Page 21 of Dante

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I just want him gone.

Forty-eight hours.

I can survive forty-eight hours.

I've survived worse.

My right hand cramps. I flex it automatically. Work the fingers. Press my thumb into the palm the way the physical therapist taught me.

The hand that doesn't work right anymore.

Because of his world.

Because of?—

I stop.

Something cold settles in my stomach.

How did he know where I live?

The question hits me like a slap. Sharp. Sudden. Obvious in a way that makes me feel stupid for not thinking of it sooner.

I moved to Denver back then. New city. New apartment. New life. I didn't tell anyone from Chicago where I was going. Didn't post about it on social media. Didn't leave a forwarding address.

I disappeared.

On purpose.

Because I wanted to get away from that world. From those people. From everything that happened.

Sophia knows where I live. Of course she does. She's my best friend. She's been here.

But Sophia promised.

She promised she wouldn't tell anyone. Not Lorenzo. Not the family. Not anyone connected to that life.

And I believe her.

Sophia doesn't break promises. Not to me. Not ever.

So how the fuck did Dante end up at my door?

I stare at him.

At his unconscious face. His closed eyes. His slightly parted lips.

He knew.

He knew exactly where to find me.

Not just the city. Not just the neighborhood. My apartment. My door. Four flights up in a building with no elevator and nodoorman and nothing to distinguish it from a hundred other buildings in Capitol Hill.

He came straight here.

Bleeding. Dying. With a bullet in his side and God knows how many other options.

He came to me.

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