Somehow, Rosalyn completely failed to research Diego’s name. Her article was left forgotten. Instead, they drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. And when they woke the next day, the two of them talked and explored each other. Learning, growing closer.

She did managed to ask about his fights again, as much for her own curiosity as her need to write the article. This time, he scowled at her with suspicion and her heart sank.

“Why do you want to know so much about this?” His scowl deepened. “And why were you even at the fights in the first place?”

Rosalyn swallowed. Now or never, she had to be honest with him. It might mean she couldn’t write the article, if he refused her. But maybe being honest with him, instead of jeopardising what they were building between them, had suddenly become of the utmost importance.

“You know how I said I wrote blog posts and articles?” she asked carefully. He eyed her, then gave a slight nod. “Well, what would you say if I wanted to write an article about you and the other fighters?”

She held her breath.

“No,” he said immediately, the sound as final as a tolling bell.

She frowned. “Why not? It would make a great story. And it would get the word out there about how these guys are being exploited. Maybe it would help.”

He shook his head. “The fights would get closed down.”

“But wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

“And take away the only source of income for these guys?” He laughed bitterly. “Like me, they’re all hiding something. You’d expose us. Expose me.” His jaw was locked, his eyes blazing in fury.

Rosalyn swallowed. “Okay.” She’d try again later once he had time to come around to the idea. She still thought it would be the best way to help those guys. Diego was too deep into the world, and he couldn’t see how dangerous and brutal it was. He thought it was normal to have people die in a cage and their bodies dumped God knows where. He’d barely reacted as he’d told her that.

She knew what it was like to be too deep into a world and not see a way out. These men deserved to have their stories told, so they weren’t forgotten and left behind.

And for her? This article, if done right, could make her career. So she was no longer forgotten and left behind. The hard work and sacrifices would have been worth it, and she could become a real investigative journalist telling stories that mattered. Like this one.

Sensing Diego’s residual tension, Rosalyn leaned over him and trailed her hands over his bare chest. “What will we do tonight?” she asked.

He relaxed almost instantly. “More of this, I hope,” he replied, squeezing her hip with a grin.

She laughed, but then she swallowed, catching his eye so he’d know she was serious. “I mean, will you stay? Once the forty-eight hour window is up?”

He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze intense. It seemed like he was waging some kind of private battle within himself, or maybe against himself.

Eventually, he gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

But the hesitation had stuck with her. Her journalist mind was too curious about what he was hiding, and her heart—well, she needed to know before she got in too deep.

As Diego dozed in a post-coital haze that afternoon, Rosalyn crept from the bed and tugged on her clothes. She opened her sorely-neglected laptop, guilt spearing her as she remembered she’d barely done any work the last two days.

The wheels of her desk chair scraped faintly on the hardwood floor as she twisted it around, keeping Diego in her peripheral vision and her computer on her legs. Despite her justifications to herself, she still felt like she was invading his privacy.

She typed Diego’s name into Google as a starting point. A bunch of Facebook and LinkedIn profiles, none of which appeared to be him. She dug a little deeper, idly scrolling through the results and not really expecting to find much.

A news article sat about halfway down the page, with the name Diego Johnson in the preview. Something about a fire in Portsboro.

Rosalyn clicked through in curiosity, reading the article without much interest. But as she got further down, words and names jumped out at her—like Victor, the man who Diego had claimed was his boss. But none of it quite clicked together. Until she got right to the end. ‘The other body was burned beyond recognition in the fire, but is thought to be one of Victor’s associates by the name of Diego Johnson.’

She gasped softly. Diego was dead? If so, who was the man currently sleeping in her bed? And if it wasn’t Diego in the fire, then who had died? The dull pounding of impending horror sounded at the edge of her consciousness. She scrolled back up, rereading the article with her new knowledge. Now, another line caught her eye: ‘One of the victims is being identified as Victor Garrera, who has been investigated for many crimes, but never charged. Police have released the cause of death as a gunshot wound, and is being treated as suspicious.’

Rosalyn swallowed, her mouth dry, and opened up a new tab. She searched for more news articles about the fire, but there was never a follow up, never confirmation of who the second body was—or how Victor Garrera had received his gunshot wound.

Had she let a killer into her home—her bed?

“What are you doing?” Diego asked sleepily from the bed. Or maybe it wasn’t Diego. Who had she let into her house?

Rosalyn licked her lips, then carefully took her laptop from her legs and placed it on the desk. Her hands shook, and she squeezed them into fists to keep control. She held herself still, afraid that if she moved wrong she’d crumble to pieces.

“Who are you?” she asked on a whisper.

The sleep instantly cleared from his face and he bolted upright. “What did you find?” he demanded.

Rosalyn let out a shaky breath. “Why are you on the run?” she tried, her voice small. The fierceness of his expression made her skin go clammy with fear. What would he do to protect his secrets? He traded in violence for a living. Would she just be another statistic?

He leapt out of the bed and strode towards her. Rosalyn stumbled to her feet, the chair tilting precariously as she backed away from him.

“I asked you a question,” he growled.

Rosalyn straightened her spine. “And I asked you one! I knew you had your secrets, but you’ve been dancing around the truth this whole time. Is your name even Diego?”

He closed in on her, backing her into the wall. But he didn’t touch her. Not like the last time they were in this position. This time he balled his hands into fists, keeping them close by his side. Was it a threat? Or couldn’t he trust himself not to touch her? Ten minutes ago she would have said with certainty it was the latter. But now he radiated violence and anger.

Rosalyn’s heart thundered but she forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes burned, fury and passion mingling in a turbulent maelstrom.

“My name is Diego,” he bit out.

She nodded, some of the starch leaving her spine. She believed him. “And did you kill a man?” she asked, her voice steadier now. Please say no.

He stiffened, then he stared at her for a long moment, his gaze communicating his agony at the question. He didn’t reply, giving Rosalyn an answer she hadn’t want to hear.

She pushed off the wall, coming further into Diego’s space. He backed off, only taking one step when she took two. Their chests brushed as she analysed his face. “Were you the one who killed Victor?” she tried again, voice almost a whisper.

“He was a bad man, Rosalyn. He killed a lot of people.”

“And you? Are you a bad man?”

He shook his head. “I never lied to you about that.”

She scoffed. “But murder? That’s pretty different to the petty crime you implied you were doing.”

He deflated. “It started out that way. But Victor looked after me when I was in prison. He sent me things I could trade, asked the men he had in there to keep an eye out for me. I was a kid back then. I would’ve been crucified if it wasn’t for him. So, yeah, when I got out I owed him a debt. I did a lot of shit I wasn’t proud of. Shit that will forever stain my soul. But you know what? Killing Victor wasn’t one of them. It freed me.”

“To what? Live a life of violence all over again?”

He straightened, seeming to grow taller, sucking all the air from the room. Rosalyn swallowed.

“I have plans to escape,” he growled. “But I need money to do that. Money I don’t have, and can’t get, because I’m supposed to be dead. What do you want me to do, Rosalyn? Announce I’m alive, apply for a job in an office? It’s hard enough finding work as an ex-con. What about an ex-con with vengeance-minded men on his tail and police suspicions he murdered his boss? Victor’s crew didn’t take too kindly to what I did.”

“And what did you do, exactly?” she asked him.

He exhaled. “I saved Radha’s life—you remember her, right?”

“Your ex-girlfriend?” Despite everything, a streak of jealousy ran through Rosalyn at the mention of the other woman’s name.

“Yeah. Victor had her. There was a fire—I guess her boyfriend started it to help rescue her. I encountered them in the hallway on their way out. Instead of shooting them then and there as I should have, I let them go, and went to hold off Victor to give them time to get to safety.”

“And then you killed him?” Her voice was a whisper, pleading, hoping he’d say no, despite it all.

“Yes, but—”

“Get out.”

“It wasn’t like that. Red, please.”

“You warned me, but I was too stupid to listen. I should’ve known you were too good to be true.”

“If you let me—”

“Diego I need you to leave. I need time to think about this. To figure out…I don’t know. Just. I can’t have you here. I can’t be around you right now.”

He stared at her for a long moment fraught with tension. Before her eyes, all the softness that had slowly entered his expression over the last few days disappeared, boarded up behind the cocky, flippant mask he’d worn when they’d first met.

“Fine. But remember, I did warn you. You only have yourself to blame.”

He snatched his duffel bag from the floor and stalked towards the door, ripping it open with such force it nearly came off the hinges. He hesitated on the threshold and half-turned his face towards her, almost as if trying to catch one last glimpse of her.

Then, he huffed out a breath and left, slamming the door behind him so loudly Rosalyn jumped. She collapsed in her office chair, wrapping her arms around her as if that could keep her together. But it couldn’t. She let out one shaky sob, and then another, until tears were falling too fast for her to wipe them away.

She’d made the right decision, hadn’t she? Diego was a violent killer, and she couldn’t have that in her life.

So why did she feel like there was an empty place in her heart that hadn’t been there before?