Page 20 of The Crowned Garza
Seconds tick by before he replies with palpable reluctance, “I was freelancing for Torin since Red Cage was just a startup, did you know that? I was ‘tech guy’ then. When I became a permanent employer, I was ‘IT guy.’ As the firm grew and I became more embedded in it, somewhere along the way, ‘IT’ disappeared and I became ‘Guy.’”
Wow, I had no idea he’d been at Red Cage that long. That would mean he’s been there even before my other brothers because Trent and True joined the firm about a year and a half after the company launched, and Tripp two years after. He must’ve been a whiz back then for Torin to hire him that young.
“What’s your real name then?” I ask.
“Glove compartment.”
I drop my feet from the dash and open the glove compartment, finding a black pouch with his license and registration.
“Saint Lucian,” I read off his driver’s license, then blow out a whistle. “Sexy name. But there’s nothing remotely saintly about you.” According to his date of birth, he’s seven years older than me. “Why didn’t you ask to be addressed by your real name once you solidified your position at the company?”
“Because ‘Guy’ was earned,” he replies. “It’s a sign of loyalty, not disrespect.”
Hmm. He’s loyal to my brothers? Nah, I don’t buy it. He prefers ‘Guy’ because it’s an extra layer of hiding his real identity. On that note, I study his license some more.
Something tells me the information on this is about as authentic as the license itself. He has the resources at Red Cage to fabricate, embellish, and create truth out of lies. My brothers have countless fake IDs and passports. Heck, evenIhave an entire fake identity packet they gave me to use in the event of an extreme emergency.
“The rule of the deal was that you answer metruthfully,” I remind him.
“I don’t remember agreeing to anything.”
“You signed the agreement the moment you answered my first question.”
“That so?”
“Do you want me to keep calling you, then?”
Taking the disgruntled sound he makes as a solidno, I press on, “What’s your real name?”
“That is my real name…” A decisive pause. “In English.”
“Let me rephrase,” I say. “What’s the name on your original birth certificate?”
Seconds pass, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “One, if I answer this question, it’s thelastquestion. Two, you can’t ever repeat it to anyone. Three, you must adhere to the terms of your deal. Don’t call me again unless you’re really in trouble. Got it?”
“That’s not—”
“Those are the terms,” he curtails in a tone that brooks no argument.
Indignant, I push back, “You can’t just change the terms on a deal that’s already been made!”
“The next time you make a ‘deal,’ ensure the other party agrees first.”
Like he’s making sure I verbally agree now. Lesson learned. Could I fight it? Be a pain until I get my way? Sure. But Ireallywant to know his name, so… “Okay. Terms accepted.”
He nods, and after several beats, says, “Santo Luciani.”
Nice. Even hotter than Saint Lucian. I don’t know which one I like more. “And you’re letting people call youGuy?” I ask in disbelief. “I would drop to my knees in sexual obedience for a Santo Luciani even without knowing what he looks like.”
He glances over at me, fingers curling tightly around the steering wheel. “Don’t say things like that to me.”
“Things like what?” I ask, feigning innocence. “It’s a hot name. If names were fuckable, I’d fuck that name.”
“Gesù Cristo,” he mutters under his breath.
I study his side profile. ‘Guy’ doesn’t fit him. Not even a little bit. But Santo Luciani? It’s like a well-tailored Italian suit, hugging him just right.Oh, what a beautiful saint…
Insane how just putting that name to that face changes…everything.
