by RC Boldt
Truth in Pieces
RC Boldt
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Excerpt from Hell Hath No Fury
About the Author
Copyright © 2020 by RC Boldt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by trademark owners. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features in any media form are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if one of these terms are used in this work of fiction.
Cover design by By Hang Le
Visit my website at www.rcboldtbooks.com.
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To Matty,
Just when I think I couldn’t love you more, you go and rescue me all over again.
P.S. I still love you more.
To A,
You’re amazing. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different. I love you more than the whole world and universe—always.
1
Olivia Wright
Miami, Florida
Friday
Someone likes expensive cars.
This is my initial thought after spotting the shiny black Audi A8 L. The sleek vehicle with dark-tinted windows sits at the curb between my neighbor’s house and mine.
I wonder if someone’s considering renting Mrs. Camuso’s house next door. She’s recently gone into assisted living, and last I heard, her family has been thinking of keeping the house as a rental property.
My heels click sharply along the stamped pavement leading up to my front door. Once I unlock it and step inside, I kick off my wedge heels and exhale a slow breath, wishing I could expel my weariness right along with it. It’s been two and a half weeks since the video went viral, but God, I wish the hype would die down already.
A student in one of my afternoon classes started choking on a peanut M&M, and I immediately performed the Heimlich. Of course, another student took it upon himself to record the entire incident and post it online. It went viral, and I began trending as the “heroic professor.”
Initially, that is. Then the tide changed, and now, the Internet world knows me as the “Hot Prof.”
It’s attention I never wanted and sure as hell don’t need. Being one of two female professors amidst the majority of male colleagues in the psychology department is challenging enough, particularly with Dean Harrod at the helm.
In my usual work wardrobe—an off-white blouse paired with a gray pencil skirt—I take a step toward my dining room, intent on depositing my laptop briefcase and purse on one of the chairs before heading to the kitchen for a glass of much-needed wine.
This is the exact moment my life changes.
A man sits with his hip propped on the edge of my dining room table.
As if on autopilot, I scan him from head to toe. My eyes travel over his button-down shirt to note the holstered gun at the waist of his pinstriped pants. If the sight of his weapon weren’t indicative enough of looming danger, it would be the near-stifling air of menace that he exudes.
The front door is my closest exit. My eyes never veer from the man as my grip on my laptop briefcase and purse goes slack, dropping them to the floor. Spinning around to make a run for it, I slam into the hard wall of someone’s chest with such force that it sends me tottering backward. My arms windmill, but the beast of a man I’ve collided with grasps my shoulders and steadies me.
I raise my eyes up, up, up… Holy shit. The man’s built like a brick house. Tall and stocky, he greatly outweighs me. His build and darker skin tone remind me of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. The man’s palms are so utterly enormous they span my shoulders and much of my upper arms.
“Easy, Professor. Bossman just needs to talk.” His simple tone belies stern features that indicate he’ll restrain me if necessary—and that’ll likely be with one hand.
What in the fresh hell is going on?
With a gentleness that I wouldn’t expect from someone his size, Goliath turns me to face the man still casually perched on the polished surface of my dining room table.
I attempt to calm my breathing. He makes no move to reach for his gun, yet his sharp, assessing golden brown eyes lock with mine.
“I ain’t here to hurt you, Professor.” The deep timbre of his voice catches me off guard.
I eye him warily while simultaneously gauging how quickly I can get past him to the knife block in my kitchen.
“Don’t.” His tone is commanding and steely. “Just said, I ain’t gonna hurt you. Don’t do somethin’ stupid.”
“Right.” I lift my chin, attempting to channel some semblance of bravery. “You break into my house with a man the size of a giant, and I’m supposed to believe you’re not here to hurt me?”
“You won’t be harmed in my presence.” Though the sentiment of his words is at odds with the
menace that cloaks him, I detect a thread of sincerity in them. That is, until he goes on to add, “But you’re gonna have to come with me.”
I swallow hard and channel the firm tone I use when dealing with asshole frat boys in my intro-level classes. “I’ll take a rain check.”
His expression hardens. “Wasn’t givin’ you a choice.”
I turn my head slightly, holding Goliath’s gaze while I edge aside a few steps, keeping both men in my line of sight. The beast of a man grunts but allows me to move.
“Who are you? And what are you”—I gesture between him and Goliath—“both doing in my house?”
“Name’s Nico.”
When it becomes evident that he doesn’t intend to provide a last name, I raise a haughty brow. “Nico…? What, are you like Cher and only have one name?”
His eyes narrow, and I get the impression he doesn’t appreciate my defensive sarcasm.
Well, too damn bad.
“Nico Alcanzar.”
I battle against an instinctive urge to shudder. Nico Alcanzar. The name sends ice-cold prickles of unease dancing along my skin. Shock rises to the surface, reverberating through me as I take in the sight of him once again.
Chiseled jawline. Straight nose. Short black hair that’s a breath away from being a close buzz cut. Skin a deep bronze. Tattoos peek out from beneath the collar of his expensive-looking dark gray button-down shirt, and the two top buttons are opened to reveal the hollow of his throat.
Inked designs spill past the cuffs of his long sleeves, curving along the tops of his hands and fingers. My eyes travel the length of him, skittering over the holstered gun at the waist of his black pinstriped pants which mold powerful thighs, then drop to sleek, black wingtip shoes I’d bet cost more than my monthly paycheck.
There’s no denying the man is handsome as hell, but his granite-hard expression and the dangerous air about him detracts from it.
This is the man who rose up the ranks—rumored to have done so by means of violence and murder—to control one of the most notorious drug cartels in Miami.
The man who singlehandedly revived this city’s drug trade to surpass the notoriety it once had back in the seventies and eighties.
Though I’ve heard rumors about Nico Alcanzar, no photographs were ever leaked by the press. I always assumed he was much older.
And far less…attractive.
He straightens from his perch on the table, and I instantly wish I were still wearing my heels. At least I’d be at less of a height disadvantage then. He approaches, proving that intimidating air he possesses is ingrained in every movement. His lithe, muscled body indicates he’s not one to sit back and let others do all his dirty work for him.
Each step he takes strikes me as carefully calculated, his eyes never leaving mine. Once he draws to a stop a foot away, I lift my chin, attempting to hold my ground and meet his gaze, refusing to let him shake me.
What I don’t expect is for his hands to reach for where my blouse is tucked beneath the waist of my skirt and tug the fabric upward.
Batting his hands away, I take a quick step backward, only to collide with the wall. Arms raised in front of me, I twist and attempt to drive my elbows into his body—anything that might give me a second to flee.
He deflects my left elbow, clamping his fingers around my wrist, but I land a hit with my other, and the sound of his grunt is gratifying. Our eyes clash, and when I drive my knee upward between his legs, he dodges it before I can maim the bastard.
“Goddammit, woman,” he growls from between clenched teeth. “Not tryin’ to hurt you.”
“Get off me!” I thrash against his hold, opening my mouth to scream for help, but before I can, Goliath tugs me to him. His thick, muscled arms pin my back to his front, forearms planted beneath my armpits with one hand covering my mouth, stifling my protests.
Fuck, no. My chest heaves with panicked breaths. This is not happening! I squirm and fight against the beast of a man’s hold to no avail as terror sinks its claws into me.
I can’t breathe. My chest feels unbearably tight, my vision grows spotty, and—
“Professor.” Nico takes my face in his hands, his voice deep and commanding. “Look at me. You won’t be hurt. I promise you. You gotta look at me. Gimme those eyes.”
When I focus on him, our gazes locking, his voice gentles, and his tense hold on my face relaxes a fraction. “That’s it. Just look at me and listen. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Swear on my mother’s grave. But I gotta check you for a wire.”
My rapid breathing slows, and a realization sinks in. Someone with the intention of hurting me wouldn’t take the time to do this—to try to calm me down and comfort me. I give a faint nod, and his hold on me slackens. But before he draws his hands away, he smooths back a lock of hair displaced from my struggles.
His eyes flick upward, behind me to Goliath, and he gives a nod. A moment later, the giant man slowly releases his hold.
Nico’s lips press thin, and he holds up his palms to me, his voice calm. “I gotta check for a wire.” He deftly unbuttons and parts my blouse.
Sharp eyes drill into mine while his fingers graze my sides. “Easy, Professor.” He mutes his tone, as if trying to soothe me. His hands dip beneath my bra clasp at my back, yet somehow, I instinctively know he won’t cause me physical harm.
Reaching down, he grips my thighs lightly beneath my skirt’s stretchy knit material before skating his hands upward. I hate how the simple touch of his hands sends goose bumps rising to the surface of my skin.
I clench my jaw, forcing moisture into my bone-dry throat, and attempt bravado. “You won’t find anything, so hurry up and get it over with.” Gripping the fabric of my blouse, I fasten each button with trembling fingers.
His eyes gleam with something I can’t quite decipher before his touch shifts to feel like a caress. Sadly, it’s more action than I’ve experienced in a while. I catch myself in the nick of time when my body reacts involuntarily, leaning into his touch.
The instant his calloused fingertips graze over the five small scars just above my right hip, his touch stutters, and a trace of curiosity flits across his features.
Stupid keloid scars. They’re raised and rigid, and I hate them for various reasons. While I could’ve had a procedure done to flatten them, I haven’t. They’re a double-edged sword for me.
A useful reminder of my painful past.
Once he realizes I don’t intend to offer an explanation, he continues his search. When his fingers graze the sensitive skin of my inner thighs near my panties, I stamp my lips together, trapping the gasp threatening to break free, and attempt to calm my breathing.
It all goes to hell when his hands glide around to cup my ass.
Dark brows rise as though he’s just discovered something intriguing. “Now, Professor. Didn’t take you for a thong kinda woman,” he murmurs huskily.
I pin him with an icy glare. “Kindly remove your hands from my ass.”
A hint of a smirk tugs at one edge of his lips while he slowly withdraws his touch. “Only ’cause I’m done there. Still got some more of you to inspect.”
Moving his hands to my face, he turns my head from side to side, fingers brushing along my ears before stepping back abruptly. His touch leaves my skin prickling with an odd sense of electric awareness.
I tug at my skirt, smoothing it back in place, and avoid his eyes as I attempt to quell my unsettling reaction to his touch.
“You’re in danger if you stay here. Gotta come with me.”
I lift my chin and meet his gaze. “No, thank you.”
His eyes grow squinty, darkening with annoyance. “Woman, nobody questions my calls. You do what I say.”
“I don’t know you, so that makes your calls irrelevant to me.” I step closer, bringing us toe to toe. “Why don’t I just call the police? I’m sure they’d be salivating over catching someone like you.”
Tension crackles between us while he studies me. The right edge of his mouth
inches upward, drawing my gaze to the movement. Distractedly, I realize his bottom lip is much fuller than the top, luscious in a way countless women would pay good money for.
“If I wasn’t doin’ my job right, then none of ’em would have a hard-on for me. Plus, they ain’t got no proof.” As he leans in close, the ominous threat in his voice is undeniable. “You’ll do what I say if you’re smart.”
His cool eyes never stray from mine. “Got info on your parents you’ll be interested in. And since I run this city, you’ll do what I say. And I say, you’re comin’ with me.”
I pin him with a frosty glare. “Pretty sure the mayor runs this city.”
His smirk is unsettling, as though my response amuses him. “Mayor Biancanetta? He works for me.” Ice drips from his words, sending unease trickling down my spine. Which is why I immediately try another angle.
“Look, you’ve obviously got the wrong person—”
His eyes turn flinty, his expression intense, impenetrable. “I got the right person. You were born on June eleventh here in Miami. Dad’s name was Antonio, and your mom’s name’s Johanna—”
