Denial (Careless Whispers #1)(35)

“Anything?” Kayden asks.

I shake my head and look up at him. “No, but you just said my memory is not working right. Maybe it’s not. I mean, Niccolo is hunting me.”

“I’m not convinced it’s because you tried to kill him.”

“Then why would he be chasing me?” I ask.

“That’s what we need to find out.”

“What if ‘he’ was someone close to Niccolo?”

“We’ll go through pictures of everyone close to him once we’re at my place.”

“Go home with you?” I say. “Are you crazy? You have to see that I can’t do that now. I have to go underground.”

“Gallo won’t leave this alone if you do. He’ll chase you down and document it all.”

“I can call him. I’ll convince him I’m fine.”

“He won’t settle for a phone call that could be coerced. Even seeing you in person, he’s going to check every piece of your puzzle. You need to hide in plain sight, exactly where no one will expect Ella to be. And you do it with me.”

“Adriel could have died instead of those men. Anyone around me is in danger.”

“They have to find you first, and obviously I don’t believe that’s going to happen.” He stands and takes me with him. “Let’s give Matteo his house back and go to mine.”

“You’re sure I shouldn’t go underground?”

“I never say anything I’m not sure of.” He reaches down and laces his fingers with mine and starts walking toward the door, and I let him for one reason and one reason only: if he’s wrong, we’re both dead. I can’t think of any agenda he could have that makes that work for him.



An hour later, Kayden and I are in the Rolls-Royce again, and he pulls us out of the garage, into a downpour. “I can’t believe it’s still raining like this,” I say, watching the splatter hit the front window over and over.

“Be glad it is,” he says, cutting onto a narrow road I assume leads to one that’s more drivable. “Because I promise you, the weather made the search for you a little less aggressive and bought us some time.” He motions to the file. “Test time. Full name?”

“Rae Eleana Ward,” I answer as he turns onto yet another narrow road.

“Birthday?”

“July 20, 1988,” I answer, and suck in a breath as he maneuvers the car around a corner and onto a path so narrow I am certain we’re going to crash. “Holy crap,” I say, grabbing the door handle. “Are all the streets this narrow?”

“Most of them, yes.” He cuts me a sideways look. “Makes you appreciate my motorcycle a little more now, doesn’t it?”

“I’d rather walk, thank you.”

“Motorcycles are fast and efficient. You’ll get used to riding them.”

“No,” I say, a thought hitting me. “I can’t get used to anything. My passport is only good for ninety days.”

“I have a plan,” he says. “I always have a plan.”

“Matteo?”

“Yes. Matteo.”

We take another crazy narrow turn and I cover my eyes. “Yep. Walking for me.”

“Walking’s certainly popular here. In fact, you can’t drive in certain neighborhoods, this one included, unless you live in the area and have approved plates.”

“What neighborhood is this?”

“It’s called Trastevere, and thanks to several American colleges in the area, it has a large population of English speakers.”

“I’m relieved to know I’m not such an outsider here. Do people speak English near your house?”

“It’s not as English-friendly as Trastevere, but it’s close. And we’re here.” He cuts into a driveway, and I gape at the towering structure in front of me, two steps barely visible in the midst of the rapidly falling rain.

“Kayden. It’s a castle.”

“This area is largely medieval, but yes. It’s a castle, and it has one of the few garages in the neighborhood.” He hits a button and a door begins to rise.

“I can’t imagine living in a castle,” I say. “Is it remodeled like Matteo’s place?”

He makes a disgusted sound and pulls out of the storm to drive down a ramp. “I wouldn’t destroy history the way Matteo has in a place that was once a work of art. I’ve done some restoration work, but made an effort to keep the original architecture in place.”

“How long have you lived here?” I ask. The garage is big enough to hold a mini car lot inside, and from what I can tell from the rows of sport vehicles and motorcycles, it does. He hits the button to seal us inside and kills the engine. “I inherited the castle five years ago.”

Inherited. The meaning of that word is unmistakable. Someone died, and some part of me aches with a hurt that runs deeper than the moment. I cut him a look to find him resting his wrist on the steering wheel, staring ahead. “Are you alone, like me?”

“Not like you,” he says, still not looking at me, his body rigid, like his voice. “No one I’ve lost is coming back.”

My gut twists into knots, and I look away, wondering about the family I may have lost. No. I have lost. “Mine are gone, too,” I say, my voice cracking with the admission.