While Iโm working, Nero is fucking around with his switchblade. I used to think that he played with it to try to look tough, but
watching him now, I realize itโs almost like meditation for him. The blade moves through his fingers with incredible speed and fluidity. He zones out, his eyes becoming calm and focused, and his breathing slows down until his chest is barely rising and falling.
Itโs funny to think that he and Dante are brothers, when Dante is so rough and brutal-looking, and Nero is, for lack of a better word, simply beautiful. In temperament theyโre opposites, tooโDante deliberate and disciplined, and Nero impulsive and ferocious.
Or at least, thatโs how he used to be. Today he seems more relaxed, and in a better mood than Iโve seen before.
Dante told me that Neroโs head over heels for a girl he knew in high school
โCamille. I thought Nero would be the last person in the world to ever fall in love, but I guess thatโs me instead.
Seeing Nero transformed into an almost reasonable human makes me believe that miracles can happen after all.
Maybe thatโs what it takes: an unexpected pairing. Cal fell in love with the daughter of our worst enemy. Nessa is married to her own goddamned kidnapper. Nero got his heart stolen by a girl he barely noticed in high
school. And Dante is back together with the woman who ripped out his heart.
In that case, maybe Dean and I are doomed. Heโs exactly my usual type. Exactly what I always pick for myself.
And weโre barely getting along at all now.
We had one rather awkward coffee date earlier in the week. This time Raylan kept a respectful distance at a different tableโpretending he had some emails to answer, but I suspect just trying to give Dean and me some space for ourselves.
It didnโt really help. Dean was sulky. He kept asking me how long this whole ridiculous bodyguard thing was going to go on.
โI donโt know,โ I said testily. โIf we canโt find the person who tried to murder me, I guess the alternative is that he succeeds in offing me. Either way, you wonโt have to worry about it anymore.โ
โOh, come on Riona,โ Dean said, rolling his eyes at my melodrama. โYou know I donโt want you to get hurt.โ He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. โI just miss you. And Iโm tired of these Victorian-era chaperoned dates.โ
I pulled my hand back. โI know,โ I said. โBut thereโs not a whole lot else I can do about it.โ
The truth is, I could tell Raylan to drive me over to Deanโs house for a proper date. Raylan could monitor the house while Dean and I ate dinner on our own, then went upstairs for a little private time. Thatโs how youโd treat a normal security guard.
But Raylan isnโt a normal security guard. And not just because heโs friends with Dante.
Thereโs something about Raylan that doesnโt let you keep him at armโs length. Heโs too perceptive and too goddamnedย personal.ย Too honest and too . . . himself. Thereโs no layer of professional distance between him and me. There never has been.
Even Nero sees it.
He looks up from his switchblade, fixing me with his cool gray eyes, and says, โSo, are you and the cowboy fucking yet?โ
Thatโs a classic cross-examination tactic. Ask a question bluntly and abruptly to try to shock the defendant into answering honestly.
โNo,โ I say, without giving Nero the pleasure of an emotional response. โI have a boyfriend.โ
โBut you would otherwise.โ
โNo,โ I say calmly. โI wouldnโt.โ
Nero snorts, obviously thinking Iโm full of shit.
โI know this will come as a shock to you, but most people donโt fuck every single person they meet,โ I inform Nero.
โThey do if theyโre hot,โ Nero says.
โOh, so you think Raylanโs hot?โ I say innocently.
To my surprise, Nero grins. โYeah,โ he says. โReal dreamy.โ
Wonders never cease. Nero Gallo showing an ounce of self-deprecation. He really must be in love.
To test that theory, and to shift the focus off myself, I say, โDante told me youโre dating someone.โ
โI am,โ Nero says, unembarrassed. โIs it serious?โ
โYes,โ he says with simple finality.
This is so bizarre to me. Nero was the epitome of a Lothario. He didnโt seem to give a fuck about anyone or anything.
โWhatโs different about her?โ I ask.
โItโs got nothing to do with being different,โ Nero says, in his cryptic way. Nero sometimes reminds me of the Cheshire Catโheโll respond to questions, but he doesnโt give a damn if you understand his answers.
Usually, Iโd just ignore him. But Iโm genuinely curious about this. I want to know how he could change so drastically. I used to think people didnโt change at all.
โExplain it to me,โ I say, putting down my pen and giving him my full attention. โI really want to know.โ
Nero closes his knife and slips it back in his pocket. He sits forward, elbows on his knees.
โCamille and I are the same,โ he says simply. โNot in circumstances or experiences. Not on the outside. But in the things that matter, weโre aligned. What we care about. What we want. What we feel.โ
I really donโt understand love. I was just thinking that opposites attract. Now Neroโs saying itโs all about finding someone the most like yourself internally.
โSo . . . youโre just really similar,โ I say.
โItโs more than that,โ Nero says. โThereโs the parts that are the same, and the parts that fill up the holes in each other. You donโt know whatโs missing inside of you, until you find it in someone else.โ
I never thought Iโd be discussing love with Nero. This month has been utterly bizarre. I have more questions I want to ask him, but Raylan and Dante interrupt.
โAny luck?โ I ask them.
โNo.โ Dante shakes his head. โBarker is an asshole, but a broke and unmotivated asshole, as far as we could tell.โ
I glance over at Raylan, who looks strangely guilty. Nero, ever eagle-eyed, notices the same thing.
โWhat happened to your hand?โ he demands.
โNothing.โ Raylan stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets, but not before I see what Nero was referring toโthe knuckles of his right hand are definitely swollen.
โDid he attack you?โ I ask Raylan. Barker is an asshole alright, but I canโt imagine him having the balls to take a swing at Raylanโespecially not with Dante right there, backing him up.
โNo,โ Raylan says. Heโs not looking at me, and he seems irritated by the questions.
โWe talked to John Hartford as well,โ Dante says to me quickly, changing the subject. โVictoriaโs older brother. Heโs pretty pissed at my familyโhe knows we helped Bosco Bianchi. Which I fucking wish we hadnโt. But I donโt think he knows you were involved at all. So if he wants revenge, I donโt think it would be pointed in your direction.โ
โSo we learned . . . nothing whatsoever,โ I say. โYeah, pretty much.โ Raylan nods.
โGreat.โ Nero pushes himself up from the chair. โSounds like an afternoon well spent.โ
โIโm sure you had way more important things to do,โ Dante snorts, shaking his head at his little brother.
โOh, Iโm not complaining.โ Nero shoots a glance in my direction. โRiona and I were having a real nice chat.โ
Dante raises his eyebrows at me, clearly having as much trouble imagining what that would look like as I would have trying to explain it to him.
Dante and Nero head out, and Raylan takes his customary chair in the corner. But heโs not in his usual good mood. Actually, he looks pretty wound up about something.
โWhat?โ I say to him. โAre you mad because you didnโt find what you were looking for?โ
โNo,โ Raylan says shortly.
โWhat, then?โ โNothing.โ
I roll my eyes. I donโt want to have to guess what heโs annoyed about. After a few minutes of silence, Raylan says, โWhat did Nero mean?โ โOh. We were just talking about him and Camille.โ
โIs that all?โ Raylan says suspiciously. โYes . . . โ I reply.
If I didnโt know better, Iโd think Raylan was jealous of Nero. Heโs acting very odd.
โAre you going to tell me what happened to your hand?โ I ask him. โNo,โ Raylan says.
I make an irritated sound and go back to my work.
When itโs finally time to leave, Raylan seems to have relaxed a little. He grabs my coat and holds it so I can slip my arms into the sleeves. Then he opens the door for me.
Usually I donโt like when men go over the top with chivalrous gestures, but Raylan does it naturally, not making a fuss about it. Everything he does with his hands is smooth and easy: cooking, driving, getting the door. He probably is great at chopping wood just like he said.
I can see Oranโs light still burning in his office, so I make a detour down the hall to say goodnight to him.
Heโs bent over a stack of papers, looking intent and exhausted. โ โNight, Uncle Oran,โ I say. โIโm headed out.โ
โGoodnight,โ he says distractedly.
Uncle Oran is as well-dressed as ever, but thereโs more gray than black in his hair now, and heโs got bags under his eyes. I sometimes forget heโs almost ten years older than my father.
โYour uncle never got married or had kids?โ Raylan asks me as we get into the elevator.
โNo.โ I shake my head. โHeโs had girlfriendsโone for six or seven years. She was nice. Her name was Lorelei. She worked at a gallery in River West
โit was for self-taught artists. โOutsider Artโ they called it. But they split up. I donโt know why.โ
โYouโre close to him,โ Raylan says. Itโs not a question.
โYeah.โ I nod. โHe got me interested in law. Cal was always the heir to the empire, and Nessa was the baby. You know sheโs such a sweetheart, everybody loves her. So I guess . . . there wasnโt anything special about me. Uncle Oran made me feel special.โ
โClassic middle child,โ Raylan says with a little smile.
โYouโre probably the oldest.โ I sniff. He reminds me of Callum and Dante
โcompetent and responsible.
โYeah,โ Raylan admits. โBut Iโm not the biggest. My little brother Gradyโs got me beat. He was six foot in seventh grade, and he hasnโt stopped growing since.โ
Iโve heard Raylan mention his siblings before. Always with a tone of affection.
โWhatโs he like?โ I ask.
โA lot like me, but with worse judgment. He was always getting into trouble growing up, and not much has changed. His wife settled him down a bitโtheyโve got a couple kids now. Heโs the hardest worker I know. Does the job of four men on the ranch.โ
โWhat about your sister?โ
โSheโs smart as hell, and good with the horses. But she gets bored easy. And sheโs got a temper. Not with animals, just people.โ
I like listening to Raylanโs description. His voice is so warm and animated, anything he says comes alive.
โAnd your mom?โ I ask.
โSheโs kind,โ Raylan says simply. โShe always made us feel like we were the most important thing in the world. But she made us work our asses off too, so that was good for us. If we ever quit a job before the last little bit of it was done . . . that was the one way to really piss her off.โ
I want to ask about Raylanโs father, too, but I know from comments he made in passing that his dad is dead. It doesnโt seem right to bring him up. Especially since Raylan hasnโt mentioned any specifics. I donโt know if they were close or estranged, or what killed him.
โWhatโs the ranch like?โ I ask instead. โDepends. You like horses?โ Raylan says.
โIโve never touched a horse in my life,โ I admit. โIโve never even seen one up close. I guess that makes me a city slicker or whatever.โ
โA greenhorn,โ Raylan says, grinning. โOr a tenderfoot.โ โI donโt know if I like any of those.โ
โMaybe just a girl who loves Chicago, then,โ Raylan says.
Weโve gotten in the car and weโre back at my place before I realize it. Raylan is telling me stories about the ranch. Heโs easy to talk to, and even easier to listen to.
Raylan starts cooking while weโre still chatting, and despite the fact that I hate cooking, he ropes me into chopping carrots for him.
โIโm shit at this,โ I warn him.
โThatโs because youโre holding the knife wrong.โ
He comes around behind me and puts his hands over mine. His hand is slightly rough, and very warm.
โYou gotta rock the blade like this,โ he says, showing me how to rock the chefโs knife so it slices through the carrot in uniform discs, without sending the pieces rolling wildly in every direction.
Raylan smells niceโnot like expensive cologne, like Josh. Just like soap and laundry detergent and clean cotton. Thereโs something natural about him that I like. He doesnโt put product in his hairโitโs soft and messy. He rarely shaves, and heโs got calluses on his hands. But all that seems exotic to me, compared to the tanned and coiffed men I usually date. Raylan is masculine in a different wayโby not giving a damn about his clothes or his car or his social status.
As usual, when I notice something appealing about him, I feel an equal compulsion to pull away.
โIโve got it,โ I say, taking control of the knife myself.
โAlright.โ Raylan goes back to browning meat, well-seasoned with salt, pepper, onion, and garlic.
He cooks us pasta with tomato sauce made from scratch. It doesnโt look that hard when he does it, though I doubt I could replicate any of it. Itโs delicious as hell, though. The right blend of rich, spicy, tart, and fragrant.
โWho taught you to cook?โ I ask him.
โEverybody,โ he says. โMy grandpa, grandma, mom, dad, people Iโve met on my travels . . . itโs the universal language. Everybody likes food that tastes good. You can bond with anybody over a good meal.โ
I guess thatโs true. Even Raylan and I seem to get along when weโre eating together.
Raylan probably gets along with everyone, though.
I thought he was just a typical cocky soldier-type when I first met him. But he actually has a very calming presence. He knows when to talk and when not to. When to just have a companionable silence. Heโs not always trying to fill the air with nonsense.
After dinner, we go sit out on the balcony attached to my living room. We look out over the city lightsโthe other high rises, each with their individual boxes of light representing offices and apartments, each containing some other person living their life. The streams of cars on the roads below are the sameโeach one carrying a person to their own individual destination. To
them, what theyโre doing is the most important thing in the world. To us, itโs just another light bobbing down the road, the same as all the others.
Usually that thought would make me feel isolated and insignificant. But tonight I think most of those people are probably going home to somebody
โmaybe to make pasta or watch a movie. And even if those activities are mundane, theyโre peaceful and happy.
โDo you see your little sister much?โ Raylan asks me out of nowhere. โNessa?โ
โYeah.โ
โI do, actually,โ I tell him. โI meet her for lunch. Sometimes I go see what sheโs working on at her dance studioโsheโs a choreographer.โ
โDante told me what happened with her husbandโwith the Polish Mafia.โ
Nessa met Mikolaj when he kidnapped her. We were in conflict with the Polish Mafia at the time. In what I first thought was Stockholm Syndrome, Nessa and Miko developed feelings for each other. He let her go, which almost cost him control of his men and his own life. Nessa went back to him and they married.
โDo you know whatโs funny?โ I say to Raylan. โWhat?โ
โI actually like Miko.โ Raylan laughs. โYou do?โ
โYes. I mean, donโt get me wrongโheโs intense. But heโs smart and ruthless, and devoted to Nessa.โ
โWhatโs Nessa like?โ Raylan asks me.
โEverybody who meets her loves her. Sheโs kindโlike your mom, I guess. Sheโs always been that way. Even when she was little, she couldnโt stand to see anybody sad. Sheโd share anything with you.โ
I pause, thinking.
โSometimes she used to annoy me, because she could be childish, too. Too passive, too gentle, too eager to please my parents. Maybe I was jealous. Sheโs so likable and I know Iโm . . . โ
โWhat?โ Raylan says. โA lot,โ I say.
Raylan laughs.
โBut anyway, she grew up, moving out of my parentsโ house, getting married. Sheโs always been creative, and sheโs been making these ballets that are just wild and gorgeous. I donโt know shit about dance, but they really are beautiful. And I respect that. I donโt knowโmaybe it was just both of us getting older. But we seem to have more to talk about now.โ
โI feel that way, too,โ Raylan says. โWith my siblings.โ โYou do?โ
โYeah. You get older, and when you get together, instead of talking about the people you know and the things you used to do, you can just talk about life, about books and movies and the world, and youโve grown up and theyโve grown up and all the little petty shit you used to fight about as kids doesnโt matter anymore.โ
โRight,โ I say. โExactly.โ
Weโve been sitting out on the balcony for a long time now. I have a blanket wrapped around my shoulders to keep me from freezing, but Raylan is just wearing his normal button-up shirt.
โArenโt you cold?โ I ask him.
โNah,โ he says. Then after a minute, he grins and admits, โActually yeah, Iโm pretty fuckinโ cold.โ
We go back into the warmth of the apartment, closing the sliding glass door behind us.
Raylan and I linger in the living room, a strange kind of tension between us now.
โI guess Iโll go to bed,โ I say. โGood night.โ Raylan nods.
I go into my room, brush my teeth, and slip under the covers.
But itโs a long time before I actually fall asleep. I lay there restless and confused, wondering why I felt so relaxed on the balcony, but so troubled now.
Iย WAKEย to someone jerking me out of bed.
The air is thick with black smoke, so thick that Iโm hacking and coughing, and my eyes are streaming with tears. I canโt pull in a breath.
โGet down!โ Raylan barks, pulling me down low to the carpet. Itโs a little easier to breathe down here, but not much.
Raylan is tying one of his t-shirts around my face, making a makeshift bandanna. I can hear sharp cracking and popping sounds, and itโs so hot that sweat is pouring down my skin.
โWhatโs happening!โ I rasp. My throat feels raw and choked, even with the t-shirt over my face.
I canโt see anything. The smoke and heat are getting worse by the second.
โWeโve got to get out of here,โ Raylan says. Heโs yanking the blankets off my bed, and the sheets too.
He throws a blanket over both of us and pulls me along, staying low to the floor.
As we leave my bedroom, weโre met with a solid wall of fire. The front door, the entryway, and the kitchen are engulfed in flame. Floor to ceiling it rages, spreading out into the living room.
The heat is immense, indescribable. I canโt even look at it or it burns my eyes. My body is screaming at me to get away, but thereโs nowhere to go.
โWeโre trapped!โ I gasp out.
Grimly, doggedly, Raylan pulls me toward the balcony. โHold on,โ he says, unlatching the sliding glass door.
I donโt know what heโs trying to prepare me for, but as he yanks open the door and shoves me out, the cool night air rushes into the apartment. The influx of oxygen gives the fire a new breath. The flames roar across the ceiling and throughout the room, igniting the rest of my apartment in an instant. Fire billows out, hitting us like a wave.
The comforter Raylan threw over our heads catches fire. Raylan throws it off, and I watch it tumble end over end, burning like a torch as it falls the twenty-eight floors down to the street below.
Using the sheet to protect his hand, Raylan forces the glass door shut again, but I can see the heat has singed the hairs all along his arm. The glass and metal are already hot to the touch, like a fireplace grate. The door wonโt hold for long. And weโre trapped way up here on this tiny balcony, with no fire escape.
Iโm trying not to panic. Iโm still hacking and coughing, and so is Raylan. His whole face is dark with smoke, cut by the tracks of sweat running down his skin.
Weโre going to burn to death. Weโre trapped. The fire is going to burst through the glass any second. No fire truck can reach up here. I donโt understand how the fire spread so fast through the apartment. I donโt understand whatโs happening.
I can hear distant sirens, but not the fire alarm itself. The roar and crackling of the flames are too loud. I never knew how loud fire could be.
Raylan is tying my bedsheet around the balcony railing. I donโt understand why.
โGet on my back!โ he shouts to me. His voice is hoarse and choked with smoke. His eyes are bloodshot, but the irises still gleam bright blue against his sooty face. Itโs the only part of him that still looks familiar. Still, I donโt understand his plan.
โWhat?โ I gasp back. โGET ON MY BACK!โ
He grabs my hand and wraps my arms around his neck. Iโm only wearing a silk camisole and shorts, with bare feet. Heโs shirtless in boxer shorts, but his feet are stuffed into his boots at least.
Weโre both so sweaty and filthy that itโs hard to hold onto his neck. And I just realized heโs climbing over the railing.
โARE YOU INSANE?โ I shriek.
Weโre twenty-eight fucking floors up in the air. So high up that you can barely see the streets way down below us. So high that the frigid November wind is blowing hard against us.
If we slip and fall, weโll fall for five or six seconds before we hit the pavement. And when we land, our bodies wonโt just breakโtheyโll explode.
โIf we donโt get off this balcony weโre dead!โ Raylan shouts back.
I look at the glass doors, barely holding back the raging flames. Even as I watch, the glass begins to crack and warp.
โOh my god . . . โ I whisper.
I cling onto Raylanโs neck, my legs wrapped around his waist from behind. โDonโt choke me,โ he says.
I try to relax my grip just a little, while still holding on tight.
He swings his leg over the railing, gripping the bedsheet with both hands. Iโm dangling over bare, empty space, holding onto his back.
Raylan starts to lower us down, going hand over hand on the sheet.
The fabric is taut and straining under our combined weight. I can see his arms rigid with strain, and his hands gripping the slippery material. His
fingers leave sooty prints on the white sheet. His knuckles are pale and tight.
I canโt watch. I squeeze my eyes shut, holding onto him with all my might. I can feel his shoulders and back trembling with the strain of carrying our weight.
Raylanโs hands slip and we drop two feet before he catches his grip again. I bite back my scream, eyes still tight shut. I can hear the fabric starting to tear.
โAlmost there . . . โ Raylan grunts. I hazard a look.
Weโre down at the level of the balcony below us, but weโre still hanging over open air. The balcony is recessed. We canโt quite reach the railing.
โIโm going to swing us. You have to grab it,โ Raylan mutters, jaw clenched tight with strain.
โI donโt . . . I donโt know if I can.โ Itโs taking all my strength just to hold onto his back. Weโre both slippery with sweat and smoke.
โYou can do it,โ Raylan says in his deep, calm voice. โI know you can.โ
He kicks his legs to swing us out and in. The movement is horrible. It makes my stomach clench up. Holding on tight to his neck with my right arm, I reach with my left. My fingers slip helplessly across the slick metal railing. I miss.
โI canโt get it!โ I cry.
โYes you can,โ Raylan says. โOne more timeโgrab it tight.โ
He swings us again, harder this time. I hear the awful purring sound of the sheet ripping apart. I grab the railing with all my strength and pull us toward it. Raylan throws his arm over, too. The railing hits me in the ribs and it fucking hurts, but I get my arm around it and hold on tight. Raylan shoves me over it, and we tumble down onto the cement. My heart is thundering in my chest. Iโm panting and coughing harder than ever.
The apartment itself is darkโnobody inside. Either they already evacuated the building, or they were never home to start with. I pound on the glass door, but itโs pointless. The door is locked and nobodyโs coming to open it.
โStand back,โ Raylan grunts.
He kicks through the glass with the toe of his boot, then reaches up through the hole to unlock the door.
Smoke billows out in our faces. Even a floor down, the heat and smoke and noise are intense. It radiates down from my apartment above. I can see the ceiling sagging.
โHurry,โ Raylan says. โThat could collapse any second.โ
We run through the apartment, which is the exact same layout as mine above. We shove through the door into the hallway, where I can finally hear the steady blare of the fire alarm. Several other residents are stumbling down the halls, trying to carry out reluctant pets, or belongings they donโt want to risk losing.
โDonโt take the elevator,โ Raylan tells me unnecessarily. Thereโs no way I was going to risk trapping myself anywhere else.
We run to the stairs instead, my bare feet soon filthy from the endless descent down twenty-seven flights of concrete steps.
The stairs are choked with other tenants. The descent is tediously slow. Some of the people from lower floors are complaining, thinking the whole thing was only a drill. That is, until they see Raylan and me, black with smoke and Raylan burned down his right arm from forcing my balcony doors closed.
Everything I own is burning up, over my head. Should I have tried to grab something before we ran out to the balcony? Stupidly, I think of my brand- new electric toothbrush that I only used twice. Now itโs melted plastic. Or maybe just ash.
I think Iโm in shock.
I feel numb. My head is a balloon, floating above my shoulders, barely tethered.
If it werenโt for Raylanโs arm around my shoulders, leading me on, I think I might pass out.
Raylan takes me all the way down to the parking garage. He pulls the car keys out of his boot. That impresses me. I donโt know how he had the presence of mind to grab them. I donโt know how he kept his calm through any of it.
I feel like Iโm barely clinging to my last shred of self-control.
โHow did that happen?โ I croak, my throat still raw with smoke. โHow did the fire spread so fast?โ
โI think he must have poured an accelerant under your door,โ Raylan says, grimly. โI woke up to this whooshing sound, and in two seconds that whole half of your apartment was on fire.โ
I can hear more and more sirens wailing on street levelโfire trucks and police cars, coming to the building from all sides.
โWe need to get out of here,โ Raylan says. โWeโre exposed. That might not be all he had planned.โ
I nod, numbly, and climb into the passenger seat.
Raylan does a sweep of the vehicle to make sure thereโs nothing planted inside or underneath. Then he gets in the driverโs side and starts the engine.
My head is still throbbing from the smoke. I lean my head against the window and close my eyes.