Frustration rode Renzo. He still had no concrete proof of who’d tried to kill him. He also had a fucking army out there hunting Timothy Groves and so far there’d been no sign of him. That bastard was smoke in the wind, but Renzo wasn’t giving up.

Never.

All of it had him antsy and spoiling for a fight.

When the knock came on his office door, he didn’t look up from the papers in front him. “Come in.”

“Hey, you wanted to see me?”

He looked up with a smile. “Tennyson.”

She smiled back. Gorgeous fucking woman, full-figured—legs and ass tempting many a club goer to sin—attention-grabbing tits, and gorgeous ebony skin. She kept her hair in near waist-length braids, full lips always in her signature red. She came to work for him almost a year ago with a spotless resume. Sexy woman and she could sling drinks?

Fuck, yes.

Right now, she was dressed in a black Earth, Wind and Fire t-shirt, tight distressed jeans, and black and white Jordans. A more demure attire than her usual club gear.

“You wanted something, boss?”

“Yes.” He put the papers down and sat back. “How is Stavros Konstantinou?”

To her credit, she didn’t even blink. A pro. He beat himself up that he didn’t see it before. Stavros Konstantinou was a slippery sonofabitch who headed a ring of international mercenaries. Renzo hadn’t ever dealt with him personally, but he knew Dutch had gone after Stavros hard in the past. Nothing came of it, though, so Renzo couldn’t imagine what Stavros wanted, sending someone into his operation. The Greek wasn’t on his radar, he had much more important things to deal with.

But apparently, while he was too busy focusing on other shit, Stavros had been crushing on him.

“I almost didn’t believe my guy when he told me he followed you to New York. To Stavros’ penthouse.” He rose from behind his desk and strode over to her. She kept her composure, he had to give her that. “You’ve been working for him the entire time.” It didn’t do to come at people like Tennyson with questions. You only approached them once you’ve got all the answers. Otherwise you risked giving away your leverage.

She swallowed, eyes watchful.

“Let me guess, honey trap.” He tapped his chin lazily. “His research couldn’t have been all that good, if he didn’t know how I liked my sex. With cock,” he told her. He remembered the early days when she first started she’d find ways for the two of them to always be in close proximity. “That’s how I like my sex.”

“I know.” She lifted her chin in show of defiance.

“Good.” He grinned. “Something tells me you also know how this thing ends.”

“We weren’t behind the shooting,” she said quickly. “Stavros found out when I told him. He didn’t know.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” He pointed to his desk. “Everything you ever shared with Konstantinou, write it down. Also, you’re fired.”

She inhaled sharply, relief flooded her eyes.

Poor fucking soul. She had no idea they weren’t even remotely done. Still, he allowed her the reprieve, short as it was.

* * *

I went and make groceries,” Low told his aunt as he helped her out of his car. He’d come to pick her up from Bible Study after stopping at the Publix near the church to get her groceries. He tried to make things easier for her by making sure her cupboards were always fully stocked and her bills paid.

The very fucking least he could do.

He found it difficult to look her in the eye nowadays. Difficult to listen as she talked about Kenton like she always did, with heartbreak bleeding all over words. Guilt was a terrible thing to feel, so heavy on his chest, bitter on his tongue.

“Thank you, baby.”

Emotion choked him, locking words up tight in his throat as he made himself smile at her. “Is not a problem, Tanty.” He led her into the house, keeping his gaze averted so he wouldn’t make eye contact with all the photos of Kenton decorating the place. When his aunt placed her purse down on the center table and took a seat on the couch, he asked, “You need anything else before I leave?”

She pulled off her shoes and rubbed her stockinged feet. “You talk to you mother, baby?”

That reminder was so not needed. “She called to check up on me. That’s it.”

His aunt shook her head. “I tell her to talk to you. Is wha wrong wid that girl?”

“I can’t deal with her, Tanty.”

Tanty Ellen sighed as she stroked her wig. “You coming to dinner tomorrow by Ronna?”

He nodded, gratefully grasping onto the change in topic. “Yes.” Once a month his sister hosted a dinner at her place for whoever family was in the area and wanted to come. Most times it had been Low along with Tanty Ellen and Kenton who’d join Ronna and her family. This time he was sure it would just be his aunt and him.

“You mother might come.”

His aunt always said that. And his mother never showed, so yeah, he’d believe it when he saw it. “You cook today?” he changed the subject.

“Just some fig and saltfish.” She motioned to the kitchen. “I have some left back, you could take it.”

Of course he would. Just something simple as fig and saltfish—boiled green banana, ripe plantain served with fish cured in salt then shredded and sautéed with onion, tomatoes and other goodness—tasted amazing when cooked by his aunt. He quickly put some into a small travel container then went back to find her stretched out on the couch, under a blanket, watching her DVR’d soaps.

“Okay, ah going now, Tanty.”

She peered up at him under the glasses she wore to watch TV. “See you tomorrow, baby. Behave youself, eh?”

Behave. Sure. He bent and kissed her cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

Back home, he couldn’t stop thinking about Renzo. He’d made himself walk away, but fuck him if he didn’t want to take it all back. He wanted to check up on him. He had Dax, but Low just… He was messed up, wasn’t he? Worrying over Renzo, rubbing his chest every few minutes because he felt off. Like something was missing. Renzo was missing. Low should be there with him. It should be his hands in Renzo’s hair, his fingers on his skin.

Not Dax.

Except being near Renzo hurt him as much as it eased him.

Of all the men in the world, he had to be attracted to Renzo Vega. The man was powerful and dangerous. Despite the cool and calm way he presented himself, Low saw it. He saw the big red lights flashing caution whenever he stared into Renzo’s eyes. Still…

He was responsible for Kenton’s death. Even if he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, Low had no doubt that just being associated with Renzo put Kenton in the line of fire.

Still…

Renzo had him intoxicated. He made Low’s skin break out in goosebumps every single time their eyes met while he talked a good game Low just knew he could back all the way up.

But he’d gotten Kenton killed. His aunt lost her son. That shit you just don’t get over. Getting involved with Renzo was a betrayal Low couldn’t allow himself to make. So it was good that he left when he did.

He stared down at his hands, fingers twisted around each other.

It was good he’d cut ties. They’d never see each other again.

In an effort to distract himself, he called Ronna.

“Papa,” she greeted him. “I say you forsake me.”

He chuckled. “I don’t call you for one day and I forsake you? You real spoil.” His face hurt whenever he called her. For the longest time she’d been the only one to make him feel like this. The one to help drive away whatever demons rode him. The best thing about the shit happening in their family was Ronna.

“I must spoil. Who spoil me? Not you?”

He did and he’d never regret it. “I hear you mother coming to dinner tomorrow.”

His sister’s laughter drained away. Mention of their mother always did that. “So she say. I waiting to see if is true.”

He grunted, already regretting bringing up their mother. “How is me nephew?” Ronna’s ten year old son, Amir, had been diagnosed with Asperger’s a few months back.

“He dey in he room.” Frustration roughened her tone when she said, “He mad because I told him he can’t go to the park with his school friends.”

Low frowned. “Why he can’t go?”

“You know why. I can’t go, and his father is working. I don’t trust anybody else with me son, Low.” Her voice dropped. “You know how people is. I scared for him.”

He tightened his grip on the phone. “Why?”

“You know why, Low. All these men out there? I telling you, you can’t trust them. Next thing some man see him and do something to him?”

His knee bumped into the corner of his bed and he swallowed a yelp as he sank onto the mattress. “What? What does that mean?”

“Not only girls get molested, you know. Boys too, and everywhere you turn is a gay man nowadays. They could do something—”

“Wait. What?” He shook his head to clear it. “Are you listening to yourself? Just because somebody gay that mean they does molest? That’s not true, sissy.” He shook, bile hot and bitter in the back of his throat. “Being gay doesn’t make you a pedophile, Ronna.”

This was the way his sister thought? This was the way she saw men like him?

“I— Well, okay, so some of them—”

“Listen to me.” His voice rose, echoing inside his bedroom, and he struggled so hard to take it down a notch as he tried to make her understand. “They are not the same. Gay doesn’t mean pedophile, Ronna. Please. You have to know that.”

“Maybe I use the wrong words. Not gay people, but still—” She exhaled. “Outside is not safe for Amir. You know that, right, Low? People could hurt him.” Her voice started shaking. “I have to protect him.”

Like she hadn’t been protected. He understood that. He didn’t understand anything else that she said. His sister, the one he loved so much was the one who kept him firmly in the closet. He could never tell her who he was, not when she held beliefs like the one she just voiced.

She was damaged, more than him. She’d been violated in the worst possible way. It colored the way she saw the world, the way she interacted with people. Or the way she didn’t.

His sister hadn’t left the house in two years. The furthest she went outside was standing in her open doorway and peering out. She saw therapists, but she refused to leave the house. He’d watched her step onto her front porch one day and crumple to her knees, screaming and sweating, shaking so hard her teeth were like rattles with the noise they made. He knew all the reasons why, though. He understood them.

The man who’d molested her hadn’t been gay. Low didn’t understand it, but he hid himself—maybe not as overtly as Ronna did, but he hid himself—giving her the brother she’d accept instead, knowing who she was and loving her anyway, knowing she might not return that love if his mask ever came off. He could never let her go, though. She was all he had of a time when he was happy. When his father was alive and they were an actual family. He tortured himself with those memories, grasping on to time long gone by holding onto Ronna as she hurt him.

“Low?” Her voice was small in his ear as she awaited his approval of her views.

“I love you,” he told her the truth. No matter, what he wouldn’t stop, even though the time might come when she’d stop loving him. “I have to go.”

“Okay.”

He hung up before she could say anything else, tossing the phone onto the bed as tears blinded him. At seventeen, he’d come home from school and walked into the living room to find his father and two of his friends watching TV, drinking beers and smoking. They were watching a talk show that had gay men on who were trying to get their family members to accept them for who they were. Some of those men ran the Queer gamut, from femme to butch, Trans and everything in between.

He’d walked in just in time to hear one of his father’s friends comment, “I prefer a dead son to a gay son.” They’d all laughed, muttering their agreement, saluting with their beers.

Just that one sentence, nine words, and Low understood the lie he’d have to live. He did it, becoming an expert at presenting his fictional self to his family. It changed the way he saw his father, but the fucked up thing was, his dad had been the best in every way.

Except that one.

The fictional Low hadn’t wanted for anything emotionally or otherwise from his father. He’d been cherished, he’d been loved, he’d been accepted. Not the real Low, though. The fake one. Sometimes, most often, he preferred fake Low. More and more he lived that fake life until the real him became inconvenient and a nuisance. Until the real him felt forced and fake. It was harder and harder to be real anymore.

Harder and harder every single day, until Renzo.

All that pretending had him drowning, always in a struggle to keep his head above water. Renzo helped him breathe, helped him remain upright despite the guilt and sense of betrayal that rode him. How fucked up was that?

He wanted to experience something real. He wanted to like himself again. Wanted to rid himself of the mask obscuring his view of life and the world around him. He spent his time worrying about Ronna, but she had her husband. She had her child.

What did Low have? Who did he have?