“You do things to me,” he whispers, the words almost a rumble rather than sound.
My nipples tighten as they brush against his chest, too many layers between us. His hardness presses against me and butterfly wings flutter inside my stomach. He draws back a little, dipping his head to touch his forehead to mine, and looks at me.
“Come back to me,” I say.
“You’re dramatic.”
Not dramatic but realistic. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll come back to me.” I wonder if he realizes how much I mean this. How much I need him to come back. How much my own life depends on his. Because I don’t want to die. But I also don’t want to live if he dies.
He kisses me and I close my eyes. It’s a tender kiss, not hurried but like a promise itself. The start of something.
When he draws back and I open my eyes, he brushes his thumb across my cheek. It comes away wet.
“I promise,” he says. “I’ll come back to you. Always.”
I blink again, unable to hold back the fat tears that drop heavy onto my cheeks. I hug him, press my face into his chest and squeeze my eyes shut to inhale his scent so deeply there’s no room for anything else but him. Just him. And then it’s time to go. Someone clears their throat and Dante’s hands come to my arms, unwinding them from around his neck. He touches his forehead to mine one more time, then kisses the tip of my nose. He takes my hand and walks me to Noah who is standing nearby, jaw tense, eyes narrowed on Dante.
Dante’s expression changes. Cocky Dante surfaces.
“Don’t look like that,” he says to Noah and ruffles his hair like he’s a kid.
“Fuck off,” Noah brushes his hand away, fixing his hair that is now standing up in all directions. He makes a point of taking my hand and giving Dante a rebellious grin. I think what he really wants to do is flip him off. A few moments later, Noah and I are inside the double front doors and a trio of SUVs heads off the property.
34
Dante
I watch her in the rearview mirror until she disappears. When I see Matthaeus studying me, I clear my throat, focus on the drive into the city. Matthaeus goes over what he’d managed to dig up on St. James which isn’t much. No criminal record. No social media profiles. No links to any organizations apart from IVI which he’s disclosed. One family home in his name that he doesn’t live in, in New Orleans. No other known address.
“Where has he been for the last five years?”
“No idea. Can’t find a damn thing. It’s like he disappeared from life.”
“No. There has to be something. We’re just missing it. Any other family?”
“A brother, but he appears to be clean. At least on the surface.”
“I doubt that.”
IVI itself is interesting. A society begun centuries ago by educated, wealthy men whose descendants to this day are active members. There are thirteen founding families from all over the world, the majority from Europe and North America, and the information available about them is vague at best. But I recognize some of those names and I’d be more surprised if things weren’t vague. Money and power like that buys silence and influence. They have compounds in most major cities around the world and at least some presence in many less-cosmopolitan areas.
They appear to have some sort of outdated caste-like system—elitist if you ask me—with a judicial branch they call The Tribunal.
Now that is one of the most interesting pieces. IVI, or The Society as they’re called by members, has a Tribunal in most locations. They seem to operate separately of any legal courts and there are rumors about sentences that go as far as execution in rare instances. The last was only a few months ago in the New Orleans faction.
I’m intrigued. And I want to know what David thought he was doing trying to buy into something like this. I mean, I get it. Money and power. Those are the things that rule men like him. Well, that and vengeance. I want to know who he worked with. If he had a contact within the organization. Who that contact is and if they had anything to do with the trafficking of women. Of girls like Mara.
My head is fully in the game as I pull up to the circular drive of the posh hotel where I met St. James the first time. I drop the keys into the waiting hands of a valet. Matthaeus and I enter through the glass doors that slide open as we approach. Two men flank us as we step onto the elevator. The others will remain in the lobby. As I watch the doors slide closed, I remember the last time we did this at a different hotel. It was only days ago but feels like a lifetime.