Page 39 of Devil's Thirst

“That’s my brother. Sante’s finally come home.” Her heartbreaking relief is the last thing I hear before my ears begin to ring.

Isaac is Sante?

Noemi’s brother is my neighbor, Isaac?

My vision blurs, making me realize I’ve quit breathing. I coax a shaky breath in my aching lungs.

He knew.

He knew all along who I was and that we’d met once before, albeit years ago.

Why not say something? Why did he keep it a secret? Was I some kind of joke to him? Did he think it was funny that I didn’t recognize him? Surely, he can’t blame me. He’s changed so much that his own family didn’t recognize him.

My stomach roils like a small boat stuck in a summer storm at sea.

Half of our table jump from their chairs and cross the restaurant to the bar where they swarm around Isa—not Isaac. Sante.

I can’t do this. Not in front of everyone.

I refuse to be the butt of his cruel joke.

While he and the Byrne women are occupied with one another, I slip away and escape outside. I’ll text Lina later and explain that I was feeling sick. All that matters right now is getting far away from here. I look left, then right to get my bearings, then start my retreat back home to lick my wounds.

“Amelie,stop.” Sante’s sharp command bites at my heels, spurring me faster. A few grumbled curses later, feet pound the pavement behind me. I can’t outrun him. I don’t even try, but I’m not following orders either.

His strong arms clamp tight around me with relative ease, pinning my back against his front. “You asked for this,” Sante says in a winded growl.

“Are youinsane? I never asked for any of this.”

“You wanted to know who I am. Now you know.”

I try to bend and twist against his hold, fighting back the truth. In a way, he’s right, but I never would have needed the information if he’d been honest from the beginning.

“Why did you lie? Was this some kind of twistedjoke?” I can’t keep the pain from my words.

Sante stiffens, then spins me around, keeping his hands clamped around my upper arms to prevent me from fleeing. The savage intensity blazing in his eyes steals my breath, answering my question. Humor played no part in whatever motivated him. It’s a small concession but not enough to assuage the hurt.

“Ineverlied to you. My name is Sante Isaaco Mancini. I didn’t correct your belief that we’d never met because I’m not that person anymore. The past is irrelevant.”

I open my mouth to argue, but words fail me.

He’s technically correct—he didn’t lie. Not exactly. But that doesn’t mean what he did was right. He misled me and made me feel like a fool. And for what purpose?

“Why?” I finally ask, bemused. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you need to understand that I’m not playing. No more excuses. No more running. You know exactly who I am now and that I’m not going anywhere.”

“Know exactly who you are?” I ask incredulously. “We spent a half an hour together fouryearsago. That doesn’t mean I know you.”

“You know my background, my family, my occupation—add what you’ve learned about me over the past week, and only a handful of people know me better.”

He’s deadly serious.

It occurs to me that this man may open up to people even less than I do. His family was shocked to see him—he’s not even close to them. Yet he’s set his sights on me. Why?

The fight drains from my body, leaving me confused and exhausted.

“What I know is that you lied and manipulated me,” I try to explain calmly. “That’s not a foundation for a relationship.”

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