Page 28 of Finding Denver
“Go fuck yourself, Ranger.”
I hang up.
Chapter 8
Denver
Ten hours and two missed calls from Ranger later, I’m settled into a hotel in New York. The Rosalia is one of my favorite places to stay. It’s small, less than fifty rooms, a moody, almost creepy vibe to it, with dark, elaborate wallpaper and carpets. Lewis also thinks it’s haunted, so it’s fun to watch his eyes widen at every late-night creak.
I spent the entire flight agonizing over my conversation with Ranger. Despite the pretty and powerful words he used to get me to marry him, the reality is obviously far fucking different. But instead of talking to me, he stole from me, like he always does. I thought we were getting better, but maybe hope shielded me from the truth.
Ranger and I will always be toxic in some way, because he won’t change enough to allow anything else.
“So, where are we eating first?” Lewis asks as he slumps onto the burnt orange velvet sofa. “Do I need a better suit than this?”
“I’m actually a little tired. I might order room service and take a bath.”
Lewis tilts his head, examining my face, and I know he wants to ask me more about the conversation with Ranger. But he also knows if I wanted to talk about it, I would.
He stands and gives me a side-on hug. “I’m here when you need me.”
Lewis leaves, and once the first tear has fallen, they don’t stop until I’m in the tub. Surrounded by bubbles and quiet, I think about all I’ve sacrificed for Ranger. I think about the endless fights, the lies, the manipulation. I think about our dance on our wedding day, when he promised not to fuck this up.
We’re not even a year in, and he’s already lying to me again.
Suddenly, I’m suffocating. Trapped. I’m not home, and I’m so alone, and I want to escape.
I climb from the bath, dress quickly, and don’t bother telling Lewis I’m going out. Once I’m on the sidewalk, I take in deep breaths, the tears cooling on my face as I wrap my coat tighter and walk.
The sights, sounds, and smells of a city engulf me. It’s so different here to home. Busier, louder, far colder.
This is where my parents grew up. I wonder where their homes were. I wonder how they met. My mother was Cara Gallagher, the daughter of the head of one of the smaller Irish families in the city. My father was Nico DeLuca, a ruthless, powerful man who met her and fell in love. Maybe they walked where I am now. Maybe they fell in love when the leaves turned, when the summer danced into fall, on this exact sidewalk.
I stop in a square, skyscrapers to my right, traffic to my left, and I close my eyes. I imagine them here, happy, and the knot in my chest eases, even though I know that towardthe end, my mom wasn’t happy, and my dad made mistakes.
When I open my eyes again, I freeze in place as a man steps out of a store. A man I know.
Colt Harland is right in front of me.
I blink a few times, wondering if my jet lag is messing with my vision. I’ve walked so many cities since Wilder killed Ethan and hoped beyond hope that fate would throw me a fucking bone and I’d bump into a Harland brother. Now it’s happened, and my hand is itching to dip into my coat, to the gun tucked into my jeans, but I don’t.
Because he’s holding a little girl.
She’s about five or six and is sleeping, her cheeks flushed, dark hair in plaited braids down her pink coat. One of his arms is holding her up as she sleeps on his chest, his other hand slowly rubbing her back.
Is Colt a father?
Someone bumps into me and I mumble an apology, still focused on my rival. I’m being forced to see him in a new light, a light I can’t look away from. An older woman has joined him, her dark hair tinged with silver, maybe his mom. She’s smiling softly at the child, and she opens the door to the town car parked in front of them. She gets in, and Colt leans down, settling the girl into the back seat.
He closes the door, watching the car drive away until it turns at a light and disappears from view.
There’s maybe twenty feet between us. This man who I’ve searched for, scraped the internet to find, wandered the streets to bump into. The last sighting of him was apparently almost a decade ago—except for backdoor deals made with men so powerful I couldn’t even get close enough to ask for his description. Not that they’d give it. Anyone who met Colt in person never spoke a word about his appearance,and over my months of searching, it became clear why.
They respect him. The older bosses like him because he follows tradition, and the younger ones do because he isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He’s a new generation of gangster, making waves where he needs to without overly disrupting the men too set in their ways. He doesn’t soak his hands in blood. He dips them when needed.
I used to think he was hiding. Now, I know the shadows protected him. Empowered him. Made him the man he is today—a ghost.TheGhost.
But right now, he’s a dad who just said goodbye to his sleeping daughter, and he’s standing in the street without a care in the world. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, his shoulders rising as he breathes in and releases the oxygen from his lungs, a burst of fog erupting from his parted lips.
