Chapter 216: "Share More With Me"

By the time Aren and Jordan finally emerged from the club, a fine rain had begun to fall over Borgata.

There was no moon tonight.

The sky above the city was a depthless black, and the drizzle seemed almost too delicate to be called rain, little more than a cold mist drifting through the darkness.

Aren paused beneath the covered entrance and looked up at it.

The cool night air brushed her cheeks. She pulled her coat more tightly around her neck, but the faint chill did little to clear her thoughts.

Everything Jeremiah Castellano had said to her continued replaying in the back of her mind. The strange, invisible weight that had settled inside her during their conversation still hadn’t gone away.

The more Aren entered Jeremiah’s world, the less she understood the man himself.

The radiant smiles. The casual menace. The jokes and shameless flirting. The chaos that seemed to follow him everywhere.

Then there had been that brief, inexplicable quietness before the paintings, when the theatricality had fallen away so completely that, for a few moments, he’d seemed like an entirely different person.

’I don’t know which one is actually him.’

’Or whether any of them are.’

Beside her, Jordan had been watching quietly. He’d noticed the troubled look on her face from the moment she’d entered the dessert room with Jeremiah.

She’d briefly seemed happier while sharing panna cotta with him and Biscuit, but now that they were outside, the same distant expression kept returning whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

"Ariana."

Jordan gently tugged on her hand, drawing her farther beneath the shelter of the roof.

"You look rather somber for someone who just won her first fight." He studied her face. "Is everything all right?"

The question finally pulled Aren away from her thoughts. She stared at him for half a heartbeat before a smile quickly returned to her face.

"Of course everything is all right! You’re the one who won huge tonight, didn’t you? When I heard that five-million-dollar wager announced, I never imagined you were the person who placed it!"

Jordan smiled, though something dimmed behind his eyes.

There she was again.

Whatever had been troubling her a moment ago had disappeared beneath that cheerful smile as though it had never existed.

"Worth the risk, wasn’t it?" he replied lightly. "Although I had an unfair advantage over everyone else in that room. I already knew how frighteningly good you were."

His grin widened at the memory.

"Besides, seeing Jeremiah’s face after you knocked that enormous bastard unconscious was worth five million all by itself. I wish they’d allowed phones down there. I’d have made it my wallpaper."

Aren laughed, soft and genuine this time. At her feet, Biscuit looked up and wagged his tail as though he, too, remembered Jeremiah’s expression and agreed wholeheartedly.

"Have you thought about what you want to do with the winnings?" Aren asked, hugging Jordan’s arm a little closer. "Fifty million is a lot."

Jordan looked down at her, heat already crawling up his neck.

There were, in fact, several things he had considered doing with the money.

One involved a ring.

Not merely any ring, either. He had already developed embarrassingly specific opinions about what kind of ring she might wear for the rest of her life.

Another involved a wedding.

Jordan had absolutely not been planning a wedding.

He merely happened to know what kind of venue he wanted, how many guests would be tolerable, what sort of cake Aren might like, where Biscuit would sit, and several other completely hypothetical details that no reasonable person could possibly classify as "planning."

Regardless, there were some things a man should carry to his grave. Jordan rubbed the back of his neck and settled for a safer answer.

"Well... we do have that bakery plan coming up, don’t we?" He smiled. "I was thinking some of the money could go toward that. Initial capital, property, equipment, whatever else you need."

Aren blinked at him.

So did Biscuit.

"...You’re going to use your winnings for my bakery?"

"Consider it my personal investment." Jordan grinned. "I’d make a better business partner than some random stranger, wouldn’t you agree?"

"Of course you would!" Aren exclaimed, practically bouncing on her toes. "I’d rather have you as my bakery partner than anyone else!"

The sheer joy in her voice made warmth swell painfully through Jordan’s chest.

He reached up and tucked a stray strand of pale hair behind her ear, entirely ready to lean down and kiss her, but then a familiar voice suddenly drifted from somewhere nearby.

"What about me?"

Jordan froze.

"Am I not good enough to be a bakery partner?"

Jordan closed his eyes, all traces of romance vanishing from his face.

He didn’t need to turn around.

"Why the hell are you here so early, man?" he groaned irritably. "Didn’t we agree you were picking her up at twelve?"

Aren recognized the voice at the same time. Almost immediately, she poked her head around Jordan’s massive frame and found Caio standing farther down the sidewalk.

Behind him stretched a procession of Sartori men, each holding a black umbrella against the drizzle.

In the darkness, with their dark suits and orderly formation, they looked less like an escort and more like a funeral procession that had somehow wandered to the entrance of a casino in the middle of the night.

There was, however, something more alarming about Caio himself.

He looked angry.

Very angry.

Considerably angrier than he’d been when he’d left for work that morning.

Behind him stood Leo, who somehow looked distinctly unlike himself.

Instead of his usual solemn composure, he wore the exhausted expression of a man who’d spent an entire day dedicating his professional talents to keeping one very specific disaster hidden from his boss — and had ultimately failed.

Aren stared at Leo.

Leo stared solemnly back.

There was an entire warning contained within that look. Unfortunately, Aren understood none of it.

"Caio!"

She shot out from beneath the shelter, crossed the rain-slicked pavement, and threw herself into his arms.

"Why did you come so early? I thought you said you’d pick me up at twelve."

The murderous atmosphere surrounding Caio survived until that precise instant. His entire body went rigid in surprise as Aren wrapped both arms around him and happily buried her face against his coat.

Almost immediately, his gaze swept over every visible inch of her, searching for blood, bruising, swelling — anything that might suggest she’d been hurt. Only when he found nothing did some of the tension locked in his shoulders begin to ease.

"Ran over the moment I finished work."

His arms closed firmly around her.

"How was the fight? Good?"

"It was great!" Aren brightened. "I won without breaking a sweat! Although..." She hesitated. "I might have ended it a little earlier than everyone anticipated."

A smirk tugged at Caio’s mouth.

He hadn’t expected anything less.

"Good."

He drew her back slightly and looked down at her. The smile on his face lasted for precisely one second longer before his entire expression darkened.

"Now tell me why you didn’t say anything to me about that scandal."

Aren’s face went blank.

The abrupt shift caught her completely off guard. Apparently, this conversation was going somewhere more serious than she’d expected.

"Well..." Aren began carefully. "I did consider telling you. But the timing never seemed convenient."

"The timing?"

"You were already dealing with your own problems." She looked up at him with complete sincerity. "I thought it wasn’t a particularly serious problem, so I didn’t want to burden you with something I could handle myself."

Caio’s jaw tightened.

"Burden me?"

His voice had risen before he caught himself, but the anger remained, low and taut beneath every word.

"I don’t care whether you thought it was a big problem or a small one. You should’ve told me."

"But why?"

"Because I want you to trust me enough to tell me when something happens to you!"

Aren considered that.

Then, with perfect seriousness, she pointed out, "But you do the same thing. You don’t share all your burdens with me either."

Caio fell silent.

For one second, his expression suggested that he’d walked directly into a trap he hadn’t noticed until it snapped shut around his ankle.

"That’s different."

Aren’s brows drew together.

"How?"

"It just is!" Caio dragged in a breath, trying to rein himself in. "Do you know what it feels like to hear something like that from somebody else? To find out everyone in this fucking city already knew what happened to you except me?"

Several paces away, Jordan stood with Biscuit at his feet, watching the exchange with an increasingly uncomfortable itch beneath his skin.

Part of him disliked seeing Caio angry with Aren at all.

Eventually, he stepped forward.

"If she didn’t want to tell you, maybe don’t interrogate her about it in the middle of the street."

Caio’s eyes shifted toward Jordan.

Whatever softness Aren had managed to extract from him disappeared instantly.

"This is none of your business."

Jordan’s expression hardened.

Before he could get another word in, however, Caio had already turned his attention fully back toward Aren.

"Look," he said, his voice lower now. "I don’t care if it’s something dangerous or something completely fucking stupid. I don’t care if you had a bad day, if somebody pissed you off, if you’re worried about your dog, or if you broke a goddamn fingernail. I just want you to be able to tell me."

Aren stared up at him.

The bluntness of it quieted her.

Caio exhaled slowly.

"This isn’t about whether the problem is big or small. I’m trying to be close to you. So please, just..." His voice softened. "Be closer to me. Share things with me."

A few feet away, Jordan went very still.

He could practically feel his annoyance with Caio diminishing by several degrees.

’So she does that to him too.’

The realization was strangely comforting, yet deeply depressing at the same time.

He’d spent weeks wondering whether her habit of concealing things from him meant she didn’t trust him enough. Now, faced with Caio openly demanding the same thing he secretly wanted, Jordan found himself understanding the man far more than he wanted to admit.

Aren, meanwhile, had grown very quiet. She looked down at the wet pavement between them, thinking seriously about his words.

’I thought I was being considerate.’

Apparently, she had miscalculated.

"I’m sorry..." she said at last. "I didn’t realize not telling you would make you feel that way."

She slowly lifted her gaze to Caio again.

"I can’t promise I’ll immediately know what I’m supposed to share... but I’ll try to tell you more when something happens."

She thought about it for another moment, then quietly added,

"But at the same time... you must promise to share more of your burdens with me too."

Some of the anger finally left Caio’s face. Knowing her, he’d already understood that this was going to require a great deal of patience, but this was a considerably better start than he’d expected.

"...I promise."

He pulled her back against him and bent to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Sorry I raised my voice."

Aren relaxed against him.

"That’s okay."

Not far away, Jordan watched them for another second before finally stepping closer.

"...Can I be included in that deal too?"

Aren turned and blinked at him.

Jordan’s expression was gentle, but there was something vulnerable beneath his smile.

"If you’re making agreements to share more things with each other," he said sheepishly, "...then I’d like in, too."

Aren’s eyes widened, then her entire face brightened.

"Of course!"

She slipped free of Caio’s arms and crossed the short distance between them, throwing her arms around Jordan instead.

Jordan caught her with his good arm, laughing softly as he steadied himself.

"We’ll see each other again very soon?" he asked, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of her head.

"Yes," she murmured against his chest. "I’ll see you next week."

At that very moment, a small, mournful sound came from somewhere near their feet. Biscuit sat in the drizzle with his ears lowered, staring at Jordan as though he’d only just realized that the evening was ending and, once again, Jordan would not be coming home with them.

─ •?• ─ ? ─ •?• ─

The drive back to the Sartori estate was relatively peaceful. Caio drove himself, one hand resting easily on the steering wheel while Aren occupied the passenger seat beside him.

Every so often, Caio glanced toward her.

Each time, he found Aren looking through the window at the passing city lights.

He couldn’t see her expression clearly from that angle, but the profile of her face told him enough. There was more going on in her head than their little argument outside the club.

"If you’ve promised to share more with me," Caio said eventually, "now seems like a pretty good time to start."

Aren turned toward him, her expression still clouded by thought.

"...Huh?"

"Your face." He glanced at her before returning his attention to the road. "It’s telling me something happened today. You weren’t wearing that expression when I left this morning."

"Ah."

Aren finally understood. She unconsciously raised a hand to touch her cheek, as though she might somehow feel the expression he’d noticed.

"It’s about... Mister Castellano."

Caio’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the steering wheel.

"What about him?"

Aren considered the matter for a moment.

She still wasn’t certain how much she should disclose about Jeremiah’s proposal, particularly when she herself hadn’t decided what to make of it. So she settled on the part she could answer honestly.

"I find him very difficult to understand. And I dislike having to work with a client I can’t understand."

She turned toward Caio.

"Do you know much about him?"

Caio thought for a moment.

"Hm. That brat."

He clicked his tongue irritably.

"Loud. Annoying. Insolent. Never looks like he’s taking anything seriously." His mouth twisted. "But I’m pretty sure he’s seriously good at making money."

Aren’s interest sharpened.

"He’s good at making money?"

"Obsessed with it, more like."

Caio smirked, apparently finding Jeremiah’s existence irritating even in recollection.

"Especially since he became heir. Renovations, events, publicity stunts, whatever ridiculous shit he thinks will drag rich fucks into his clubs and convince them to empty their pockets. That’s probably why he was made heir. Claudio has three sons, and Jeremiah’s the youngest, yet he’s still the one who got appointed."

Then something in his own answer seemed to catch on an old memory, and the casual amusement gradually left his face.

"Actually..."

Aren turned toward him.

"What is it?"

"Now that I’m thinking about him properly..." Caio’s brows pulled together. "That kid kind of appeared out of nowhere."

Aren went still.

"What do you mean?"

"Borgata’s huge, but the Ten Houses know the Ten Houses. You know what I mean? When somebody’s born into one of them, people know. You hear names. You’d see the same faces over and over. Their parents show them off. Back then, I used to get dragged around to gatherings with kids from the other Houses. I knew Jeremiah’s brothers. Heard about them, saw them around."

He paused, searching through memories that had gone untouched for years.

"But Jeremiah was strange. I don’t remember seeing him around. Don’t remember anyone mentioning him much either. Not even his brothers."

"Until when?"

"That’s what I’m trying to remember." Caio narrowed his eyes. "Eight, maybe? Nine? Somewhere around there. Then suddenly he was just... around. And after that, nobody thought much of it."

Aren absorbed that in silence.

’Eight or nine.’

That was strange.

Not necessarily sinister. There could be dozens of mundane explanations for a young child being kept away from Borgata’s underworld circles.

Illness. A private upbringing somewhere outside the city. Family circumstances that Caio, himself only a teenager at the time, would never have known about.

"What about his relationship with his parents?" she asked. "Do you know much about that?"

"His mother? Not really." Caio considered it. "Claudio, though? I’ve seen him doting on Jeremiah plenty of times. Acting like the clown he always is, talking about how proud he is of his son and all that."

Aren nodded, privately agreeing with his assessment after what she’d witnessed for herself.

"Castellano Club The First is their oldest and grandest club," Caio continued gradually. "Traditionally, it’s the kind of property the Don keeps under his own control. But Claudio handed its management to Jeremiah. His older sons got the Second and the Third."

Caio shrugged.

"That tells you plenty about how much Claudio trusts him."

"I see..."

Aren fell silent.

That only made the situation more confusing.

By every outward indication, Claudio loved and trusted his youngest son. Nothing Aren had seen suggested the kind of hatred that should lead naturally to "I would like to become Don so I can kill both of my parents."

And yet...

Jeremiah had said it with a warm smile.

"Aren."

Aren looked up.

Caio was watching her again.

"Yes?"

"You’re making that face again."

"Oh."

"What happened?" His tone sharpened. "Did one of the Castellanos cause trouble for you? Did Jeremiah bother you?"

Aren shook her head quickly.

"No. It’s not like that."

"Good." He looked back at the road. "Because if somebody fucks with you, I don’t care what House they’re from. Don or heir. They’re dead."

Aren laughed softly despite herself.

"You’re being scary again."

"I’m only scary when somebody messes with you."

That made her laugh again.

Caio’s expression eased slightly at the sound. But then Aren remembered something else Jeremiah had said — something she’d almost forgotten about — and her laughter slowly faded.

"Actually... there was something Mister Castellano said that bothered me."

Every trace of amusement vanished from Caio’s face.

"What did he say?"

Aren turned toward him with complete seriousness.

"What is a threesome?"

The car swerved violently sideways.