Chapter Eight

I walked away. I didn’t promise to pay. I didn’t get on my hands and knees. I didn’t swing a roundhouse to his junk. I left with him still pointing his information at me like a machine gun, because there wasn’t much else I could do. Attacking Wyatt—while incredibly tempting—would only embarrass him into publicly shouting my paternity in a manner worthy of a Maury Povich meme.

“We’ll figure this out,” Marcus insisted as we boarded a T train, the party far behind us.

But there was nothing to figure out—Wyatt had me. Ever since Keira and I went public, I knew this would happen. I practically had a DSW of damning shoes in the storm clouds waiting to drop, and now the jerk who threw chicken at my head was dangling a pointy stiletto.

I sank silently onto a trolley bench, the plastic as cold as my thoughts. This would be front-page news, with the headline everywhere: Raised by Three Killers, the Anastasia Urban Story. The worst part was, unlike previous Department D stories about me, this one would be true.

“Speak. Por favor,” Marcus begged, pressing against my shoulder.

The train jerked into motion, its metal wheels squealing on the rails below. The Green Line was practically empty; there was only a snoring homeless man and a couple of college kids with noise-canceling headphones. No one recognized me. I wasn’t the face of our ordeal. I didn’t do any interviews. But that didn’t matter. Wyatt had my DNA. After I left school abruptly, the administrators cleaned out my locker and Regina held on to my personal items. Wyatt said she hadn’t run the test yet (it was expensive), but there were likely many morning news shows that would be happy to do it for her—or Wyatt. Who didn’t want more clickbait? And once they did, I’d forever be the child of not two, but three accused terrorists, with a sister who came back from the dead. It would add more drama to our already outrageous (and criminal) family, and every news outlet would want a quote, an interview, a breakdown. It was bad enough Keira was being hounded, but I didn’t have her ability to paint faux emotions onto my face. I’d be exposed. And they’d all want me to talk about him.

“I’m not even sure which is worse, Phoenix or Urban?” I asked rhetorically as I stared absently out the dark windows. “Phoenix is on my birth certificate, so that’s still my name, right? It doesn’t automatically change just because it turns out my DNA was wrong, does it?”

“No. Of course your name is the same. It’s whatever you want it to be,” Marcus said.

“I think I need to be eighteen to legally change it, to become a Smith or something.” I bit at my thumbnail, ripping off a piece of skin. “Can Urban force me to take his name? Since I’m a minor?”

“No.” Marcus shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

But he didn’t know for sure. How could he? We weren’t lawyers. I had a crash course in family law when my parents died, but my genetics were never challenged. What would happen if Randolph Urban tried to claim me, legally, while I was still seventeen? Would I be forced into visitation?

“Stop.” Marcus grabbed my hand, squishing my key ring to shift my focus somewhere else. Only there wasn’t a distraction big enough. “You can’t think like this.”

“Wyatt’s going to tell the world and I’m gonna have to be that person, publicly, forever.”

“You don’t know that.”

I gave Marcus a sidelong glance. We weren’t that stupid.

“Julian will pay him,” Marcus insisted.

“I’m sure he will, and Wyatt will use the money to buy a Corvette and drive straight to TMZ’s offices.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, leaning my head against the rumbling train. The T screeched to a stop, block after block, slow and steady. I thudded my skull against the glass, a dull thump, the blunt pain feeling necessary.

Marcus grabbed my face between his hands. “I need you in one piece.”

I peered at him, his chocolate eyes brimming with concern. He had the same eyes as his father and his brother. The Rey genes were strong. I guess so were the Urbans’.

“My eyes look like his, have you noticed that?” I asked. Marcus glanced away, but not before I saw the truth—yes, he’d noticed. Of course he did. Randolph Urban and I had the same pale, smoky blue color; the same gloomy shade that had set me apart from my family my entire life. I was marked. By him.

“You remember how he doted on Sophia at Dresden parties? Constantly talking about how proud he was of her, and how exceptional she was? He let her work for his criminal empire. What kind of grandparent does that? And what the hell is wrong with her? Doesn’t any of this bother her? She’s doing their bidding.” I shook my head, bewildered as I pictured Sophia’s face pressed next to Regina’s. Where would she take her?

“We don’t know if he has anything to do with Regina. Right now, he’s a lot more focused on not getting caught. He’s in hiding,” said Marcus.

“He’s sending me baby pictures. You’ve seen them. And do you really think Sophia befriended Regina on her own?”

The T whined again to an ear-piercing halt, and a group of college kids piled in through the bifold doors, huddling on the opposite end of the train. It was around eleven at night, and in the land of Universities, that meant the parties were just beginning. The girls were dressed in tight black pants with low-cut tank tops peeking from faux-fur coats. Keira used to wear tank tops in February, standard bar attire, even in Boston. I used to make fun of her. I missed those days.

“Charlotte told me about the last baby picture.” Marcus looked at me, the implication clear—Charlotte told him, not me. “Why won’t you talk to me about him? Why won’t you tell me what’s going on? You say that you hate him, that you hate all your parents, but sometimes…” His voice trailed off like he didn’t believe me. Not even him.

That was exactly why I couldn’t go on Good Morning America. I didn’t need a live studio audience to listen as I talked about Randolph Urban—the guy who smelled of woodsy cologne, who gave us “life insurance money” after he tried to kill my parents, who held my hand during their funeral, who kidnapped my sister and let me believe she was dead, and whose bushy white beard tickled when he hugged me. He’d documented my entire life on his camera, and now was sitting somewhere, sipping a glass of expensive red wine and staring at these photos. Of me.

What was I supposed to do with that?

I dropped my chin into my wrapped scarf, sighing, my hot breath steaming against the fabric, fuzz sticking to my lips. “I don’t know how I feel. Sometimes he’s helping us, sometimes he’s kidnapping us.” I stared at the rows of fluorescent lights on the train’s ceiling, dead bugs trapped inside. “Now he has Regina—”

“He may have nothing to do with that.”

I cocked my head. “He kidnapped my sister.”

“And he let her go.”

“Seriously?” Because I remembered doing a whole lot of rescuing.

“I know you saved Keira, but Craig Bernard did not have to tell you everything he did. Urban wanted him to. I think when Urban found out the truth about you, he wanted you to find your sister. And these baby pictures are his way of—”

“He can’t make up for what he’s done,” I interjected, cutting off his train of thought. Then I lowered my voice so no one could hear. “The CIA said Urban was going to turn Keira into a suicide bomber and send her into a soccer stadium. My own parents confirmed that in Rio—they said he was going to lure them to the stadium and use Keira to kill them. How demented is that?”

“Very. But your parents also faked their deaths, so they’re not the most reliable sources.” Marcus gave me a sideways glance. “I’m not arguing with you. It’s just…I think…” Marcus turned my chin so I had to see his eyes, see how much he meant this. “I think no one has given you permission to feel anything other than anger. You’re under so much pressure to hate this man, but it’s more complicated than that…”

I bit my lip, trying to squirm away from his gaze, but he wouldn’t let me. I didn’t want to think about this, and especially not on a crowded T train.

“You search for your parents every day. And I search for mine. But him, you’ve left that to Charlotte.”

I shrugged him off, not wanting to hear it. “Because maybe seeing my parents in Rio was hard enough.”

“I know, but denying how you feel…”

“Denial? Really?” I turned back toward him. “You’re going to accuse me of that? Because your parents are still MIA, the truth about their crimes is still out there, how do you feel about that?”

“Yo no sé. But I want to know the truth.”

“Even if that means they’re not engineers?”

“If there’s proof, I’ll believe it.”

Sure. Believing my parents were evil criminals was never my problem, talking about how that made me feel was. Maybe he’d understand when that day came for him, when it was his turn not to deny the truth anymore.

Marcus rose to his feet, suddenly pulling the cord to request the next stop. Our hotel wasn’t for at least several more blocks.

My eyes crinkled with confusion. “What are you doing?”

Marcus smiled, running his hand through his messy black hair as he gazed out the windows. “I’m going home.” He nodded with his chin at the rows of brownstones, his eyes taking on a glint I hadn’t seen in months.

Oddly, I realized I’d never been to his place. I’d only met him days before my sister disappeared, and when I snapped out of my funk, I was so focused on finding Keira that Marcus was always with Charlotte and me, in our home, helping us. Then we jetted off to Italy.

I didn’t even know where he lived. I blinked at the strange revelation as the T let out a metallic yell and came to a halt.

He extended his hand. “Anastasia Phoenix, I think it’s about time I took you home.”

From the outside, Marcus’s brownstone looked quite similar to the place I’d shared with Keira (and Charlotte, and my parents). The exterior was red brick, not exactly brown as the name suggests. It had curved bay windows that formed a column up the front of the house and a concrete stoop about ten steps high that led to the arching vestibule door. It was so Boston and so familiar. The biggest difference was that the Reys’ home took up all four floors of the brownstone, and there was police tape crisscrossing the door.

“My parents are still under investigation for their Dresden involvement. Obviously,” he noted as we ducked under the yellow caution tape sealing the crime scene. He unlocked the door with a key that still worked. “I imagine the police have taken out whatever evidence they need, and I do technically still live here, so what are they going to do?”

Marcus gave me a look to ask if I was up for breaking the law, and my answer was clear. I stepped inside.

He flicked on the lights, and the first thing I noticed was simple—Marcus was rich. The place looked appropriate for afternoon tea with a royal duchess. I guess I should have expected this given that his parents were seated by Randolph Urban in Dresden’s corporate offices, but even when our parents were alive, Keira and I would have sworn we were middle class. We never lived lavishly. Every home we ever occupied was an apartment. We had assumed that was the lifestyle our parents could afford, and after they died, we thought they simply left us with no savings because they were bad with money. We’ve since realized they left us no money because they kept it for themselves, potentially stockpiling millions for their faux deaths. Meanwhile, we ate hot dogs. Thanks, Mom and Dad!

“Nice place,” I said as I examined exactly what Dresden’s money could buy. It wasn’t that I needed fancy molding and marble everything, but it would have been nice to not have to steal Wi-Fi from the neighbors. We were the children of crime lords, yet we got all of the danger with none of the perks.

“Es okay.” He nodded to the papers strewn about. “My mom would be horrified by the mess.”

There were books on the floor, drawers upended, and cushions tossed, evidence of a home recently searched. Dirty shoe prints marred the hardwoods, and I could see perfect dust-free shapes on tables signifying that something had been removed—maybe a lamp or a knickknack.

“Do you know what’s missing?” I asked.

Marcus shrugged like it didn’t matter.

Of course it did. “Want to check out your room?”

He nodded, his eyes distant.

I was familiar with police invading my home, but I’d never been searched, and especially not in my bedroom. It wasn’t fair. Marcus hadn’t done anything wrong, but it was likely strangers had touched his things, read his notebooks, looked at his pictures. We had that in common—every facet of our lives, every online chat we had, every email we’d sent was now examined by federal agents, the media, and any internet troll with a penchant for hacking.

I clasped his hand, and Marcus led me up the winding staircase lit by a crystal chandelier. The walls were decorated with family photos, each displayed in a unique frame—some modern and black, some antique wood, some shiny metal. It was eclectic and charming, and it breathed an unexpected feeling of hominess into the Rey family. These criminals who plotted against my family also walked along the beach, toured the Eiffel Tower, and fished in a lake. They kissed their sons and held their hands. Some pictures dated back to when they were infants—black and whites of a mother cradling newborn babies—and some were so recent Marcus still had the same hairstyle. But he didn’t look the same. The smile he wore in these photos matched the one I saw on his face when Antonio first arrived in England.

Marcus was different around me, or more accurately, he was different since he’d met me. His family had disintegrated. Sure, mine had, too, but I had accepted the death of my parents years ago. Meanwhile, Marcus had lovingly lived with his parents and brother up until a few months ago. That reality was now hitting my heart in a way my brain hadn’t let it before.

“You guys look really happy,” I said.

“We were.” He smacked his lips to convey those times were over.

His photos were no longer memories but relics, remnants of a family gone extinct. Given the choice between knowing the truth about his parents or remaining blissfully ignorant, I think he’d choose the latter. He’d want his family back. I probably would, too.

“I’ve never had a girl upstairs before.” Marcus’s tone shifted, taking on a teasing bent as he stopped at a door with an ornate crystal knob. “Welcome to my room.”

He pushed it open and the first thing I noticed was the color. The walls were a dark crimson, which matched the eyes on the bull tattoo on his neck. I doubted this was accidental. There was a large vintage poster of Plaza de Toros de Madrid above his bed showing a gilded matador with a black triangular hat waving his fiery red cape in front of a bull. There were also several framed photographs, one featuring a matador being head butted in the crotch by the animal’s horns. Additionally, photos of bands and soccer teams I’d never heard of covered the walls, but it was the bullfighting theme that stood out the most, strong enough for a PETA protestor to throw a bucket of gory paint at his chest.

“I guess you weren’t kidding about your grandfather being a matador,” I said, remembering the match Keira and I had been to in Madrid years ago. It was possible one of Marcus’s relatives had been in the ring. Marcus himself may have been in attendance, and our parents may have met clandestinely to commit crimes together. We didn’t know for sure, but I liked the idea that we were fated to meet, even if it was under criminal circumstances.

“I know people hate bullfighting. I get it, but I loved mi abuelo.” Marcus ran his hand along a framed picture.

Well, my parents kill people, not bulls, I thought. No judgment from me.

“I don’t have any grandparents. At least, not that I know of…” These days I wouldn’t be surprised to learn I was now someone’s mother-in-law.

“I don’t anymore, either. Mi abuelo passed away two years ago.” Marcus bit his lips, holding in his emotions the way guys do in front of girls. But I wanted to know him, all of him—the guy who rode a motorcycle to save my life, the guy who played guitar with his brother, and the guy who loved his grandfather enough to get a tattoo on his neck to remember him.

“I’m sorry about your abuelo.” I touched his throat, brushing my fingers against the ink. “But your tattoo makes more sense now. It’s kinda sweet.”

“Sí, and it really hurt.” He laughed at himself. Then he reached up and clasped my hand, squeezing my ring as he held my palm against his neck. He was so warm, and I could feel his pulse quickening. So was mine.

“Is it strange having me here?” I asked. My voice was a whisper, as though if I spoke too loudly I’d somehow break this bubble we’d entered and the moment would be taken away from me.

“Sí.” He leaned his head so close I could feel his breath. “I never pictured you here. I mean, I’ve pictured you. A lot.” He voice was rough. I looked up through my lashes, and the way he was gazing at my lips made my cheeks burn. “But I never imagined us here. It didn’t seem possible.”

“You’ve pictured me?” My stomach did a backflip. How did he picture me?

When I’d asked the question, I was wondering if it was odd having me in the house he shared with his family while no one was home. His response, and the way his lips almost touched mine as he spoke, suggested he was talking about something else entirely.

His eyes moved toward the four-poster bed. I swore it had somehow grown three sizes, because it was now the only thing in the room. He interlaced his fingers with mine. “Haven’t you? Pictured me?”

I had. Obviously. But after Rio, after he almost died, it was hard to get romantic. It was hard to feel anything other than imminent doom. We were constantly strategizing our next move, talking to the media, searching for our parents. Antonio left a wake of betrayal and my sister was miserable. Our parents were murderers. Keira was touring the talk show circuit. Strangers were threatening to kill us. My best friend was promising to destroy me. It was as if the fact that we were actual people, with real emotions and desires, got overshadowed by all the chaos.

Only now, as I stood in his room, inhaling the familiar scent of his shampoo mixed with leather mixed with sweat, my brain fell still. It was just Marcus and me. No one was waiting to barge in with a catastrophic event. No one was downstairs feeling lonely and traumatized. No one was wondering what we were doing, and why we were away from the group for so long.

This was our moment.

His chest pressed against me, and I could feel his heartbeat. Then he leaned his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I loved when he did that—like a hug, only more intimate. Like foreplay. We hovered blissfully in the moment right before our lips touched.

Slowly, I slid my fingers from his neck to his chin, then to his ear, then into his hair. His hands snaked down the sides of my body and his hips moved in a way that reminded me of dancing in Rio.

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted,” he whispered impossibly close.

“Nobody wants a life like this.”

“You. Are. What. I. Want. I love you.”

It was as if the words sucked my lips to his. I couldn’t resist. I didn’t want to. His hands slid under my shirt and he danced me toward the mattress. Then I tugged his T-shirt over his head and ran my fingers down his skin, smooth and warm, his muscles strong.

There wasn’t an ounce of me that wanted to stop, or overthink, or question.

I wanted to be here, right now. I wanted everything.

So I gave in to the feeling.

And we tumbled onto the bed.