I say nothing, allowing him to draw the conclusion on his own.Prostitute. Call girl. Whore. How very fitting to describe it—in the end, that’s all I really ever was to Vinny. The explanation even ties in nicely with my bruised face and lack of proper clothing as well.
“Dante’s helping me,” I say, and for a second, I almost believe my own lie. “So I’d really prefer if you didn’t call the police...”
The devil’s brother says nothing. He merely watches me, and I can’t decipher any conclusions he comes to when he finally stands.
“Wait here,” he says before turning to the door.
“But—”
“Don’t move,” he says without turning around. “I’ll be right back.”
He leaves the door to the apartment open, allowing me to see him dart across the hall and open one of the other doors that appears to branch off the hallway. It’s about two doors down from the “showroom,” and I can’t suppress a shudder while my mind conjures what other secrets he might pull from this new Pandora’s box.
A bag, apparently. It’s small, made of plastic, and sporting the name of a grocery store on the front.
“It’s not much,” the man tells me while letting the handle dangle from his hand. “Just a few things I could bother sparing for now. I can bring more over later when I—”
“L-later?” I reach out for the bag as if taking it might be enough to make him leave. “You can’t—”
“I have some...business to take care of now,” he says with a wary glance over his shoulder. It’s the first sign of unease I’ve seen from him. Spraying graffiti in Vinny’s territory or even waltzing into Lucifer’s lair didn’t affect him as much. “But, when I’m done, I’ll come see you again. Seeing as how you’re here of your own volition, Dante shouldn’t have a problem if you have visitors. Right?”
It’s like he’s daring me to tell the truth, and for the life of me, I don’t know why I don’t. Lucifer’s nefarious intentions should be no concern of mine. The red-haired man doesn’t deserve any protection against a stranger who might not be able to stomach the idea of a tortured woman kept in the wings for his amusement.
I have every reason to come clean.
In the end, I wrap my fingers around the handles of the bag and carefully pull it toward me. It’s heavy. I hold both ends open to peek at what’s carefully packed inside it—what appear to be two sweatshirts, one red and one black, and a pair of jeans, which just may be small enough to fit around my waist at least. There’s also a pair of sandals and a canister of men’s deodorant still partially wrapped in packaging that sports the wordsTwo Pack!
Something foreign pools into my stomach. Gratitude? It’s been so long since I’ve felt it. While the items might not seem like much to anyone else, I suspect that they were what few things in the world he had but was still willing to part with.
His generosity leaves me feeling greedy.
“Thank you.”
He shrugs. “Don’t mention it—seriously. Don’t say anything to Dante.”
For the first time, I notice the hard way he pronounces the name. Crisp...almost the same way in which Vinny uttersDaniela. Lucifer’s near-twin doesn’t share any love for him, it seems. He doesn’t want the wolf to know our secret.
But he doesn’t have to tell me twice. I aim to give the clothing back though—I have nowhere to hide it. But, before I even move to offer it to him, he’s already heading down the hall, his backpack hiked over one shoulder.
“See you around, Pyro Girl,” he calls back to me.
I don’t know how long I stand here, his bag in hand, before I finally gather the nerve to creep back inside.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dante
“I didn’t kill him.”I utter that declaration as I slam a wad of cash onto the bar while Arno watches me from across the room, a pool cue in hand. Admittedly, some of the blood that drips from my fingers onto the bills might counter that statement, though no one in this room seems to give a damn either way.
“Is that what I’m supposed to tell the police when they come looking for you?” Arno’s almost smiling as he twists a block of chalk onto the end of his cue. Closing one eye, he lines his shot up—a yellow ball toward the corner pocket. He shouts when he makes it and brandishes his fist toward the man who steps up next. “Top that, you son of a bitch! Your secret’s safe with me, Kitty,” he grunts in my direction, his grin giving way to a colder expression. “Dead or alive. I don’t really give a shit—just as long as you got my point across.”
“His...memory’s been jogged,” I say while I hunt the bar counter for something to drink.
Rock music pulses and the bartender taps her foot in tune tothe beat. Her dark eyes glance me over, lingering over the spot where my hips disappear beneath the edge of the counter.
“Can I get ya something?” she asks, her voice low and throaty.
“No.” I grit my teeth. My fingers flex, their sore knuckles throbbing, but the buzz at the back of my skull continues to grate on my nerves. Beating up some punk for petty cash barely made a dent in the itch that demands to be scratched. I consider asking Arno for another job or finding another asshole to pummel on the streets—anything to silence it.
