by RC Boldt
After I wash up, I stare at my reflection. Conflicting emotions pummel me, but I refuse to hate my eyes. I’m making the choice to ignore who I inherited them from and instead, be proud that I share them with my sister.
The instant I push through the door, I stop short. It’s like déjà vu all over again; a replay of that night of the gala when I found him waiting for me outside the restroom.
Vulnerability cloaks me, and I despise it because I didn’t get this far by being easily intimidated. But everything that’s transpired between Luca and me leaves me feeling completely off-kilter.
Even with a mere few feet separating us, it feels as though I’m standing too close to a fire, the embers threatening to singe my skin. His proximity allows me to notice details I wasn’t able to detect with him sitting at the opposite end of the room.
Now, I see the slight differences between Luca and Nico, like the sprinkle of silvery-gray hair near his temples and the added length overall, instead of the buzz cut from before.
The stubble that graces his jawline should look messy and unkempt, but on this man, it makes him appear more masculine and virile. I recall exactly how his jaw felt, smooth-shaven against the skin of my inner thighs and breasts.
But it’s those eyes, the golden brown flecks in them, that slay me. I recall exactly how they looked when—
“Hey.” His low, gravelly tone acts like a caress, as if his calloused fingertips dance over my skin.
“Hey.” I regard him warily. Then I tip my head toward the conference room. “We should probably—”
Abruptly shoving off the wall, he steps closer but not enough to be viewed as inappropriate.
“Olivia, I…”
“You what?” I whisper softly.
“I’m sorry.”
I almost fail to mask my sharp intake of breath at his apology. Please tell me he’s not apologizing for pretending to have feelings for me.
My voice has a steely edge. “For what?”
He lets out a grunt. “Not for what you think.”
“Hey, Lu—” a man calls out but stops short. “Oh. Sorry, man.”
Nico—Luca, I correct myself—doesn’t turn to address him, his eyes never veering from mine. “Be right there. Just give me a minute.”
“Got it.” His colleague retreats inside the room.
“Olivia,” Luca murmurs. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“We both lied. We were just doing our jobs.”
A rough sound erupts from his throat. “Yeah.” He shakes his head, features etched with what appears to be disbelief and awe. “Still can’t believe your real name’s Olivia Wright.”
I heave out a resigned breath. “Not for much longer.”
“Yeah, I heard you’ll have to change your last name.” Regret bleeds from his expression. “And figure out where to relocate.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “They mentioned a chance of that happening in the beginning, but no one really thought it’d happen.” A trace of a smile tugs at my lips. “Things changed when you entered the picture.”
His features border on tortured, his voice a raspy whisper. “Do you regret it?”
“No,” I whisper back. And it’s the truth. I couldn’t possibly regret anything to do with this man.
He wraps his fingers around my upper arm and rushes me inside a nearby room. Light spills out from the doorway, and I see that it’s a copy room.
“What are you doing?” I hiss quietly, darting a glance around, thankful we’re alone. The last thing I need—we need—is to give anyone a reason to dig into what happened while our operations overlapped.
“Look, I—” He rakes his hands through his short hair, and I realize I’ve never seen him like this before. He looks unsettled and at a loss for how to proceed, similar to how I feel. “I need to lie low because of everything that happened. I can’t come and go as I please.”
He steps closer, his brows snapping together, his expression turning fierce with determination. “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been dying to talk to you. To touch you.” He reaches out to cup my face but falters as though he’s unsure I would welcome his touch.
Grief crests within me like a volcanic eruption at the pain in his eyes when he drops his hand to his side. His fingers clench into fists, drawing my eyes to the movements. The familiar tattoos act as an odd sort of balm to my heart that flails in uncharted waters.
“We need to maintain professionalism, Ni— Luca.”
He pinches his eyes closed briefly. When they flare open, they gleam with barely banked heat and a quality I’m unable to decipher.
“You don’t know how good it is to hear you say my name.” His voice is a rough whisper and his features hover between tortured and earnest. “I’m so damn glad you’re okay. I was scared shitless when he pointed his gun at you. And when you jumped in front of that bullet…” A muscle in his jaw flexes, and he swallows hard, nostrils flaring. “My heart fucking stopped.”
Emotion clogs my throat, but I can’t stifle the truth. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
We fall quiet, our silence teeming with unspoken questions we’re either wary of asking or uncomfortable posing in our current environment where we’re not granted true privacy.
“I thought you died.” My words come out in a harsh whisper.
His face falls, eyes closing. “I’m sorry, baby.”
The words spill from me without warning. “What if we were caught up in the moment?” I’m not trying to be difficult, but it’s a valid question. It’s been experienced by agents during undercover operations.
In a split second, his expression morphs. Dipping his head, he brings his face closer, and a shiver races down my spine. Eyes boring into mine, trademark scowl in place, frustration darkens his handsome features. “I wasn’t caught up in a goddamn moment. It was real. You get me?”
Those last words have my lips curving up because they’re so similar to the Nico-speak I’d become accustomed to. His gaze flits between my lips and my eyes.
“I’ve missed you.” His words are hoarse, sounding as if they’re forced through a sandpaper-dry throat. “So damn much.”
Tentatively, I reach out a hand and splay a palm against the center of his chest. The steady thud of his heart beneath it has a rush of tears threatening to overflow while my mind replays the moment I thought I’d lost him forever.
My words are barely above a whisper as my voice cracks with emotion. “I thought you died before I could tell you—”
Bzzzz.
65
Luca
Bzzzz. The sound of a cell phone vibrating interrupts her.
I can’t help but mutter an expletive under my breath when she slides the phone from her pants pocket to read a text. I don’t give a shit, so I don’t bother hiding that I’m reading it.
Tim: You okay? Coming to eat lunch?
She sighs, pocketing her phone. “We should get back.”
My movements are heavy with reluctance when I step away.
“I thought you died before I could tell you—” Fuck. She’s got me feeling like a damn teenage boy talking to his high school crush. I’m dying to know what she was about to say.
I drag a hand over my head and grip the tense muscles in the back of my neck. “Yeah. Let’s head back.”
She exits the room with me following, but in the near-empty hall, we walk side by side. Just three doors from the conference room, an employee steps from an office, passing us, and I use it as an excuse to sidle close to Olivia.
The employee doesn’t pay us any attention, his eyes trained on the stack of paperwork in his hands. I skim my fingers along the inside of Olivia’s palm at her side. Her sharp intake of breath encourages me to believe that it wasn’t all a ploy on her end either.
With movement so fast it nearly catches me off guard, she laces her fingers with mine and gives a quick squeeze. Then she releases them and pulls away, moving ahead of me to enter the conference room.
It tak
es every damn ounce of my willpower to focus the rest of the day while her words replay in the back of my mind.
“I thought you died before I could tell you—”
I want those words so fucking bad. Even if it’s to finish with, “I was working undercover,” I don’t give a shit.
When my eyes naturally lock with hers, I know down deep in my fucking soul what I’m hell-bent on changing her response to.
“I thought you died before I could tell you I love you.”
I didn’t get this far in my career to call it quits so easily. To give up when faced with a challenge whether big or small. And yeah, I’ve never been in a situation like this before, so I’m navigating uncharted territory with Olivia. But I’m no fool. I know she let me see the real her while we were undercover, just like I did with her.
But now I want more. Yeah, it’ll be tough as hell. We’ve got a long road ahead with trial prep, and once it’s underway, the danger will linger along with the stress of keeping our identities under wraps. But when it’s over, she better be ready for me. She better know she’s mine.
Because I’m sure as hell all hers.
66
Olivia
It takes tremendous effort to focus on the second half of the meeting. Most of us finish our lunch while asking questions or listening carefully. Penman brings up a photograph of Manny.
“Our CI, Manuel Esposito, is the only person who’s successfully distanced himself from Johanna Santilla over the years. As you can see here—this photo is one he recently gave us—he was close with Santilla and her husband, Antonio Jiménez.
“Jiménez was his closest friend until there was a falling out between the two men prior to Jiménez’s death…”
I choke on my salad.
Tim pats me hard on the back. “You okay?”
Everyone stares at me in concern, and I take a quick drink of water before waving them off with an, “I’m sorry. Went down wrong.”
Holy shit. Emotions riot in my chest while I struggle to draw in even the shallowest of breaths. I gape at the image of Manny standing between Antonio and Johanna and what Penman’s just revealed.
“Jiménez was his closest friend until there was a falling out…”
The words written in the journal flare to life in my mind.
The worst part is, I don’t care that these girls aren’t mine. Maybe I just refuse to admit that I was betrayed by the woman I’ve loved for as long as I can recall. That I was betrayed by my best friend.
Eyes locked on the photo, I study it as if I’m attempting to decipher some sort of secret code. An eerie foreboding tiptoes along my spine, and hand trembling, I raise my fingers and lightly trace the tips over my chin and nose that are oddly similar to the man in the photo.
Could Manny Esposito be my real father?
I know Manny’s DNA is on file since he’s not only in custody, but he also served as an informant. In order to cross-check it, I need to obtain it and run it against my own. But I can’t afford to raise any eyebrows by doing this since I’m already under insurmountable scrutiny for my link to Santilla.
There’s only one person here I feel I can trust to help with this. Someone who embodies the definition of discreet and only trusts those who share the same trait.
Tim.
The following morning, I’m wrestling with how on earth I’ll be able to ask for his help when Tim slides a chair beside my desk and plunks down on it. A darted glance around confirms our colleagues are sending either scathing or suspicious glances in my direction—the norm, as of late. Thankfully, Tim doesn’t appear to register any of it.
He’s definitely in the minority.
Resting an elbow on my desk, he props his chin on his hand. “Go ahead. Ask whatever it is.” His hushed tone ensures we’re not overheard, but I still can’t take any chances.
I draw in a breath and wince before meeting his gaze. “I need a favor.”
With my pencil in barely there strokes, I scribe, Need Esposito’s DNA to run against mine.
I brace myself for his reaction. When his eyes flick up to mine, they’re blank, but he lowers his voice to the barest whisper. “Consider it done.”
Looking as unflappable as always, he straightens in his seat and drops his hand. Voice loud enough for others to hear, he says, “Got it. One hazelnut latte coming up.” He rises and replaces the chair, sauntering off without another word.
A part of me wants to laugh at how simple he made that.
But as I erase what I’d written, the other part of me tenses incrementally as I wonder exactly what the results will find.
The next morning, as I’m walking into work, I get a text message from Tim. Ran everything. Here are the results.
Then he sends over a scanned photo of the DNA test. I veer off to the side of the bank of elevators as my eyes frantically read over the test results.
Anonymous male shows the genetic markers which must be present for the biological father of anonymous female.
Probability of paternity is 99.89%.
Holy shit. Overwhelming gratitude blankets me that Tim still managed to keep things under wraps with this test to protect our identities yet still give me answers.
Manny Esposito. My mind flashes back to when Manny and I first met. His odd reaction to seeing me, as if he was confronted by a ghost. And when we chatted on his patio, there had been something about his profile that I couldn’t pinpoint.
Dammit. It sure feels like the universe is intent on scrambling my life at every single turn.
Closing my eyes briefly, I drag in a deep breath as shock ricochets through me. I had no way of knowing that night when we were at Manny’s home that I stood face-to-face with my biological father.
A man I’ve never met before. A man I didn’t even know existed.
And if the deaths of my parents, Liam and Beth, taught me anything, it’s to never take any time for granted.
Even if this knowledge is unexpected as hell—even if it launches me down a far different path than I ever anticipated—I can’t vanquish it.
Which means I need to speak with Manny.
67
Luca
Something’s wrong. I can tell the instant Olivia enters the room with her colleague Tim by her side the following day. He’s been sliding concerned glances her way when she’s not looking.
Her face is drawn, eyes haunted as if she’s dealing with the weight of the world’s problems. I’m dying for a break to be called. I need to find out what’s bothering her.
From the seat beside me, Kai leans over to murmur, “Stare much?” under his breath.
I cut him a sharp look, but he just smirks.
“Let’s take a ten-minute break…”
Fuck, yes. I nearly hurtle from my chair, anxious to get a moment with her outside of this conference room. It takes every remaining shred of patience to calmly file behind the others exiting. I trail behind Olivia as she heads toward the ladies’ room.
Antsy as hell, I barely stay still while I wait for her to emerge from the restroom. Once she does, the weariness and pain in her eyes serve as a sucker punch to my gut. When I move toward her and she holds up a hand, my stomach churns sickly.
“I can’t talk about it now.”
“Okay.” It’s a lie. It’s not okay. I want to beat the fuck out of whoever hurt her. But I respect her enough to back off.
For now.
“I wanted to see if you…” Fuck. Why am I so goddamn nervous? I pull my phone from my pocket without tearing my eyes off her. “Since we don’t have each other’s real numbers, I thought we could exchange ’em.”
She studies me for what seems like forever—so long that I think she’s about to refuse. The idea of her not wanting to talk to me outside of all this incites an assault of pain.
“Okay.”
My heart stutters, and I don’t give a fuck about how pathetic my loud sigh of relief might sound. “Shit,” I breathe out with a small smile. “Thought for sure you were go
ing to say no.”
She slides her phone from her pocket and thumbs in a passcode before lifting her eyes to mine. I rattle off my number, and she presses send. I save her as a contact and pocket my phone.
A glance down the hallway tells me most everyone’s filing back into the room, so I take a step closer, shoving my hands in my pockets to refrain from reaching out for her. Because I know if I do, it’ll cross every line and put our reputations at risk. My fingers itch to smooth back her hair. To kiss her. To just…hold her.
But there’s still so much unsaid between us.
“Talk later tonight?” I don’t bother to hide my eagerness.
She must notice it because her expression softens. “Okay.”
I don’t wait to text Olivia. I miss this woman too goddamn much. Even though she’s across a large conference room table from me, it feels like miles are between us. It’s almost six o’clock and everyone shows signs of fatigue from the long hours. I slide my phone on my lap and discreetly type out a text.
Kai turns, eyes briefly flicking down to my phone before arching an eyebrow. He refocuses his attention on the screen, but I catch his smirk.
Me: I miss you.
I wait to see if she still has her phone on vibrate or silent. But when I glance over, she hasn’t moved, eyes still trained on the information on the screen.
Almost an hour passes before my phone lights up. And, yeah, I left it on my lap, hidden by the table. Apparently, I’ve resorted to the antics of a fifteen-year-old boy.
Professor: You should be paying attention. If you were in one of my classes, texting during class counts as a deduction from your participation grade.
Thank fuck Penman’s wrapping shit up because my attention is nil right now. My mind’s back on the time in my bedroom when she let me taste her pussy for the first time.
Me: I’ll do extra credit for you, Professor.
