Page 30 of Taking Denver

I close the footage.

Denver lost her child. And by the looks of it, very far along. And her husband was not only cheating but talking about her like that?

The threads echo my feelings. Most people are in favor of Wyatt dying—claiming that if Denver did it, then good on her. Others chime in about vigilante justice benefiting no one, andwhile Wyatt was clearly a piece of shit, he didn’t deserve to be murdered.

I keep searching.

The articles about Ranger describe him as a businessman who gives to charity and worked his way up from nothing to everything. The unofficial side of the internet tells things differently. Ranger Luxe is a criminal. A gangster. He’s a killer, a drug dealer, and is linked to numerous unsolved crimes over the last few years alone.

The last thread I find focuses on Denver and Ranger’s relationship. There are photos of them taken by paparazzi over the years, a Denver in her early twenties by Ranger’s side, doing everyday things: getting coffee, going to the movies, going on vacation. One photo, though, seems to be a fan favorite.

In it, Denver and Ranger are standing outside a coffee shop. Ranger is leaning against a wall, hands in his pockets, and Denver is in front of him, grinning. She’s close, a teasing smile on her face. What makes the photo significant is that Ranger is smiling in it. A warm smile, a smile that reaches his eyes.

I haven’t seen a single other photo of Ranger smiling like that, not even a hint of it. The head of a criminal empire has a heart, and it clearly belongs to Denver.

The date on the photo is before she married Wyatt, and then pictures of Ranger and Denver lessen over time. It seems Wyatt replaced Ranger until the day he died.

A knock interrupts my reading.

I sit up, staring at the door, knowing who it is.

Avoid him. That’s what Denver said. But curiosity paired with jealousy has me opening the door to Ranger Luxe.

The devil existed, and he’d knocked on my door.

Dressed in pants and a shirt, his tie the same endless black as his eyes, Ranger Luxe considers me. His frame almost fills thedoorway, and I wonder why he’d knocked when he could have shouldered the door down and made an impression.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“Is this like a vampire thing?” I ask, jealousy and stupidity ruling my tongue. And maybe a bit of disbelief, too.

Gangsters, murderers, mobsters, the mafia—they all feel so far removed from reality. Movies and books can’t be accurate, can they? Men like Ranger exist, sure, but they don’t take bullets and keep moving, nor are they untouchable. They walk around with an air of confidence because sometimes that’s stronger than a shield. Even I know that.

This guy might have a reputation, but he’s also human. And he can bleed like one, too.

Ranger arches a brow, looking torn between boredom and amusement, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he places a hand on my chest and moves me aside before striding into my room.

I close the door with a snap. Ranger doesn’t even flinch.

“Sebastian not home?”

I pause my steps, a little alarmed that he knows my friend’s name. “No.”

“Shame.” Ranger stands in the kitchenette, making the space look smaller. He’s like a black hole of a man, swallowing everything around him.

I take tentative steps into the living area, keeping enough space between us to at least give myself the illusion of safety, but I may as well be circling an open space with a fucking lion.

Ranger opens the refrigerator, and I frown. “What are you doing?”

“Ah.” Ranger closes the refrigerator door again and faces me. He’s holding a bottle of beer. “This is interesting.”

Anxiety nips at my neck. “Is it?”

“I should say so.” He twists off the cap and takes a swig before placing it on the counter. “Why would an alcoholic have beer in his room?”

Everything within me freezes. The lack of sound becomes a buzz, a chime, a shout and screaming metal?—

“Can’t you feel it, Ethan?”

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