Truth in Pieces

by RC Boldt

  Matching his narrowed gaze with a stony glare, I speak softly, though my words are steely and unforgiving. “Give me back my underwear. Now.”

  When he grins and eases away, dread tiptoes down the length of my spine. “Don’t think I will.”

  I lunge, attempting to grab them from him, but he dodges my reach while his other hand clenches my wrist in a punishing grip. “You don’t wanna fuck with me, bitch.”

  With another painful squeeze to my wrist, he releases me and backsteps to the door, tucking my panties in his pocket. With a smug expression plastered on his face, he spins around and disappears through the doorway.

  As the faint click of his shoes on the tile floor becomes more distant, a fraction of the tension plaguing me decreases. I wait a moment before striding over to close the bedroom door. It doesn’t escape my notice that there’s no lock on it.

  This situation serves as a bitter but necessary reminder that I can’t afford to let myself go lax. That, regardless of Nico’s promise for my safety, it doesn’t detract from the danger of my situation.

  Wrapping my arms around myself, I lean back against the firm wood, letting my eyes fall closed.

  I’m a criminal’s pawn, and now one of his slimy henchmen has taken a liking to me.

  Just brilliant.

  4

  Olivia

  Nico sits at the head of the large dining room table while I’m seated to his right.

  I’ve already surveyed the place, and the security is much like one would expect a leader of a drug cartel to have. Armed men line the perimeter of the property as well as those placed inside.

  Unfortunately, one of the men on inside duty is the same one who taunted me and stole my underwear. While Nico guided me into the dining room, I felt the man watching me. One quick glance confirmed it. He winked at me with that little smirk, and I’d abruptly turned away.

  Oddly enough, stepping closer to Nico as I trailed him into the dining room provided an odd sense of comfort. I don’t for a second think he’s harmless, but compared to that man back there, Nico looks like a knight in shining armor.

  “The man who packed my suitcase. What’s his name?” I opt for a casual tone. There’s a hitch in Nico’s movement as he reaches for his wineglass. At his curious glance, I force a shrug. “I just wondered who he was…as well as Goliath back there.”

  He studies me. “Lorenzo.” After the briefest pause, he tacks on, “And Rafe.” An odd lightness edges into his gaze. “Though I think he might like you callin’ him Goliath.”

  Our gazes lock and hold for a beat. My traitorous brain veers back to earlier when he ran his hands over my body. When his eyes darken, I wonder if he recalls the same.

  In a flash, it vanishes, and he continues. “’Course, you’ll go to work like usual and Rafe’ll drive you.” When he cuts into his thick steak with the perfect pink hue in the center, juice oozes onto the plate. “Someone’ll be by to take your measurements for clothes.”

  “What about working out? I normally go to the gym in the mornings—”

  “Got a full gym here.” He spears the piece of steak with his fork, eyes lifting to mine.

  “—and run on the treadmill. Then I take—”

  “Poleology classes at Women’s Fit,” he finishes, looking far too pleased with himself for knowing this.

  Unfortunately, my dark glare has no obvious effect on him. “Stalk much?” I suppose he deserves a little credit for using the correct term, poleology, in lieu of the more derogatory description, “stripper pole dance class.”

  His smile is calculated. “Didn’t get this far without doin’ my homework. Makin’ sure I study key players from all angles.”

  Shoveling a heap of mashed potatoes into my mouth, I focus on the decadent garlic and butter taste instead of the current arrogant dictator of my life.

  “You don’t say a word to nobody ’bout our agreement, you hear? As far as they know, we’re in love.”

  Choking on my potatoes, I swallow and wash them down with a sip of wine, forcing myself to regain composure.

  He continues without missing a beat. “We got a fundraiser gala on Wednesday at the Institute of Contemporary Art.”

  “I didn’t realize drug dealers had such a high appreciation for art.”

  His fork and knife clank against his square dinner plate. Features darkening like storm clouds, his voice drops, low and lethal. “You listen to me. You’ll act like you wanna be on my arm. Like it’s the best fuckin’ night of your life.” Eyes boring into me, malevolence pours off him in thick waves. “That’s your fuckin’ job right now. You help me reel in Santilla. You get me?”

  I don’t answer immediately, and a muscle in his jaw flexes as he cocks his head to the side. His stare is arctic. Feigning nonchalance that I don’t truly possess, I counter, “If what you claim is true, why would Santilla even care about me after all this time?”

  “When somebody’s got an advantage over her, she don’t take it well. And bein’ that I’ve got her daughter…” He trails off, one edge of his mouth tipping up in a smirk, and I’m drenched by the overwhelming sinister air he exudes. “She’ll show her face, one way or another.”

  I grit my teeth. This man is not only intimidating and dangerous but also infuriating as hell.

  Thankfully, I maintain an even and controlled tone. “Well, I’m here. And you said you’d fill me in on everything. One of those topics being my alleged parents.”

  Those narrowed eyes spear into me. “Ain’t tellin’ you the whole story till you prove you’ll follow through.” Eyes never leaving mine, he picks up his fork. “It’d be stupid to give too much away from the start.”

  “Well, once I’ve done what you need me to do, you’ll clue me in?” A thought strikes me, and my question rushes out, my tone urgent. “What if this doesn’t work?”

  A mischievous glint flickers in his eyes, venomous intent dripping from each word. “Ain’t no way Santilla’ll be able to resist takin’ the bait.”

  Our gazes clash, and after a long beat, he returns his attention to his steak. I take this moment to study him discreetly. He’s since rolled up his shirtsleeves, cuffed at just below his elbows to display inked forearms and hands.

  Now that I’m granted a closer look, I notice a grim reaper-like image of Santa Muerta on his right forearm. It’s not surprising since many members of drug cartels believe the saint of the dead offers a measure of protection.

  Teaching one of the department’s elective classes, Organized Crime Psychology and Analysis, allows me to delve deeper into a topic that’s always fascinated me on a professional level. It’s how I learned of clues, and in many cases, the markings indicative of individuals involved in criminal organizations and their meanings.

  The three dots inked on his hand, between his thumb and index finger, catch my eyes, but not because it’s unusual. The design can either indicate someone who operates outside the law or represent the Holy Trinity of the Catholic Church.

  Something tells me it’s the former for this man since he doesn’t strike me as the churchgoing type.

  His sigh breaks through my musings. When I raise my eyes and clash with his scrutinizing gaze, I reach for my glass of wine and take a sip. It gives me something to do while I resist the urge to fidget beneath his perusal.

  “You come from a line of liars.”

  My hackles rise instinctively. “My parents weren’t liars.”

  The faint hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth grates on my nerves. His smug expression indicates he’s privy to something I’m not, and he’s reveling in it.

  “No. The Wrights weren’t, were they?” He swirls his wine with the practiced ease of a sommelier, and I get the feeling this man is quite a chameleon. “After all, Liam and Beth took in a baby and raised it as their own.”

  His intense gaze pins me in place. I don’t respond. He takes a slow drink of wine, as though he’s savoring the flavor of dark fruit and the hint of spice.

  “Your father too
k you from your mom. Made her believe you were dead, then hid you. Knew he’d never get her off his tail, so he did the best he could.”

  5

  Olivia

  Horrified silence holds me captive through his narrative while my mind simultaneously kicks into high gear, shuffling through my memories.

  Mom began dyeing her hair to match mine, and that’s when people finally began remarking how much I resembled her. But deep down, I always wondered if there was a cousin or aunt I shared a likeness with. My eyes were different from my parents’—blue-green eyes are rare, from what I learned—as were my facial features.

  It’s as though a sense of awareness suddenly awakens from hibernation.

  We moved around so often for their jobs as fine art appraisers, so I was homeschooled. They never had friends over, and after a certain point, I’d resigned myself to being a loner, because I knew if I made friends, I’d only have to say goodbye to them soon thereafter.

  It was hard enough when I got attached to a particular little house we rented in France. Already painted a pastel pink, I’d instantly deemed my bedroom a princess room. I would close my eyes and play with my imaginary friends, pretending I was a fierce princess who slayed dragons and rescued the prince for some other princess to marry.

  Yes, I was quite different from other little girls who fantasized about love, marriage, and babies. Instead, I wondered what it would be like to have parents like the ones who smothered their child with hugs and kisses.

  My parents hadn’t been bad people. They were just never…overly affectionate. I know they cared and loved me. They made my favorite meals on my birthdays, and my mom always made an ice cream cake from scratch with chocolate drizzle on top. They celebrated my good grades and they always told me they were proud of me.

  Dredging myself from the abyss of memories, I meet Nico’s stare. It’s impenetrable and causes goose bumps to rise along my skin.

  “The Wrights weren’t your biological parents.”

  “What proof do you have, aside from the physical similarities in that photo?” I demand.

  He drags a fingertip languidly along the rim of his wineglass as though he has all the time in the world.

  “You remember how you saved that kid?” His gaze is watchful. “That video on YouTube got millions of hits.” The smirk makes a reappearance. “Tons of comments on social media ’bout the ‘hot-as-fuck professor.’”

  “Of course, I remember,” I reply hotly.

  “Yeah, well…I did some diggin’. Found out who you really are.” He sips his wine, eyes never leaving mine. Once he places the glass on the table with care, he leans back in the chair, gaze assessing. Evidently not caring to elaborate on that, he pauses for a beat. “Like I said, I ain’t tellin’ you the whole story just yet.”

  Those full lips curve as his glittering eyes skim over my face, then travel over the part of my body not hidden by the table.

  “All you gotta do is pretend to be my live-in girlfriend. Pretend we’re hot for each other.” The soft lighting in the room glances across his cheekbones and sharp jawline, sending an unsettling heat flicking through my body. “Ain’t gonna be too much of a hardship.”

  My spine stiffens in response, and I avoid his gaze by turning my attention to my food. To sever the odd spell he’s cast over me.

  I sure as hell didn’t miss that Nico sidestepped my question when I asked for proof that Santilla is my biological mother. My thoughts twist before veering into different directions. He’s withholding information until I play the role he’s demanding of me. Just how much information does he have on me? And is there a chance of any of it being true?

  Even more disheartening…what will I do if it is?

  I take another forkful of mashed potatoes. Before I withdraw the utensil from my mouth, the sound of Nico abruptly sliding his chair back startles me. He stands and tosses down his linen napkin beside his plate.

  “Got shit to do. See you in the morning, Professor.”

  Then he disappears, leaving me alone in the vast dining room.

  More disturbing is how I find myself wishing he would’ve stayed. And it isn’t simply because I have a million more questions for him.

  As much as I despise admitting it to myself, and as dangerous as it is, the man intrigues me.

  6

  Nico

  “How much longer?”

  I grimace. “I don’t fuckin’ know. We need enough, so they can’t—”

  “Fuck shit up,” Rafe finishes. Then he frowns, his already stern features taking on a harder edge, and lowers his voice. “What about…him?”

  I know who he’s referring to. Lorenzo. He’s a part of my crew after taking a blood oath once I took over the reins. It doesn’t mean I trust him, but the saying about keeping your enemies closer rings true.

  So, I can’t cut him loose just yet. Not until I’ve got enough proof he’s trying to fuck me over.

  “Just bidin’ my time, for now.”

  Rafe and I fall silent for a beat before he pipes up with an unexpected remark.

  “I like her.”

  My gaze hardens. “Don’t matter if you like her or not.”

  Rafe grunts, and just when I think he’s done, he runs his mouth again. “Think you like her, too. She ain’t a pushover.”

  “This ain’t the fuckin’ Bachelor. She’s our ticket to Santilla.”

  When he sighs, I know what he’s about to say before the words even come out of his mouth. “If you’re really usin’ an innocent woman as bait…”

  “Gotta do whatever it takes to get the job done.” I level him with a sharp look. “And I don’t like how she popped up out of the blue. She ain’t completely innocent in my eyes just yet.”

  He raises his hands in surrender. “Just sayin’.” He’s barely stifling a grin. The bastard. “Don’t hurt that she’s pretty to look at.”

  My muscles knot at the possibility of Rafe pursuing her. Fuck. Scowl in place, I turn my attention to my laptop. “You got work to do, so go do it.”

  “Yes, Boss.” There’s no mistaking the amusement in his voice, but thank fuck, he turns and leaves.

  I stare at my laptop, and before I realize it, I’ve pulled up the video and pressed play, keeping the sound muted.

  She rushes to action to save her student, that goddamn pencil skirt hugging her curves and plain-ass blouse doing fuck-all to hide the perfect-looking tits beneath it.

  Stick to the plan, asshole. She’s a means to an end.

  Her dark hair shifts with her movements, the ends barely touching her jaw and her bangs dusting her eyebrows. It has me transfixed. It grows tenfold once the student finally coughs up the damn M&M, and those eyes of hers fill with relief. She heaves out a breath, her top teeth sinking into that full bottom lip of hers that I’d—

  “Fuck.” I slam the laptop closed. Grinding my palms against my eyes, I cuss at myself. Because I know better. Being the top dog is fucking exhausting, but it’s the only way.

  I lean back in the leather desk chair and close my eyes. And fuck it if all I see is her.

  Her big blue-green eyes watching me—glaring at me—daring me each step of the way.

  My gut screams, telling me I’m in so much fucking trouble, which can mean only one thing. I’ve got a hell of a fight on my hands.

  And that’s one damn fight too many for a man like me.

  7

  Olivia

  Nico’s abrupt departure from dinner after offering the barest hints of possible information leaves me reeling. I sit in my chair for a moment, mentally grappling to process everything he said.

  More than that, however, is how the room has become stifling in his absence. Before, even amidst my irritation at his refusal to offer more clarifying details, I detected a vibrant, almost electrifying quality of the air.

  Peering around the ornate dining room, I note the sleek mahogany bar cart off to the side displaying a few bottles of high-end scotch and whiskey. It also includes a small six-bott
le wine rack filled with reds.

  With a glance around the room to assure that I’m still alone, I quietly rise from my chair, prepared to inspect my surroundings. Perhaps I can find more clues to help me better understand the man I’m dealing with. More insight into who Nico Alcanzar really is.

  I only manage to take three steps before a deep voice beckons me. “If you’re done, I’ll take you to your room.”

  I should’ve known better than to think I’d be allowed to snoop around even a smidge. Turning to face Goliath, I cross my arms defiantly. “Did Daddy Alcanzar ground me? Is that why I’m being forced back to my room?”

  The man’s mouth twitches the slightest bit, but I can’t decipher whether it’s out of irritation or if he actually possesses a sense of humor.

  “I’ll show you where the gym’s at, too, if you want.” Tipping his head to the side, he gestures toward the hallway just past the doorway. “It’s at the other end of the house. Bossman didn’t get around to that.”

  Is this his version of an olive branch? “Fine.” I drop my arms and drag in a fortifying breath before striding toward him. Drawing to a stop, I have to crane my neck to peer up at him. “Let’s see this gym before my curfew is officially enforced.”

  Goliath turns his back to me and starts down the hall, but I swear I detect a barely audible, stifled snort. I follow, trying to glean anything I can from the layout of this mammoth-sized home. Unfortunately, all I can gather is Nico Alcanzar has a taste for the finer things in life.

  Goliath pauses outside the kitchen entrance where an older woman, clad in plain black pants and a blouse, is busy placing containers of food inside a commercial-sized refrigerator.

  “Workin’ late, again, Angela?” Amidst his ever-present gruff tone, his question holds an even measure of affection and teasing.