“No. No. I’m not. Kayden—”

He steps out into the downpour anyway, and I gasp when the icy water instantly consumes us, huddling against him for the mercifully short run to the curb. Kayden sets me down on my feet, his arm shackling my waist while he opens the door and helps me inside, water pouring all over the expensive leather seats. I expect his quick departure, but despite the storm punishing him from all directions, he lingers by my side, hitting the button to lower my seat, his wet hair draping his face. And it’s all I can do not to reach up and shove it from his forehead, to see his eyes and try to understand the man who has become the only person I can depend on in this world.

But I don’t, and he’s gone, shutting the door, and sweet heaven, the engine really is running as he promised, the warm air blowing on me, offering a tiny bit of relief. Still shivering, I roll to my side as Kayden climbs into the car and shuts us inside, water pouring from his clothes and hair as he shrugs out of his coat.

He tosses it on the backseat. “Your turn,” he says. “You’ll feel better without that wet leather weighing you down.”

“I’d rather not move.”

“You can rest when you get it off.” He reaches over and maneuvers my purse over my head.

Regret fills me. “I’m sure it’s ruined. A Chanel purse is not meant to be drenched in water.”

“I’ll buy you another one,” he says, as if a five-thousand-dollar expense is nothing to him.

“How rich are you, exactly?”

He tugs the zipper down on the front of my jacket. “Not as rich as Niccolo, and that’s a problem.”

“Because money is power,” I whisper, shivering, and this time it’s not from the cold.

He gives me a keen look. “That sounds like experience talking.”

Images flash in my mind. A white mansion. A huge mahogany bed. A man’s hands. “Probably. Maybe.”

“Whatever the case . . .” he says, reaching up and brushing hair from my lips. His fingers linger there just a moment too long. “You’re right. Money is power, and Niccolo’s supply of both is limitless.”

“How do you know him, Kayden?”

“How isn’t what’s important,” he says, his tone hardening, and I can almost feel a wall come down between us. “Just be glad I know enough to keep us off his radar.” He reaches for my jacket. “We need to get you out of this and get moving.”

I grab his arm. “You really don’t know how to take no for an answer, do you?”

“And here you said you know nothing about me.”

“Not enough.”

“You do know,” he says, covering my hand where I hold him, holding me to him, and I have this sense of a shift in control, from mine to his. “I could say the same of you.”

“But I’m the one at a disadvantage,” I remind him.

“Are you now?”

“How can you ask that? Of course I am.”

“We’ll agree to disagree on that one.”

I purse my lips but don’t push him, sitting up enough to shrug out of my jacket while Kayden reaches down and drags the heavy weight off my back. “You were right.” I breathe out, relaxing into the seat as he tosses my jacket onto the backseat with his. “I do feel better without it.”

I’ve barely spoken the words when Kayden leans over me, his arm stretched across my chest, his spicy, almost sweet, scent teasing my nostrils. “You shouldn’t have left like you did,” he says, his low, angry tone throwing me into defensive mode.

“Because you’re my hero and I should just blindly trust you?”

“I gave you a gun to earn your trust because I know you won’t need to use it on me.”

“Yes. You did. But that was after I saw Adriel and thought he was one of my attackers.”

“You mean you thought I was one of your attackers.”

“No. I don’t know, Kayden. You should have told me about him.”

“You should have asked before you ran.”

“And risked not having the chance to run? If you were me, would you have made that decision?”

His teeth clench, his expression hardening. “You have the gun now. That’s me trusting you whether you choose to trust me or not. Don’t pay me back by getting us both killed.” He grabs my seat belt and pulls it across me, buckling me in and then settling back in his seat.

I sit there, stunned, and the stormy night is not the only thing creating the dark wall between us. There is anger. Lots of anger on both our parts, as he adds, “And just so we’re clear. I’m not your hero. I’m just the man trying to save both our fucking lives.”

My anger evaporates instantly, and I say, “But you’re no monster.”

His head cuts sharply in my direction, willing me to look at him, and when I do, he demands, “And you know that how?”

“Because monsters always claim to be heroes.”

I expect him to ask how I know this as well, and I have no answer. There is just what I feel deep in my soul, a sense of having trusted the wrong person, who I refuse to believe was Niccolo. I would not trust a gangster. But Kayden doesn’t ask me. He doesn’t say anything. For several seconds he simply sits there, his body rigid, his jaw set hard. And when he does move, he faces forward and shifts the car into drive. I don’t turn away immediately, studying his profile, not sure if his lack of response is agreement or disagreement with my statement, only knowing that before this is over, I will find out.

Turning away from him, I sink farther into the leather seat, my gaze catching on the Rolls-Royce emblem on the glove box. I wait for the car or the brand to ring a bell beyond the obvious, and I’m relieved when it doesn’t happen. I don’t want Kayden to be lying to me. It’s the thought I replay in my mind as silence stretches between us, the rain pattering on the rooftop, the tension in the air between Kayden and me slowly softening to a hum instead of a scream. Kayden must feel it as well, because he leans down and turns on the radio, punching several buttons before an Imagine Dragons song starts to play.

I roll to my side and look at him. “You do know this song is called—”

“ ‘Monster,’ ” he finishes, giving me a sideways look, his lips hinting at a smile. “I thought it was appropriate, don’t you?”

Relieved we are over our argument, I feel a smile cut through my pain and find my lips. “Very,” I agree. “I guess Adriel likes American music?”

“Yes. He went to college in the States. And he’s a big enough Imagine Dragons fan to drag me to one of their concerts here in Rome.”

My eyes go wide. “Wait. You went to a concert?”

“I owed him a favor. And why is that so hard to believe?”

“I don’t know. You just pressed a gun to your chest. It’s hard to think about you doing something so . . .” I lift a hand. “Normal.”

“Normal’s overrated.”

“I’d take normal right about now,” I argue offhandedly, and get back to my main goal: finding out who Kayden Wilkens really is. “Do you ever go back to the States?”

“Occasionally,” he says, detouring my mission by offering nothing more.

“How old were you when you moved here?” I ask, digging in another direction.

“Ten.”

“So this really is home to you, isn’t it?”

“It’s where I live. Yes.”

It’s a curious reply, with a hidden meaning I try to decipher. “Where you live? So it’s not home?”

“Semantics.”

“That’s an answer which I assume translates to you not wanting to talk about this.”

“Why do you?”

“Because if I can’t know me, I want to know you.”

“You mean, you still think you know me and don’t remember.”

“Do I?”

“No matter how many times you ask me that, the answer’s going to be the same.”

“Fine,” I say, but I’m not ready to give up. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five,” I reply, surprising myself. “And I really . . . don’t know how I know that.”

“A name and an age. It’s progress. Maybe if you write in that journal you grabbed at the hospital you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”