by Krista Holt
Savagely
Krista Holt
Copyright Notice
© 2018 Krista Holt
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and procedures described within are from the author’s imagination, and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to living or deceased individuals, businesses, current events, or historical events is purely coincidental.
Any and all trademarked names are the property of their respective owners. The author does not claim ownership in any way, shape, or form.
First Edition
ISBN-13: 978-0-9981824-1-4
Cover Design by: Najla Qamber, Najla Qamber Designs
Editing & Proofreading by: Lea Burn, Burn Before Reading
Formatting by: Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
AUTHOR'S NOTE
EPIGRAPH
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
OTHER BOOKS
Dedication
For my brother.
He called me after reading the first book and said,
“It’s called a suppressor. Not a silencer. That’s Hollywood talking.”
He’s now, officially, my weapons expert. Hopefully he’s fond of unpaid work.
♥︎
Author’s Note
This book is a continuation of a series. You will not understand what is happening unless you have read the first book, Savage.
If you’ve already read it, then by all means, start flipping these metaphorical pages. But prepare yourself, it starts with a bang.
xo,
K Holt
“Don’t hit at all if it is honorably possible to avoid hitting;
but never hit soft.”
—Theodore Roosevelt
CHAPTER 1
Nic
“WHERE THE HELL IS SAUL?”
My father slams the phone down, jerking a hand through his dark hair. “I’ve been calling him for hours and nothing. No call back. No text. He hasn’t shown up at this house once. So where the hell is he?”
The corner of my mouth twitches, but I keep my eyes trained on the newspaper in front of me. I don’t dare say a word. Because I know exactly where he is.
Floating.
Somewhere down river, I imagine. That is, if someone hasn’t fished his bloated corpse out by now.
I snap the wilting paper upright, revealing the headline of The Times in all of its inked glory:
“Five Killed in Illegal Card Game. Suspected Mob Hit.”
Huh. Right in the middle of Brooklyn. An area that is solidly Daniel Goretti’s territory. Guess he’s been keeping busy.
“Nicola!”
I glance up, meeting his frustrated glare. “What?”
“Where’s Saul?”
“How the hell should I know? We aren’t exactly friends.”
“He hasn’t answered any of my calls. I’m starting to get worried.”
“Maybe he’s your leak.” My attention falls back to the still-warm newspaper, but I don’t miss the way his aged brow wrinkles with disapproval. “Maybe he’s sitting in witness protection right now, spilling all of our secrets.”
“You know as well as I do that Saul would never betray this family. He’d rather die.” He slowly lowers his tall frame into the nearest chair, and then stares at me. “Find him.”
“It’s four in the damn morning. I wouldn’t answer your calls either.” I flip the page and the rustle of paper disrupts the quiet study. “Send Enzo if you’re that worried about him.”
“I don’t want Enzo doing it. I want you.”
“And I don’t particularly care where he is.”
He closes his eyes, resting his head against the back of the chair. “This animosity between you two is getting old.”
I ignore him, skimming the article on the front page, unconcerned. Saul’s dead, after all. And mending fences with a dead man seems like wasted effort. Besides, Saul was the one to sour things between us. He’d decided to hate me the second I’d been summoned back from Stanford. In his mind, I’d disrupted the line of succession and knocked him from heir apparent status.
Everything that followed—the second-guessing my every move, the contempt-filled glares he didn’t bother to hide, and the outright disrespect he sometimes tossed my way—were just his attempts to undermine me in some unspoken competition for my father’s empire. A competition I had no desire to win. That said, I could have lived with his hatred. Could have ignored it, even. But what he did to Reagan was inexcusable. I couldn’t ignore that. I refused to.
“Nicola, I want you to find him. Do it now.”
A non-committal sound rises up my throat and he exhales loudly, shaking his head.
“What the hell happened to your face anyway?”
“I ran into a door.”
His brow wrinkles as he silently studies me. “Hell of a door.”
“Sure was.”
“Your nose broken?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Our conversation apparently over, he leans forward and reaches for the coin resting on his desk.
The sight of it turns my stomach, but I can’t look away. That goddamn coin.
He works the round object through his fingers. With a snap of his wrist, it flies off of his thumb, flips through the air, and lands in his palm. And then it’s back in the air. Over and over again.
The repetitive motion sucks me into the past. Into another time. Back to before—well, before everything.
I wasn’t that old. It was just a few days after my tenth birthday. I’d been sent home from school early for smacking around some playground bully who had picked on Gabriella. I didn’t regret it. In fact, I was loudly telling Ma that I would do it again when my father stepped out of his office.
“What is all this noise about, Elena? I’m trying to work.”
My mother turned her scathing eyes from me to my father. “Your son was sent home from school today. For fighting.”
“Nicola.” His heavy
stare fell on me. “What happened?”
“Bryan Nichols.” I stuck my little chin up defiantly. “He pushed Gabriella down. She skinned her knee. And you said no one picks on the family. So, I punched him in the nose.”
The corner of his mouth moved subtly, fighting off a twitch. But he couldn’t hide the warm look in his eyes. He was proud. Of me.
Some of the stiffness leaked out of my posture, no longer defensive. I was relieved, actually. Someone understood. Someone got it. I was protecting my sister, my family. I was doing what he wanted. And like all sons, I wanted my father’s approval. Even if it felt like the goalpost was always moving.
“I see,” he said, glancing at my mother. “What did his teacher say?”
“The same thing they always say, Adriano. ‘Try to talk to him. He can’t act this way.’ But you and I both know why he doesn’t face any stronger punishment than that. It’s because of you. They’re afraid of what you might do if they dare punish your son!”
My forehead wrinkled in confusion. What was my mother talking about? Why were they afraid of my dad?
He wasn’t scary. He was a normal dad. He went to work and came home, just like all my friends’ fathers. I hadn’t noticed the preferential treatment my mother spoke of. I mean, sure, we had perks that most families didn’t have, but I thought it was because we were rich. I hadn’t realized yet that it was how we got the money that distinguished me from the other students.
“Elena, be quiet,” my father snapped. “Of course his teacher shouldn’t punish him. He did what he had to. He was protecting the family. In fact, I think he might be ready to know more about what protecting the family really means.”
“No, he’s still a child.” My mother grabbed his arm, her face pale and her eyes filled with panic. “He shouldn’t know anything, not about that. Please, let him stay a boy for a little while longer.”
With a harsh look, my father shook her off and crouched in front of me. “Son, do you want to come with me to work?”
My mother wiped away a few tears and shook her head, trying to save me. But I didn’t understand, so I nodded in agreement.
“Come along, then. Grab your coat.” His large hand rested on my shoulder, nudging me toward the front door.
I was buttoning my heavy wool jacket when my mother cried out. I tried to look over my shoulder, but my father gently turned my head away.
“It’s fine, Nicola. Your mother is just upset. She’ll get over it. Go on.”
We stepped out onto the porch and Saul snapped to attention. “Boss, I thought we were going to deal with that problem.” His thick eyebrows arched as he glanced at me.
“Yeah, we are. Nicola is coming along. I think it’s time.”
Saul grinned. “And how you feel about that, young man?”
I shrugged my thin shoulders. “Fine, I guess.”
“Okay, then.” He led the way to the early 80s Mercedes idling in the driveway and opened the rear door for my father. I crawled in after him, buckling my seatbelt as Saul slid into the front.
Our driver pulled out of the gated driveway and steered us through lower Manhattan. My father and Saul talked amongst themselves, muttering something about the Goretti family. I stared out the window as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, sticking close to the water, before we parked in front of a small bodega. The faded awning and the sign that read “Bianchi Deli, Fine Italian Meats” were familiar. I’d seen them a hundred times.
“Why are we at Uncle Donnie’s?” I glanced at my father.
“We’re protecting the family, son. Get out.”
I scrambled out the door and onto the sidewalk, pressing myself against the car as I waited for my father to step out onto the concrete.
Single file, we entered the deli, and a bell rattled above the glass door, announcing our arrival.
I followed close on my father’s heels, quickly scanning the deserted room. Saul pulled the door closed, and flipped the Open for Business sign in the window to Closed.
“Do you think he’s expecting us?” he asked my father in a low voice.
“Who knows.”
Saul broke away from our huddle, checking behind the counter and in the small closet next to it. Shaking his head, he gestured toward the back room.
“Stay close, Nicola,” my father said as he followed Saul.
The second he stepped through the doorway, my uncle called out, “Adriano! To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“A lot, it seems.”
I peeked around the corner. Uncle Donnie was sitting behind a beat up desk, holding a stack of little papers, glasses pushed up high on the bridge of his nose.
“Nicola!” He smiled, motioning for me to come around to his side.
Once my father nodded his permission, I ran over.
“I’ve got something for you.” He started pulling out drawers, rifling through them. “It’s here somewhere. I know I have it here somewhere…ah, there it is.” He grabbed a small pocketknife and extended it to me.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, examining my new gift. I practiced opening and closing the blade, running my finger along the edge to test its sharpness.
They watched quietly, no doubt amused by my new obsession, until my father broke the moment.
“Tell me about your new friends, Donnie.”
He glanced at him. “What friends?”
“You know, the ones with the guns, and the badges.”
The blood slowly ebbed out of Donnie’s face. He turned as white as an Irishman in a matter of seconds. “W-what are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” My father stepped toward the desk, towering over my uncle’s shrinking frame. “Nicola, get over here.”
After giving my uncle an apologetic look, I hurried to my father’s side. Saul dropped a heavy hand on my shoulder and pulled me behind him. I let him, but a second later I was bending myself in half to look around his thick legs.
“I know all about it, Donnie,” my father roared. “How much did it take, huh? What was the price?” His fist hit the desk, and the impact knocked over a cup of coffee and sent a few pieces of paper fluttering to the floor. “What did they offer you to make you turn on your family? On your own flesh and blood?”
“Adriano,” my uncle threw up his hands, “listen, it’s not what you think it is.”
“Not what I think it is? Do you think I’m an idiot? Not what I think it is…don’t use that weak excuse on me.”
“Look, they came to me, offered me a deal. I told them to shove it up their asses.”
“That didn’t last long, did it, Donnie? How long did you hold out before you caved like the piece of shit you are? Huh, tell me! Was it hours, or just a few days? How long did it take for you to spill everything you know about my business, our business, to those greedy feds?”
Donnie swallowed hard, his features distorted with fear. And he wasn’t the only one. My hands were sweaty. My heart was pounding in my chest. I had no idea what was happening, but even I knew that whatever Donnie had done, it wasn’t good.
“Please…please let me explain?”
Something shifted with Donnie’s admission of guilt. The air became stifling. Heavy. Hopeless.
My father stood tall, hands in his pockets. “I’m not here to grant you forgiveness.”
My fingers squeezed the pocketknife, but my skin was slick with sweat. It slipped from my grasp, clattered to the floor, and drew my father’s gaze. Saul kicked it toward him before resuming his stoic stance.
“You know what happens to traitors, right?” my father asked as he bent down to pick up the knife. “What happens to the ones that aren’t loyal?”
He slowly walked around the desk, stopping in Donnie’s blind spot.
His frantic eyes jumped from Saul to me. They were filled with fear, but hope was there, too. Hope that Saul would stop this. Hope that my father would restrain himself in my presence. Hope…that what he thought was going to happen, wasn’t going to happen
right that second.
That hope died when my father slammed the chair into the desk, brutally pinning my uncle between the two objects.
“Even though you’re my family, Donnie. My blood. You aren’t going to be any different.”
He paused, and slowly sought out my terrified face. “Son, let this be a lesson to you. This is what happens when you betray the family. You pay for your sins in blood.”
Pleas poured from my uncle’s lips, but they fell on deaf ears. The gun was out before I could scream and then—BANG!
I dropped to my knees and covered my ears. Donnie’s body slumped against the desk. Blood snaked down his disfigured face. Fear was eternally locked in his lifeless eyes. His mouth parted, like unspoken words were halfway out of his mouth.
Something crawled up my throat, strangled me in its attempt to get free. So I let it, and suddenly the room was filled with my screams. I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe. My pant leg turned wet as I pissed myself.
“Nicola!” my father shouted. “Shut up!”
But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t look away. Blood pooled on the desk and dripped to the ground. It slowly ran toward my knees with the slope of the floor. I pushed myself back, tried to get away, but the sticky substance touched my fingers and I lost my mind. Screamed even louder.
“Saul, shut him up!”
A heavy hand gripped my jacket collar and jerked me to my feet. Saul got in my face and shook my shoulders hard enough to snap my jaw closed, silencing me.
“Kid, knock it off. You’re fine. You’re not dead. He is.”
The blood, it was everywhere. The desk, the floor, splattered on my father’s face. My hands. My hands.
It kept coming, oozing from what was left of Donnie’s head as my father searched his pockets. Donnie’s body jerked with the movements, but he was gone. Dead. Murdered.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and my lungs burned with the effort it took to breathe. And I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I started crying. Loudly. Sobs wracked my little body. I was so upset, I couldn’t even think.
“Nicola, shut up!”
When I couldn’t, a sound of disgust rumbled in my father’s chest. His brow wrinkled with disappointment before he glanced at Saul. “Get him out of here.”
