“I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m listening.”

“My father . . .” I inhale and try to calm the trembling running through my body. “Military. He was military, but I think some sort of special unit.” My words are stronger now. I feel the edge easing. “The memory,” I continue. “My father was home for once. I was seventeen.” I swipe at a tear dripping down my cheek and a cold, cold calmness begins to roll through me. “Men came into the house and my father made me and my mother hide in the pantry, like you hid in the closet, Kayden. No wonder you’re so familiar.”

He cups my cheek and I lean into the touch as he says, “You were right. We do know each other. You don’t have to talk about this now.”

“I need to. I can’t explain it, but I need to.” I pause to let the images solidify in my mind. “I heard the struggle between my father and the men in our house. There were shots, but they were muffled. Silencers. I knew they used silencers. After that, there was quiet, and I had the feeling my father needed me. I fought my mother to be free of her hold and I got out of the pantry and he was lying on the ground, bleeding. Dying.” My fingers dig into Kayden’s arms, which I didn’t even realize I was holding. “My father was holding a gun, and the two men who attacked him were still in the house.” My eyes meet Kayden’s. “I killed them, and my only regret is I didn’t do it sooner.” I push to my feet and Kayden follows. “I don’t regret it, the way you said you wouldn’t regret it if you found the people who killed Kevin and Elizabeth.”

His arm wraps my waist, and only then do I realize I was wobbling and he’s kept me from falling. “You saved your mother’s life.”

“But not his. Not my father’s.”

“And no one knows what that feels like more than me.” He wipes the tears from my cheeks. “Let’s go home.”

Home. Now he says home and I want to be happy about that, but there is the ball in my chest that demands answers and actions. “We’re supposed to see the profiler.”

“It can wait, sweetheart.”

“It can’t wait. My father raised a fighter, and I’m going to fight.” I shove against him. “Let go. I need to stand on my own.”

He hesitates, but he releases me and I’m steady now, rejecting all weakness. I hold up the slippers. “I need these. Apparently I’m good with a gun and in ballet slippers. And I want to go to the shooting range, Kayden. Can the profiler meet us there?”

“Ella, I don’t think—”

My hand flattens on his chest. “I need to do this now. Please.”

His hand covers mine, his look probing, concerned, and whatever he sees, the result is his agreement. “I’ll have him meet us there.”

Thirty minutes later, after a silent drive to the outskirts of the city, in which I replay my father’s death far too many times, we arrive at the shooting range and sit at a small cafeteria-style table in the snack area. Tyler, a good-looking thirty-something blond American man, sits across from us.

“I’m ready when you’re ready,” Tyler says, opening his sketch pad, and it’s then that I notice the tattoo on his arm. “You’re a Hunter,” I say.

He glances at Kayden, who replies for him. “He transferred from a division in America.”

“And now you have resources inside the FBI,” I assume, shocked at just how far The Underground’s reach truly is.

“We always have,” Kayden surprises me by saying. “That’s how I met Tyler in the first place. Let’s get this drawing done.”

“Tell me about the shape of David’s face,” Tyler instructs, and I hesitate, suddenly reminded of how much Kayden hates the topic of my ex-fiancé, or whatever David was.

Kayden’s hand settles on my leg, a silent show of unity and understanding, just as his silence on the ride over here had been strength and comfort, rather than demand and questions. “Square,” I say. “Or his jaw was square and his cheekbones very defined.”

I watch as Tyler starts drawing, showing me his efforts, and when I give an approving nod, he asks, “Nose?”

“Straight, but not large.”

We go on like this for fifteen minutes, until I am staring at a picture of the man from my memory. I glance at Kayden. “That’s him.”

Kayden eyes Tyler. “Scan that and send it to Matteo.”

“Will do, boss.” Tyler pushes to his feet.

“Wait,” I urge. “Can you draw a necklace if I describe it?”

Kayden gives him a nod and he sits back down. “I’m ready.”

I describe the butterfly, and in a matter of minutes he’s drafted an exact duplication of my memories. I am cold inside. So very cold, and the pulse in my temple seems to grow faster and deeper.

“The necklace is the key to everything,” I say, staring at it, not at either of the men. “Find it, and you’ll find out why Niccolo is after me.” I stand and walk to the shooting range’s registration counter, filling out my paperwork with one of the few English-speaking attendants.

“Gun preference?” the man asks when I return the forms to him.

There is no hesitation in my reply. “Do you have a Ruger LC9?” It’s the gun my father had me practice with.

“We do, and I must say that’s an excellent choice for a petite woman like yourself.”

I don’t reply, remembering a similar comment from my father. The attendant hands me earphones, safety glasses, and a small box with my weapon inside, and while I am aware of Kayden’s continued absence, I am focused on one thing. I need a gun in my hands. Adrenaline surges through me, and with it, a whirlwind of dark, edgy emotions. Anger. Loss. Guilt. More anger. I walk to the shooting area and stop at the first booth available, setting my box down and putting on my glasses and earphones.

Kayden steps behind me, but I don’t turn. I grasp the gun and aim at the target, and for a moment I’m back in that kitchen, firing at those men. I picture the man in black falling face first. I picture my father lying in his own blood with my mother sobbing over him. My finger comes down on the trigger and I empty the gun, every shot hitting within target range.

Then I settle the gun back inside the case, seal the lid, and take off my gear, tossing it into a basket next to me.

I face Kayden. “Is that accurate enough for you?” I don’t wait for an answer. “I’m done being afraid. I’m going to get answers about who I am, and I’m going to do it with whatever force is necessary.”

“I’m taking care of this for you,” he insists.

“Not anymore. You can stand by my side, step aside, or try to lock me up—but you’d better be sure I don’t have a gun if you do.” I shove the box at him and take off walking. He falls into step with me but doesn’t speak, dropping the gun off at the counter as we head to the door. We exit the building, gravel crunching under our boots, neither of us in a coat. I barely feel the rapidly dropping temperature, but I am aware of the unison of our steps. I stop at my side of the Jag and he opens my door, but before I can enter, he pulls me against him.

“I’m standing in front of you, protecting you, whether you like it or not.” He releases me and all but sets me in the car, shutting me inside.

My heart is racing, a new rush of adrenaline assaulting my body, and the instant he is in the car, the door sealed, we whirl on each other, our gazes colliding in a battle of wills. “I don’t need you to protect me,” I grind out through clenched teeth.

“Too fucking bad.”

“I am not your responsibility.”

“Yes. You are.”

“Says you.”

“That’s right. Says me. And if you think that because you can handle a gun, you can handle the mob, you’re sadly mistaken. You’re running on heartache and adrenaline right now. And you need to come down.”

“I just remembered killing two men, and watching my father die in a pool of his own blood. How the hell am I supposed to come down?”

“The same way I do. Sex.” His fingers twine in my hair and he drags my mouth to his, his tongue licking into my mouth, a hot rasp of demand. I lean into the kiss, needing the outlet, needing it so damn bad.