Page 40

Past

T ruman’s room is half-packed, his duffel gaping open on the bed like it’s waiting to swallow the last few weeks whole. Mine’s already zipped, slumped against his desk chair like it’s been ready to leave for days. But I’m not ready. Not for the bus, not for what comes after.

He moves around me, grabbing a handful of t-shirts from his dresser, and I watch the way his muscles flex beneath his sweater, the way his jaw shifts in quiet concentration.

God, I need this—the simple things, the normalcy of just being near him, the way we fit together when there’s nothing between us but breath and skin.

And soon, there will be something between us.

Something big.

Something I haven’t told him yet.

I step behind him, press my fingers to the hem of his sweater, and slip them underneath, feeling the warmth of his skin. Truman stills, his breath hitching just enough for me to notice before he turns to face me, eyes dark with something deeper than just desire.

“What are you doing, babe?” he murmurs, though he already knows.

I answer him by lifting onto my toes, pressing my mouth to his, slow at first, teasing, waiting for him to give in. He does—because of course he does. His fingers knot in my hair, dragging me closer as he backs me against the desk, and I feel his breath shudder when I push my hips up against his.

“Kid,” he groans against my mouth. It’s half a protest, half a prayer.

I kiss him harder.

We shouldn’t be doing this. Not when I have something to tell him. Not when the weight of it sits heavy in my gut. But right now, I don’t want to think. I don’t want to talk. I just want to feel.

And Truman makes me feel everything.

Clothes fall away. His hands are everywhere—palming my thighs, gripping my waist, sliding up my ribs like he can’t get enough. I sink my teeth into his shoulder as he lifts me onto the desk, and he hisses through clenched teeth, his fingers bruising against my skin.

I should stop this. I should tell him. But the words tangle with the heat between us, lost in the way he moves, the way he fills every empty space inside me.

The cool edge of the desk presses against my backside, but I’m burning everywhere else, igniting under every touch.

The dim room fades—there’s only skin, heat, pulse.

We move together, frantic and unrestrained, like we’re trying to make this last—like I know that when this moment is over, everything will be different. I open my mouth, try again. But his lips are there before I can speak, stealing the words before they become real.

His taste leaves me dizzy; his hands draw new paths down my spine. I gasp against him as the world narrows to a single point. I come hard. His groan and release follow.

A crash breaks through—papers and pens tumbling to the floor—and a laugh escapes him, low and dark. He pauses, just for a second, his forehead resting against mine, eyes wild and shimmering in a way that makes me ache all over again.

Truman collapses against me, breath heavy against my skin, his heartbeat thundering beneath my palm where I press it to his chest. I close my eyes, trying to memorize the way he feels. Trying to hold onto this before I ruin it.

I know I have to tell him.

So I do.

“I’m not going to Moffitt.”

I say it quietly, but it shatters the air between us like a gunshot. Truman stiffens, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye, his brow furrowing like he doesn’t understand the words.

“What?”

I swallow hard. “I’m going to Miami.”

His hands slip from my waist. The warmth disappears between us, and suddenly, I feel cold.

“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice is sharp, but not loud. Not yet.

I push myself off the desk, finding my feet, my arms wrapping around myself like I can hold in all the pieces of me that are about to break.

“I’m going to meet my uncle. Leonardo Testa.”

His face twists, his jaw going tight, and I can see the moment realization slams into him.

“No.” He shakes his head like he can will this into not being true. “No, you’re not.”

“Truman—”

“You can’t ,” he snaps, stepping back, raking a hand through his hair. “You know what that family is . What they do .”

I lift my chin. “They’re family.”

“No, they’re not,” he fires back. “Your family is gone, Kid. You don’t have to do this.”

But I do .

I’ve felt it simmering in my gut for months, the anger, the resentment, the weight of my father’s murder pressing down on me like I’m supposed to just live with it. Like I’m supposed to pretend it doesn’t matter.

But it does matter. And I need answers.

“I have to,” I say, my voice raw. “I need to know—I need to understand—”

Truman’s face is unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes —they cut straight through me, sharp with betrayal.

“Understand what ? How to become one of them?”

My breath catches, and for the first time, I don’t know what to say. Because maybe—maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing.

His hands clench into fists at his sides. “So what? You’re just gonna walk into Testa’s life and let him decide who you are?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Jesus Christ, Kid. Do you even hear yourself?”

Anger flares up hot in my chest, battling the guilt I don’t want to acknowledge. “This isn’t your decision.”

His mouth presses into a thin line. “No. But it’s yours. And it’s the wrong one.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. The same hands that were on my body minutes ago are now curled at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Like he doesn’t know what to do with me . I pull my clothes on in a hurry.

Finally, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “If you get on that bus to Miami, don’t expect me to come chasing after you,” he says yanking up his pants.

My stomach twists.

He’s never said anything like that before. Never thrown down an ultimatum between us like a loaded gun, waiting for me to pull the trigger.

But maybe I already have.

I hold his gaze, even though it hurts. Even though I can feel something breaking between us.

“I never asked you to.”

I pick up my two bags.

And I walk out.

I cry the entire walk to the bus station. Wiping my tears with my coat sleeve I sniff back my emotion to steel myself. My phone vibrates in my pocket but I don’t bother looking at it. I know it’s Truman. Apologizing.

Negotiating.

Begging.

If I look…if I take the bait, I will cave in. I will go with him to Moffitt and I will only prolong our inevitable destruction. He has a future—bright and shiny—with school and a normal life and I have no place in that world until I right the wrongs in my own life.

I’ve been on the road for hours, watching the world blur past the window in a smear of asphalt and gas stations, my stomach tight with a feeling I don’t want to name.

I left Truman standing in his dorm room, anger coiled in his shoulders, jaw clenched so tight I half expected his teeth to crack. If you get on that bus to Miami, don’t expect me to come chasing after you.

The words rattle around my skull like loose bullets, and I tell myself they don’t hurt. That I don’t care. That this is what I have to do.

The bus lurches as it pulls into the Miami station, the heavy sigh of brakes snapping me out of my thoughts. I drag my bag out from under the seat and sling it over my shoulder, stepping off into the thick humidity of Florida air.

I don’t know where I’m going.

The reality of that hits me as I stand on the sidewalk, the city stretching out in front of me like a monster with too many teeth. Miami is loud, fast, impatient. Neon lights and honking horns. A sea of people, none of them looking at me, none of them giving a damn that I don’t belong here.

I pull out my phone and hover over Marcy’s name in my messages. My fingers hesitate for only a second before I type.

Me: I’m in Miami. Where do I go?

The response comes fast.

MARCY: You actually did it. Hold up. Sending you the address now.

A second later, a new message pops up with a pin drop. I tap it, and the map zooms in on a mansion—because of course it’s a mansion.

I take a breath, wave down a cab, and slide into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asks, barely glancing at me.

I read him the address. He whistles low, gives me a look in the rear-view mirror. “Fancy place.”

I don’t answer. Just stare out the window as we pull away, the city twisting around me in a blur of motion and noise.

Twenty minutes later, we’re outside a sprawling estate, gates black and gleaming under the streetlights. My pulse kicks as I pay the driver and step out, my sneakers crunching against the gravel driveway.

The house looms in front of me, too big, too expensive, too much .

Two rows of tall palm trees line the driveway. I look up and see the vast balconies adorning the windows of the enormous and ostentatious house. The driver hops out and runs to the trunk, yanking out my oversized bag. I get out, choking on the humid air, and thank the driver.

I take a breath, adjust my bag on my shoulder, and move toward the front door.

All I know is what Truman and I have read about or that Marcy has told me.

The Testa family, the wealthiest of the four, resides in Miami.

Testa’s are known for controlling the shipping ports.

Think cameras, computers, leather goods, or jewelry.

The boss, my uncle Leo, supposedly runs the family like it’s comprised of venture capital instead of loved ones.

Uncle Leonardo. My murdered birth father’s brother. Also known as: The Blood King.

Guess that makes me royalty.