to Gabe. “You following?”
“Right behind you.”
Neither of them stopped to talk it over. There was nothing to say. Not until they got there.
The drive took about ten minutes. Nothing in the city took long to get to. As he drew close to the one place he didn’t want to revisit while he was here, his muscles tightened. The last time he’d been here…
He didn’t want to remember that night, didn’t want to relive it. He’d come back to erase those ghosts of the past, not be reminded of all that blood, of what he and his brothers had done, of what had happened to Anna that night.
But as he pulled down the side street and parked just before the alley, a feeling of dread overcame him.
The one thing he’d learned over the past twelve years was to trust his instincts, his gut. It had never been wrong, and when something felt bad, he was usually right.
This felt bad. Just this once, he wanted to be wrong.
Gabe pulled his bike behind him and the two of them got out.
“I don’t like this,” Gabe said. “Something’s wrong.”
“Agreed. This smells like a setup.”
“Anyone else know you were coming in besides George and Ellen?”
Dante shook his head.
A black sedan pulled down the street and parked behind Gabe’s bike.
Dante smiled as Roman exited the car, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt.
Roman had changed, had filled out. He was muscled, his light blond hair darker now and cropped short.
Dante met him halfway, holding his hand out to shake Roman’s. Roman pulled him into a hug.
“I can’t believe you’re here, man. Where the hell have you been?”
“Here and there.”
Roman stepped back. “It’s been too long. You just disappeared after…” He shifted his gaze to the alley. “After that night.”
“I know. I needed to get away. I’m sorry.”
Roman nodded. “I understand. It was rough on everybody.”
Dante wanted to ask about Anna, but now wasn’t the time. “You ready to check this out?”
“You really think George came here?”
Dante shrugged and shoved his fingers into the pockets of his cargo pants. “That’s where I tracked his cell.”
“How the hell could you track his cell?”
“I have ways.”
Roman slanted a curious look his way. “I want to hear about that.”
“Me, too,” Gabe said. “But let’s get this over with first.”
Dante drew in a breath and nodded.
They rounded the corner into the alley, and it was like slamming back in time.
He’d been in the midst of war, been shot at, had ducked for cover as the world exploded around him. He’d been wounded in the line of duty and had spent hours, minutes, seconds wondering if he’d just drawn his last breath.
But he’d never been through anything as awful as that night twelve years ago, when he’d seen Anna lying there covered in blood.
He’d never wanted to come back here again. Ever.
“You okay, Dante?”
He gave Roman a curt nod. “I hate this place.”
“Me, too.”
“Ditto,” Gabe added. “Let’s hurry up and get out of here. This place creeps me out.”
The Dumpster loomed like a monster in the dark, still positioned in its same spot in the center of the long alley. Now a streetlight shined over it like a monument to that night, forever marking the spot where they killed someone.
“Why here?” Roman asked.
“I don’t know. This is where his phone tracked to.”
“That makes no sense. George doesn’t even know about that night.” Gabe paused, looked at Dante. “Does he?”
“I didn’t tell him.” Dante looked at Roman.
“I didn’t, either.” They started moving again.
“Jeff wouldn’t have said anything, either,” Roman added.
“Which means George would have no reason to come here,” Dante said. “If anyone had told George, Ellen would find out. Who would want her to know?”
“None of us,” Roman said.
The closer they drew to the Dumpster, the tighter Dante’s throat became.
When he saw the shoe, he stopped.
No.
“What?” Roman asked, then followed the direction of Dante’s gaze. “Oh, shit.”
They ran the rest of the way, Dante pushing past the Dumpster to land on his knees on the wet asphalt. His hope that it was an old drunk sleeping it off was obliterated by the sight of the blood, the torn shirt and the heart-shaped carving on George’s chest.
Same as Anna’s.
Dante felt for a pulse, but George was already cold. There was nothing. He was dead. He lifted his gaze to Gabe and Roman and shook his head.
“Jesus Christ,” Gabe whispered as he looked down at George’s body.
“I think I might be sick,” Roman said, crouching down next to Dante. “This is just like— What the fuck, Dante?”
Dante couldn’t speak yet, could only stare at the beaten body of his foster father—his father. The tough but loving man who had been a rock in his life, who had given him a home, had shown him that discipline didn’t mean beatings, that love was unconditional, that no matter how many times he’d screwed up, he’d still be loved.
George was dead, killed the same way he and his brothers had killed that guy in the alley that night. And there was a heart carved into George’s chest the same as Anna.
What the hell did it mean?
His head swam with questions. He turned to Roman, who had pulled his radio to call it in.
Dante took another look at George, then pushed off his knees and stood, looking around the alley, searching for something…anything that would give him a clue as to why the fuck
