“How long have you lived here?” I ask. The garage is big enough to hold a mini car lot inside, and from what I can tell from the rows of sport vehicles and motorcycles, it does. He hits the button to seal us inside and kills the engine. “I inherited the castle five years ago.”
Inherited. The meaning of that word is unmistakable. Someone died, and some part of me aches with a hurt that runs deeper than the moment. I cut him a look to find him resting his wrist on the steering wheel, staring ahead. “Are you alone, like me?”
“Not like you,” he says, still not looking at me, his body rigid, like his voice. “No one I’ve lost is coming back.”
My gut twists into knots, and I look away, wondering about the family I may have lost. No. I have lost. “Mine are gone, too,” I say, my voice cracking with the admission.
“You don’t know that,” he says, and our heads turn at the same time, gazes colliding.
“I do. I just wish I had their memories to hold onto.”
“Memories are the enemies that never die,” he says, turning away and shoving open his door, leaving me with the pain carved in those words that I am fairly certain he didn’t want me to hear. But I did, and they speak to me, diving deep in my soul with the blood of my own loss, and taking root. I say I want my memories back, but I’m not so sure I really do. It’s an idea I reject as I shove open my door and stand.
Kayden is already at my side of the car, and I face him, the door between us. “If the memories die, so does everyone we loved. That might be okay with you, but it’s not to me.”
His jaw tics, but he offers me no agreement or disagreement, a wall firmly placed in between us as he says, “Let’s go inside.”
I step around the door, letting him shut it, my gaze scanning
the four motorcycles to my right, and beyond them three cars with Jaguar logos. “Do you have a thing for Jaguars, or just cars in general?”
“Just the Jaguar F-TYPE, but I won’t turn down anything else that catches my eye.”
My attention shifts to a sleek, shiny blue sports car directly in front of the Rolls-Royce. And I walk toward it, stopping by the passenger’s door to examine the curve of the hood. Kayden steps to my side and I glance up at him. “How rich are you?”
“I inherited a substantial amount of money and I have my own.”
“Translation. You’re so crazy rich it’s almost dirty.”
He laughs, his eyes flashing with wicked heat. “I like everything a little dirty.”
I blush, having no doubt that’s true, and refocus on the fancy vehicle in front of us. “This isn’t a Jag, right? It’s a race car?”
“It’s a Pagani Zonda, and yes, it’s designed for the racetrack. They only make twenty to twenty-five a year.”
“Do I even want to know how much something like this costs?”
“A million dollars, give or take, but in my case, it was a gift for a job well done.”
I whirl around to face him. “What do you do to earn a car like this?”
“The client wanted to pay me in cash but I wanted the car. That was my price to do the job.”
I do not miss the way he’s dodged my direct question and I try again. “Price for what, Kayden? What do you do?”
“I work for a group called The Underground. We call ourselves Treasure Hunters. If the price is right, and in this case the car was the right price, we find just about anything for our clients.”
I remember the tattoo on Matteo’s arm that matches Kayden’s. “Does Matteo work for them, too?”
“Yes.”
“What about Nathan?”
“No.”
I dare to reach for his arm and study his tattoos, confirming that the one on his wrist is a square with a king chess piece inside. I glance up at him. “Matteo has this too.”
“Everyone in the Italian division of The Underground has it.”