stood together, heads twisting, eyes wide. The grasses settled into a silken green wave, the skycleared of clouds and then darkened and the warm summer day slid slowly into sleep.
They stood together, silent, breathing, thinking, kissing. And Frankie knew that, no matter what happened next, the rest of her life would be marked by this day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
R OCCO STARED AT the phone in his hand as if it was an unexploded bomb. Finally the PI he’d had on his books for the past ten years had uncovered something concrete.
So long. It felt as if he’d been waiting his whole life to hear it. And, no—it wasn’t even confirmed—but, hell, it was as close as it had ever been. He’d pursued this last lead tirelessly, feeling in his gut that he was closing in. And to discover that Martinez—Lodo’s killer—might have been living for the past ten years in Buenos Aires would be a twist of fate almost too bittersweet to bear.
He’d admit it to no one but Dante, but this news shook him to his core.
He fastened cufflinks and tugged cuffs. Glanced into the mirror and confirmed that his restless mood was reflected all over his face. The shadow from his imperfect nose was cast down his cheek and his scar throbbed—a reminder of every punch he’d ever slung in the boxing ring and on the streets. Every blow, every ounce of rage directed at Chris Martinez for what he had done. And at himself for what he hadn’t.
It was the timing of this that was wrong—in the middle of the Vaca Muerta shale gas deal, which was worth billions and his biggest venture yet. That and the deliciousdistraction of Frankie. But it was too important to let a moment pass.
This was the closing in on a twenty-year chase—one that had started with him running for his life, dragging Lodo along behind him, as the shout had gone up that the gang were back and wanted revenge. And Lodo—trusting, loyal Lodo—had been right there behind him as they’d leaped up from their cardboard box beds and hurled themselves into the pre-dawn streets.
Why he had let him go, let his fingers slip, was the question he could never answer. It was the deathly crow that lived in his chest, flapping its wings against his ribs at the slightest memory of Lodo—a shock of blond curls, the curve of a child’s cheek, the taste of choripan , the sight of graffiti, the swirl of Milonga music. Every part of BA held a memory, and it was why he would never, ever leave.
Even when that piece of slime Martinez was locked up or dead. Even then. Lodo was still there in those streets. The streets were all he had to remember him by, and nothing would drag him away. At least he understood that now—now that the counsellor’s words had sunk in, twenty years after hearing them.
How could someone who was as blessed as he’d turned out to be have fought against it so hard?
He’d been ‘saved’ by Señor and Señora Hermida as part of their personal quest to ‘give back’ to BA after they had just managed to escape the big crash that had caused so much devastation to others. Been dragged to their estancia, sent to an elite school with Dante, given every last chance that he would never have had when he’d wound up abandoned, orphaned and nearly killed.
The years of his hating the privilege had taken their toll on his madre and padre —that was how he referredto his and Dante’s parents. They deserved that at least, after tirelessly forgiving him time after time. Bringing him back every time he ran away, channelling his energies into pursuits like boxing and polo that had eventually turned out to be life-saving. They had understood that he couldn’t just accept the endless stream of money that could so easily have been his—not that they’d allowed him to squander it. He’d had to work for every peso.
But he’d preferred a much harder path. Starting with only the blood in his veins and the sharp senses he’d been born with. Self-sacrifice, almost self-flagellation, had been way
They stood together, silent, breathing, thinking, kissing. And Frankie knew that, no matter what happened next, the rest of her life would be marked by this day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
R OCCO STARED AT the phone in his hand as if it was an unexploded bomb. Finally the PI he’d had on his books for the past ten years had uncovered something concrete.
So long. It felt as if he’d been waiting his whole life to hear it. And, no—it wasn’t even confirmed—but, hell, it was as close as it had ever been. He’d pursued this last lead tirelessly, feeling in his gut that he was closing in. And to discover that Martinez—Lodo’s killer—might have been living for the past ten years in Buenos Aires would be a twist of fate almost too bittersweet to bear.
He’d admit it to no one but Dante, but this news shook him to his core.
He fastened cufflinks and tugged cuffs. Glanced into the mirror and confirmed that his restless mood was reflected all over his face. The shadow from his imperfect nose was cast down his cheek and his scar throbbed—a reminder of every punch he’d ever slung in the boxing ring and on the streets. Every blow, every ounce of rage directed at Chris Martinez for what he had done. And at himself for what he hadn’t.
It was the timing of this that was wrong—in the middle of the Vaca Muerta shale gas deal, which was worth billions and his biggest venture yet. That and the deliciousdistraction of Frankie. But it was too important to let a moment pass.
This was the closing in on a twenty-year chase—one that had started with him running for his life, dragging Lodo along behind him, as the shout had gone up that the gang were back and wanted revenge. And Lodo—trusting, loyal Lodo—had been right there behind him as they’d leaped up from their cardboard box beds and hurled themselves into the pre-dawn streets.
Why he had let him go, let his fingers slip, was the question he could never answer. It was the deathly crow that lived in his chest, flapping its wings against his ribs at the slightest memory of Lodo—a shock of blond curls, the curve of a child’s cheek, the taste of choripan , the sight of graffiti, the swirl of Milonga music. Every part of BA held a memory, and it was why he would never, ever leave.
Even when that piece of slime Martinez was locked up or dead. Even then. Lodo was still there in those streets. The streets were all he had to remember him by, and nothing would drag him away. At least he understood that now—now that the counsellor’s words had sunk in, twenty years after hearing them.
How could someone who was as blessed as he’d turned out to be have fought against it so hard?
He’d been ‘saved’ by Señor and Señora Hermida as part of their personal quest to ‘give back’ to BA after they had just managed to escape the big crash that had caused so much devastation to others. Been dragged to their estancia, sent to an elite school with Dante, given every last chance that he would never have had when he’d wound up abandoned, orphaned and nearly killed.
The years of his hating the privilege had taken their toll on his madre and padre —that was how he referredto his and Dante’s parents. They deserved that at least, after tirelessly forgiving him time after time. Bringing him back every time he ran away, channelling his energies into pursuits like boxing and polo that had eventually turned out to be life-saving. They had understood that he couldn’t just accept the endless stream of money that could so easily have been his—not that they’d allowed him to squander it. He’d had to work for every peso.
But he’d preferred a much harder path. Starting with only the blood in his veins and the sharp senses he’d been born with. Self-sacrifice, almost self-flagellation, had been way
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