ready to mutate. The beast in Dante is real, whether or not I choose to ignore it.
“I can’t believe our guest had no information.” A sigh follows a rattle of metal.
“What a waste of time. He didn’t know who gave Miguel the order to come after me.”
“There is one option, Dante.”
“And that is?”
“Bring him here. Find out for yourself.”
There’s an eerie hush. “I don’t know if I could let him live long enough to dig into the truth.”
“What other choice do you have?”
“I don’t. But . . . here?”
“He’s going to die, either here or out there.”
“I guess it would be more pleasurable to deal with him up close and personal. It has a better ring of retribution to it. I just swore I’d never have the fucker anywhere near my home.”
“It’s the only way, now that you’ve hit a brick wall with the investigation. What about the girl?”
I suck in and bite my lip in anticipation. There’s a heartbeat of silence before Dante clears his throat. “Her wound is healing nicely.”
My heart thuds. I lean my shoulder into the doorjamb for support. Waiting for his answer shows how damn feeble I’ve become. How insanely jinxed this oasis has made me. My need to hear the answer drowns me in shame.
“That’s not what I mean, Dante, and you know it.”
“What do you want me to say? We both know there’s no place for her here.” Tin clanks and a drawer slams shut. “Especially if Miguel crosses over onto my territory.”
“Then why is she still here?”
“Because I’m not ready to let her go.”
“Not ready or don’t want to?”
“I’ve got six months to figure it out.”
I roll my spine into the wall and swallow a muted sob. My shirt collar tightens around my throat, and the scent of sterile cleaning solution turns sickly. He’s right. There is no place for me in his world. Not when he’s associated with organized crime and brutal murders.
The ruthless man treats me like a caged bird. Yet that same guy retrieved my journal, of all the things he could salvage, and kept it safe before handing it back. He left me alone at my request.