by Krista Holt
Because while I don’t really have to find Saul, with his body out there somewhere, the risk of tripping on my own lies increases. Not to mention that ‘I don’t know where Saul is’ will only buy me so much time when it comes to a man like my father.
Speak of the devil.
My phone rings, flashing his unidentified number on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Have you found him yet?” he barks.
“Seeing as how I’ve only been gone two hours, no, I haven’t found him yet.”
“Where have you checked?”
“His house, the wife doesn’t know anything. Neither does his mistress. And the morgue doesn’t have anyone fitting his description either.”
“You already called the morgue?”
“You said it yourself. He’d have to be dead before betraying the family. I’m just covering all my bases.”
He grumbles under his breath. “Check the strip club next.”
“Honestly, if he’s there, he’s doing something I have no interest in seeing.” Besides seeing a corpse get a lap dance would be enough to haunt even my dreams.
“Do it anyway.”
“I’ll swing by,” I reluctantly agree. “That all?”
“Yeah. That’s all,” he mutters. “Just find him. And hurry.”
I bite back my retort and hang up as annoyance runs through me. I hate wasting my time.
I need to get back to D.C. To Reagan. All this stupid running around is keeping me from her, and it’s driving me crazy. Especially since she won’t answer any of my calls or texts.
As I sit in traffic, halfway to the so-called gentlemen’s club, the burner phone stowed away in the glove box starts vibrating. Reaching over the console, I take it out and tap on the unopened text from an unknown number.
Six days.
CHAPTER 3
Reagan
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU didn’t go in?” Scott drops his late afternoon cup of coffee onto my desk. Dark liquid sloshes over the rim, making a mess. “I thought we agreed to follow Cameron’s plan? You said you wanted him held accountable for what he did to us.”
“I did. I do.” I toss my Blackberry onto my desk before meeting his ire head on. “But what was I supposed to do? He stopped me on the steps and told me not to go in. Forgive me, but I didn’t exactly feel like getting manhandled again!”
This is the first time I’ve seen Scott since my appointment with the FBI yesterday. The one where I was supposed to walk in, give my statement about the kidnapping, and put this all behind me. Except, nothing went as planned. I’d been reaching for the brass doorknob when Nic had grabbed me and issued a veiled warning about the risks of passing through those doors, about how I’d be taking my life into my own hands. The fear in his eyes had been enough to make me reconsider, so I’d left, without even stepping inside the building.
But given Scott’s outburst just now, I would’ve gladly waited a few more hours before having to tell him why I’d missed the meeting.
“Had you seen him before then?” His eyes narrow with the slightest bit of doubt, like he’s not sure he can trust me.
It doesn’t matter that I promised to be honest about my interactions with Nic; he still doesn’t believe me and it’s really getting on my nerves. Everyone is treating me with suspicion, with doubt. I feel…lacking. Like I don’t measure up, like I’m not doing enough, and I hate it. Even more, I’m angry with myself for giving them that power.
“No,” I answer. “I swear, that was the first time I saw him since that night.” Since he took us.
When was that? A few days ago? Time holds no meaning anymore. Sometimes, it feels like it happened months ago, maybe even another lifetime ago. It certainly doesn’t feel like my life blew apart a little over a week ago.
Before then, I’d been hard at work for Congressman Cameron, my boss and Chairman of the House Oversight Committee, helping him investigate an anonymous whistleblower tip about two FBI agents taking bribes from the Selvaggio Crime family, one of New York’s notorious five mafia Families.
Until that night. Until Scott and I were kidnapped and questioned about the official investigation by none other than my on-again, off-again something of a boyfriend, Nic, the son of Adriano Selvaggio, the head of the Selvaggio Crime family.
And that wasn’t even a surprise. Seeing as how I already knew all about Nic’s family thanks to FBI agent Jack Simmons, the man who had convinced me to spy on Nic when I was a naïve college student. Back when I was hoping his accusations against the man I’d fallen in love with were wrong. Now, that too, has turned into a complex headache. Simmons won’t stop calling me, even though we haven’t spoken since the night Nic took us. I keep ignoring his calls, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off.
“What did he say to you?” Scott’s voice drags me from my thoughts.
“A lot.” I sigh. “And not much at the same time. He said I didn’t understand everything, but I would in time.”
One week, specifically. One week. That’s all Nic asked for, and while I didn’t promise anything, it feels like I’m holding my breath, waiting for something to happen.
“He was probably lying, you know that, right? I bet he’s hoping you’ll start feeding him information.”
“Maybe.”
I don’t think he was, but I can’t trust my instincts when it comes to Nic. I learned that the hard way. At times, I’m still under his spell. Still captivated by him. Still worried about him, and the bruises, scratches, and cuts I saw on his face yesterday. Who gave those to him and why?
Scott reaches for some tissues to mop up the spilled coffee. “I guess it confirms our theory, though. The whistleblower has to be someone from within the mob, someone from within his family.”
I rub the tense lines on my forehead, trying to relieve the pressure building behind my eyes. “What makes you so sure?”
“Because he stopped you. He’s obviously trying to keep himself out of prison long enough to find whoever’s trying to take his family down.”
“I don’t know. I think there’s more to it than that. None of this adds up.”
“How so?”
I take a deep breath, and slowly let it out. “When I didn’t show up, Agent O’Neil found me outside, and he told me the FBI wasn’t going to do anything anyway. They can’t arrest him.”
“What? Why not? We told them everything that happened, everything he did. How could they possibly not arrest him?”
“Since Nic wasn’t there when they took us, and we don’t know the men who did, there isn’t much the FBI can do. There’s no one to charge with a crime. Even if they did arrest Nic for it, Agent O’Neil was positive he’d walk in a couple of hours due to a lack of evidence.”
“So strapping us to chairs and beating my face in isn’t enough proof?”
I wince as the memory flashes before my eyes for the hundredth time. “Scott, I agree. But, Nic didn’t actually do any of those things, did he?”
“No,” he reluctantly admits, “he didn’t.”
“And I don’t know about you, but that whole night is blurry and fragmented for me. I remember what happened, I remember the events, but I don’t think I could describe those men. I might recognize them if I saw them again, but I can’t be sure. Could you?”
He shakes his head. “I only saw their fists.”
Guilt rears its ugly head and an apology bubbles out of me before I can stop it.
“Stop apologizing for him. It wasn’t your fault. He’s the guilty party. He’s the grand puppet master pulling all of our strings. It’s like you said—whatever is happening here, whatever is going down, we’re not the ones in control of it. This is so infuriating, though. I feel like no matter what we do our hands are tied. This Nic guy is a mile ahead of us, the investigation is drying up, nothing is working out like we thought it would.”
“The investigation is stalling? Why?”
He grimaces and then runs his hand down his face. “While you
were gone yesterday, Cameron got a phone call from the committee staff. Apparently one of the interns they had assigned to their office has disappeared. He’s not answering his phone or replying to his emails. His family hasn’t heard from him either.”
“Please tell me he’s gone on a drunken bender somewhere…”
“Wish I could, but given what happened to us, it’s looking more like your guy—sorry, Selvaggio is probably involved.”
My stomach sinks. Nic couldn’t, not possible. Kidnapping, extortion, blackmail? Yes. But not murder. There’s no way.
“I don’t think he’d do that,” I say softly.
“You don’t really believe that do you? After everything?” Scott looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
And maybe I have. I don’t know.
I swallow, trying to smother the spark of doubt that ignites in the pit of my stomach. “So, what is going to happen now? Are the police involved?”
The corner of his mouth pinches, and the lines in his forehead deepen with frustration.
“Unfortunately, yes. Cameron is trying to keep it confined to the intern and leave what happened to us out of it. But since the intern may very well be dead, he decided to contact General Counsel. You know, just in case.”
“And what did the lovely lawyers hired to advise the House of Representatives have to say?”
“They want Cameron to drop the investigation.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope. Think about it: if people keep getting hurt by this investigation, the House could be culpable. They want him to shut it down and turn it over to the FBI.”
“The same FBI the whistleblower accused of taking bribes from the mob?” Irritation and a heavy dose of disbelief coat my words.
“It’s messed up,” he groans. “I know.”
“So, that’s it? After everything we did, everything we risked? Cameron is just going to shut it down?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t told me his plans. He’s in meetings for the rest of the day. I guess we’ll hear something tomorrow.”
He glances over at me, still sitting on the corner of my desk, swinging his foot occasionally. “How’s your neck doing? Is the bruise fading?”
“It’s better, but not gone.”
My hand grazes the scarf that hides the discoloration left on my throat. The dark ring of black and blue is fading, slowly turning into an ugly brownish-yellow mark, but I’ve been avoiding looking at it too closely. Or thinking about it. It’s just easier. Because if I dwell on it, it becomes personal. My emotions get involved and then, suddenly, I’m hiding in my closet, sobbing into my hand, trying to hide my cries from Becca’s attentive ears.
She knows something is wrong, though. She watches me all the time, keeping track of how I spend my nights with every light in my room on, and how I don’t eat unless she sits across from me, scrutinizing every bite. I don’t have the desire to anymore. It’s gone. Replaced by exhaustion and worry.
“How’s your lip?” I ask. The stitch keeping his split lip together looks painful, but he should be able to get it out in a day or two. The swelling has gone down, and the bruises on his face are slowly fading, like mine.
“Getting better.” He falls silent, studying me. “You really hadn’t heard from him before yesterday?”
I sigh. “Scott, I already feel like I’m being punished for knowing him. Cameron’s been avoiding me, not to mention all the pissed-off phone calls I’ve been fielding from my FBI handler…I really don’t need this from you. I’m trying to do my job, that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Sorry.” An odd look flashes over his face. “You’re the only one that thinks that though. Hell, without your connection to him, we wouldn’t understand exactly what was happening with this investigation. We’d still be combing through all of the Organized Crime Taskforce agents, looking for the whistleblower. And as far as Cameron avoiding you, he’s not exactly tracking me down either. I’m not sure he knows what to do with all this. The whole reason he took on this investigation is because we thought it’d be a short-lived thing. Find some proof, publicly slap the FBI on the hand for letting their agents slide on corruption allegations, and then score some good press. But this? It’s turned into something altogether different. Between our thing, and now the missing intern, it’s more than he bargained for. It’s not personal, Reagan.”
But it feels personal, and I can’t ignore this sense of unease—like I’m about to lose everything I’ve worked so hard for. Fraternizing with a known member of the Italian mob isn’t something that can be glossed over, especially when Nic is claiming he used me for information. An allegation like that could ruin my reputation and end my career.
This whole thing is maddening. It’s like we’re stuck in this box and no matter how hard we push on one wall, the thing remains intact, and we’re still trapped. I feel cornered, fenced in by Nic, by my work, by the FBI, by my best friend’s probing questions, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep it all together. Everything is combining into this toxic concoction that’s just one ingredient away from exploding. I desperately need something to change. I need to have some control over my own life again. And soon.
“So, where do we go from here?” I lean back in my chair, searching for some direction. For some hope.
Scott glances at his watch. “As your superior, I’m ordering you to go home for the day.”
“Scott, I don’t want to go home. I want to do something, fix something…”
“Look, Cameron’s gone. It’s after four. I’m only gonna be here for an hour or so. Go get some sleep, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nudges my chair. “Seriously, go home. You look like you could use some rest. When was the last time you slept for eight hours uninterrupted?”
My phone vibrates loudly on my desk. I glance at the screen and hit ignore when I see Simmons calling, again.
“Who was that?” he asks, his suspicion returning as he peers over my shoulder at the phone.
“It wasn’t him,” I announce, reaching for my purse and collecting both my phone and my Blackberry, suddenly wanting to get out of here and away from his scrutiny.
“Then who was it?” He stands, letting me walk past.
“A pissed off FBI agent,” I toss over my shoulder. “Happy?”
“No, but I’m not exactly sad either, so….”
I roll my eyes and leave the office, texting Becca as I walk.
Got off early…Dinner? Or more importantly, drinks?
She replies just as I’m flagging a cab down outside of Rayburn.
I thought you’d never ask. Back Country in an hour? Margarita pitchers on me!!!
Climbing into the back of the car, I breathe a sigh of relief. I could use a good dose of tequila. Maybe it’ll help me forget.
CHAPTER 4
BECCA APPEARS ON THE SIDEWALK as I slide out of the cab, like she was lying in wait.
“Oh, good, you’re here.” She smiles, worry flickering in her eyes. “So, I have a confession to make…”
“Yeah?” I step inside the loud restaurant, holding the door open for her. Country music vibrates off the walls and the place is packed with locals and tourists alike.
“Reagan, wait!” She grabs my arm, and I flinch.
She watches it happen, concern turning her lips down into a frown. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I try to laugh it off. “You just surprised me.”
Her gaze narrows. “I don’t believe you. Something happened. It’s why you’re so jumpy and always looking over your shoulder.”
“Becca, everything is fine. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and inhales quickly. “I’ve tried giving you space, tried not to push you, but I can’t take it anymore. I have to know what’s going on. Because you’re not fine, and I know it has something to do with Nic. All of this has something to do with him. It’s why he’s not around anymore. So, just tell me, what happened between you two?”<
br />
I quickly scan the crowded restaurant, embarrassed that she’s bringing this up here, in public, and at the same time feeling incredibly guilty for stressing her out.
“There’s nothing to tell, Becca. He just…I couldn’t…” I swallow hard, trying to find the words. “It just ended. It was ugly, and painful. And I’m trying to get over it. I’m so sorry for worrying you, but there’s nothing else to say.”
She studies me, and I fear she can see through my lies, making me feel even worse.
“Please.” I offer her a small smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”
She shakes her head and her arms fall to her sides. “Of course I’m going to worry about you, you’re my best friend. But right now, all I really want to do is punch Nic in the throat for hurting you again. I mean, I knew he was kind of an asshole, after what he said to that guy. After the way he left you in California, and broke your heart. But—”
“Wait, what are you talking about?” I interrupt. “What guy?”
“That stupid guy from the bar, the one Nic chased off the night you met.”
“I remember, but what did he do?”
“He threatened him.”
“What?”
“A couple months after you met Nic, I was walking across campus, and I ran into him,” she explains. “As soon as he saw me though, he turned as white as a sheet and couldn’t get away from me quick enough. He kept apologizing, swore he didn’t know I’d be there. When I asked why he was so freaked out, he told me that Nic said if he so much as looked at you again, he’d cut off his—” her eyes widen with meaning “—you know.”
I brush my hair out of my face and exhale heavily. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“Because, Nic was treating you good. You were so infatuated with each other I thought it was just some stupid alpha-male behavior. I didn’t think he was actually capable of hurting someone. But he hurt you, didn’t he?”
I hesitate. It’d be so easy to tell her, to unload every ugly secret I’ve been carrying around with me. But I won’t. Because no matter how relieved I might be to spill everything, it’s not worth putting her at risk. Absolutely not worth it.
