Just a Bit Heartless (Straight Guys 13)

Sighing, Jordan searched his pockets for his phone and wasn’t surprised not to find it. Their kidnappers would have been extremely incompetent if they didn’t bother taking their phones. Damiano’s pockets were empty too.

Leaving him be, Jordan straightened up again. Having another person with him, even if that person was Damiano, calmed him down a little—not enough to completely eradicate his claustrophobia, but enough to make his heartbeat slightly steadier as he continued the search.

He didn’t find the door. He found a hatch in the ceiling.

Jordan stared at it in puzzlement before realizing that they must be in some kind of basement. That explained the humidity and the faint smell of potatoes, as if this place had been a root cellar before being repurposed.

He was in a tiny cellar. Deep underground.

Another wave of panic hit him, making it hard to breathe. Jordan hastily returned to Damiano’s side and grabbed his lax hand. Finding his pulse, Jordan focused on it and breathed. He wasn’t alone. It would be fine. He needed to calm the fuck down. He was a grown man, not a kid anymore. Fearing enclosed spaces was irrational. Illogical.

“Why are you attempting to crush my hand?”

Jordan nearly jumped. He snatched his hand away and curled it in his lap. “I was checking your pulse.”

Damiano sat up. The cellar wasn’t well lit enough to read his expression well, but his eyes settled on Jordan after sweeping a quick look at their surroundings. He looked remarkably calm for someone locked up in an unidentified place after fighting for his life.

“You’re trembling,” Damiano remarked. He didn’t sound the least bit sympathetic or concerned; it was just an objective statement.

“I’m cold,” Jordan said, which was true enough, even if it wasn’t the only reason for his discomfort. The temperature couldn’t possibly be higher than five degrees above freezing. The fabric of his tux was rather thin, suitable for hot Italian summers, not for cold root cellars with high humidity. He felt miserably cold.

Damiano studied him for a few moments. “You and Raffaele weren’t aware of the attack.”

“What clued you in?” Jordan said, trying to sound snide but probably failing. Fuck, he felt like the walls were closing in on him.

“Raffaele wouldn’t allow his precious boyfriend’s life to be in danger. He would have told you if he knew and you wouldn’t have been in my car.”

Now probably wasn’t a good time to confess that he wasn’t actually Ferrara’s boyfriend and Ferrara didn’t give two shits about him.

Jordan felt uneasy as it suddenly occurred to him that this might be the real reason why Ferrara made him take Nate’s place: he knew what was coming and didn’t want Nate to be caught in the crossfire.

No. He was being ridiculous. Raffaele Ferrara was an asshole, but he wouldn’t intentionally do it to him if he knew what was coming. Besides, what were the odds of Jordan oversleeping and catching a ride in Damiano’s car?

But that might be precisely why Ferrara didn’t wake you up, the Devil’s advocate said in his mind. He might have known about the attack on Damiano and wanted you to stay safe at the villa. Out of the way.

That was… possible.

“You killed four of our attackers,” Damiano said, as if speaking about the weather. “You’re a pretty good shot.”

Jordan’s stomach churned at the reminder. He’d been good at pushing the thought to the back of his mind. But he had taken life. Four lives. Those men might have been attempting to kill them, but they were still men who probably had families. Spouses. Children.

He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut. One more thing to feel shitty about.

“That’s the last thing I needed to be reminded about right now,” he said dryly. “It’s like you’re praising me on my cooking skills.”

“There’s a difference? A skill is a skill.”

Jordan snorted, but he couldn’t deny that talking to Damiano helped. It was a wonderful distraction from the fact that they were in a tiny cellar. Damiano had a really good voice: low-pitched and pleasant without being too gruff. He would have made a great audiobook narrator—if he had any emotional range.

“How many did you kill?” Jordan said, breathing deeply, in and out. He was calm. They weren’t going to run out of air. Everything was fine.

“I don’t keep count. What’s wrong with you?” Damiano said in a somewhat baffled, demanding tone.

“I hate confined spaces,” Jordan said, tugging his knees to his chest and hugging them tightly. “The fact that we’re underground doesn’t help, either. It feels too much like—like a…”

“Like a tomb.”

“Yep,” Jordan said, grimacing. Distraction. He needed a distraction. “Who do you think is behind this?”

Damiano was quiet for a while.

“That was an inside job,” he said at last. “The flat tire was no coincidence. So someone with access to my car. Someone from the family.”