Savagely (The Italian Book 2)

by Krista Holt

  “I know. I’m sure when you met him you had some ridiculous notion of love and affection, some inane unicorn-covered fantasy of changing him. But, it’s not real. Men like him don’t love. They use.” He eyed me coldly before a dark chuckle escaped his mouth.

  “I bet it was almost too easy. He approached you dramatically, rescued you from that drunken idiot, and then, suddenly, you felt like you were in his debt. That you owed him. And with that in mind, he convinced you to give him a chance.”

  I couldn’t meet his stare, my eyes stayed glued to my feet, as I tried to hide the pain his words provoked. It’s not like I hadn’t thought that. It wasn’t like I hadn’t said those exact same words to myself, but hearing them aloud, from someone else, was a blow to my heart.

  “He set himself up as a hero, your hero,” he kept talking, picking at my confidence with every sentence. “He played perfectly on the old wounds you have from your father leaving you. I bet you didn’t even realize it at the time, but he filled those gaps. He was protective, safe even. Then, it was probably an endless stream of attention and affection. Maybe a few instances of him dropping everything simply because you called. It made you feel special, important. He gave you just enough of what you needed, so that you didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to dig into his past.”

  He shook his head. “Face it, Reagan. You were easy to manipulate. It’s why he turned up here again. Same tactic, same amount of effort, he just wanted something different this time.”

  I bit my lip and stared across the monument. The wall of stars blurred together through my unshed tears. Tears I refused to let fall.

  “I’ve tried to protect your feelings, your self-esteem, but enough is enough. He doesn’t care about you. He never has. You were convenient. Accessible. Something he didn’t have to work at. And that’s all it was. Whatever promises he made you, whatever hope he gave you that things would be different in the future, he didn’t mean it.”

  He paused, then took a step back. “Wake up, Reagan. For once, do this without questioning me, because whatever you think you feel for him, it isn’t real. Trust me.”

  Trust me. Trust me.

  Everyone kept telling me that. Nic. Simmons. My boss. The problem is, I didn’t know whom to trust.

  “I’ve wasted enough time with this.” He cleared his throat. “Call me when you’ve come to your senses. Plant the bug, and you’re out. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  When I didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him, he sighed. “Do it, or I’ll find someone else who will.”

  He walked away, and I sunk onto a nearby bench, wiping at my tears before they had a chance to freeze on my face. “Screw him.”

  I was done. I was going to plant the damn bug and get out of this mess. For good.

  And I did. The night Nic showed up outside Rayburn and tried to persuade me to stay with him. The same night I told him I couldn’t do it anymore, breaking my own heart in the process, I had placed the bug in his car. Only to find out, after stumbling through every emotion—denial, disbelief, guilt, grief—the device had somehow, mysteriously, stopped transmitting.

  I’m sure Nic found it. And I’m sure the only reason I’m still alive is because his family doesn’t know who planted it.

  Glaring at my phone, I text a reply to Simmons.

  No. You said I was out. I’m out. After all I’ve done for you, let this go.

  The little thought bubble appears then disappears before he responds.

  I can’t. But you’ll understand once I explain. Dinner tomorrow at Waterfront. 7pm.

  The temptation to tell him to screw himself is right there, but I want to know what he’s talking about. I’ve always thought there had to be a deeper reason, something that was driving his hatred of Nic’s family. His obsession with the Selvaggios has always seemed more personal than it should be. And I guess I’m about to find out if Simmons has been keeping a few secrets of his own.

  Fine. But this is the last time.

  You won’t regret it.

  Somehow, I’m sure I will.

  CHAPTER 7

  “REAGAN.” BECCA CALLS SECONDS BEFORE my bedroom door creaks open. “Are you still in bed?”

  With a groan, I squint at the last sliver of sunlight streaming through the window across from my bed. “What time is it?”

  “Early evening, a few minutes past six.”

  Shit. I slept most of the day. After exchanging texts with Simmons, I had pulled the covers over my head, intent on blocking out the world. It obviously worked.

  She nudges the door completely open and steps inside. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. I swear.”

  “Did you go to work today?” She glances around the room for the normal castoffs that wind up on my floor after a routine workday.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Cameron gave us the day off. The investigation is stalling out and he’s not sure he’s pursuing it.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Complicated details that I can’t talk about.” I sigh. “But—”

  “But what?” She takes a seat on my bed.

  “I’m starting to think it’s not the worst idea.”

  Her forehead wrinkles as she frowns. “I’m missing something. I thought this was the holy grail of investigations.”

  “We all did. But an intern has gone missing and there’s a rumor going around that it might be related to our investigation.”

  “How?”

  “We’re not sure. The intern worked for the committee, and now he’s just disappeared. Some think the mob might be involved, you know, trying to find out what we know.”

  “That’s horrible. How long has he been missing?”

  “A few days. No one has seen or heard from him, including his roommates.”

  “Wow, I’m sorry about him, but I’m glad you’re safe. The Italian mob certainly doesn’t mess around when it comes to snitches, do they?”

  “No.” I swallow hard. “They don’t.”

  If anyone in Nic’s family of criminals finds out what I’m doing—

  “So, not to change the subject,” she interrupts my thoughts, “but on a scale of ‘not bad to freaking weird’—how awkward was last night?”

  I crack a smile. “Can we settle on, ‘I don’t want to ever do that again’?”

  “Nothing is going to happen with Nate, is it?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Stupid Italian,” she mutters under her breath, knowing I can hear her perfectly fine.

  “He is not the reason.” I kick my sheets back and sit on the edge of my bed, trying to wrangle my sleep-messed hair into a bun. “Nate and I don’t click. Besides, I have no interest in dating anyone right now.”

  In fact, I’m not entirely sure that the next time I see Nic I won’t be tempted to kick him in the shin. I might be afraid of his family, but he enrages me. I’m so angry with him. For lying to me. For having someone watch me. For not telling me the truth.

  “Fine,” Becca groans. “I will give up my matchmaking schemes. Temporarily.”

  I roll my eyes. “Good.”

  “Can we talk about the Nic thing, though? About what I told you last night?”

  “What about it?”

  “Are you mad at me? You know, for not saying anything?”

  “No. I’m not mad. It’s just…” I struggle to put a few words into a complete sentence. Honestly, Nic threatening a drunken frat boy years ago is the least of my problems. But, I don’t like that she’s keeping secrets from me. Hypocritical, I know, but true nonetheless. “I don’t want Nic or his issues to come between us. If something like that happens again, I want to know.”

  “I swear, I would tell you. I mean, if I ever see him again I’ll probably slap him in the face, but then I’d totally tell you all about it.”

  I try to fight a smile, I do. But it sneaks through. “I’ve slapped him before. Trust me, I understand the urge.”

  Her jaw drops, and then a g
iggle bursts free. “You’ve slapped him? How did I not know that? You’ve been holding out on me.” She clasps a hand over her mouth, trying to swallow her laughter. “Tell me everything? What was his face like? Did you feel better? When did it happen?”

  “I believe his response was something along the lines of him deserving it.”

  She giggles again. “Typical Italian. Stoic to the end. Did you ever have the urge to do something stupid, just to irritate him? Because I would.”

  “Only all the time.” I push to my feet before walking into the bathroom to wash my face.

  Becca stays behind, still planted in the middle of my bed. “We’re good, though. Right?”

  “We’re fine,” I mumble through a damp washcloth.

  “I feel like I need to make it up to you, though. Last night was lame. We should go out again tonight. You and me. Maybe Devin. And drinks. Oh, so many drinks.”

  Laughter bubbles up my throat. “We’re not going anywhere. We both have to work tomorrow.”

  “Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll blow off a little steam. Forget about everything for a little bit.

  “Nope, not happening.” I round the corner and pull the pillows off my bed before tossing one at her. “You and Devin go.”

  She throws it right back and then hops off the wrinkled comforter. “When was the last time you went out and had fun? Legitimate fun. Not something work related or some sucky cocktail party that turn out to be forced networking. Just a normal, good time, huh?”

  “Besides last night?

  “Last night doesn’t count, and you know it.”

  “Still, I don’t really want to go to some ridiculous club.”

  “That’s exactly why you have to go. We need to get you out of this weird cycle. And it’s not like you’re sleeping at night. We might as well take advantage of all those wasted hours.” She crosses her arms over her chest, grinning smugly at me.

  I hate to admit it, but her plan doesn’t sound that bad. The opportunity to blow off my worries and have a few drinks is tempting. Hell, even the chance to just forget about everything for a few hours is enough to make me cave.

  I glare at her, but it doesn’t stick. “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t. You love me.”

  “I despise you.”

  She grins. “Let’s save that animosity for the one who really deserves it. That Italian asshole.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s plenty to go around.”

  “Go!” Becca pushes me back toward the bathroom. “Take a shower, get dressed, we’ll leave in a couple hours. I’m going to text Devin and tell him we need a chaperone.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to have someone along who’ll be sober enough to help us grab a cab at the end of the night, would it?”

  “Valid point.”

  “So, we have a deal? Shower, shave, short dress?”

  “I never agreed to the short dress part,” I argue. “Or the shaving, for that matter.”

  “Oh, you will, you will,” she taunts. “Because you’re finally single, and being single demands a short skirt.”

  “That’s very feminist of you.”

  She rolls her eyes before she heads out of my room. “You know what I mean, and besides, the best way to get over someone is to get tangled up with someone else.”

  “I’m not getting tangled up with anyone,” I shout.

  But I could use a distraction. Just a few hours to forget about my anxiety-inducing life. It’s only one night. What’s the worst that could happen?

  * * *

  “This dress is way too short.” I turn, checking the hemline of the dress Becca let me borrow in the mirror. “Like call-girl short.”

  The muted silver fabric shimmers as I move, catching the light. I’m thankful for the long sleeves, but the low V-neck and the short hem that stops way above my knees are very outside my comfort zone. I’d never pick out a dress like this, but it fits me like a glove. A very sexy, little glove. Even factoring in the extra time I had to spend covering up the bruise on my neck with heavy concealer, I don’t look half bad.

  Becca appears over my shoulder in the reflection with a grin. Her racy little black dress gives mine a run for its money. “Then you’ll fit right in. It’s D.C., after all, call girls and discreet escorts abound.”

  “That doesn’t mean I want to look like one!” I reach for a random piece of clothing and toss it at her. “Besides, it’s freaking cold outside.”

  “If you drink enough, you won’t freeze.” She laughs. “Let’s go!”

  After one last glance at my reflection, I grab my coat from the closet and follow her out of the apartment. We meet Devin in the lobby, climb into a waiting cab, and in no time at all we arrive at The Dignitary, a bar in the heart of Georgetown.

  Despite its name, there’s nothing dignified about this place. It’s hedonism on steroids, with skirts far shorter than mine, and plenty of men more than willing to buy a girl a drink.

  The bouncer stamps our hands and gives us each a small velvet bag with a drawstring at the top. “Phones go in the bags. If you get caught taking pictures, you get tossed, and most likely sued.”

  “Dang,” I mutter under my breath, digging for my phones. But before I slide them into the bag, I notice a missed text on my personal cell. Nic.

  I grip the phone tighter, my heart suddenly racing. I know I should leave it unread, like the others, but I can’t.

  We need to talk.

  “Reagan. Your phone.”

  Meeting the impatient gaze of the bouncer, I smile apologetically. “Sorry.”

  After dropping both my Blackberry and my cell into the bag, I hand it to him and take the offered claim ticket.

  “Who was that?” Becca shouts in my ear as we move farther into the dark club. The music grows in swells, like waves, the deeper we wade into the crowded room. It pounds off the walls, drowning out everything until I can’t even hear my own heartbeat.

  “Who do you think?” I shout back.

  “The Italian?”

  “Yes.” I brush past her, my eyes locking on the bar. At the shiny black granite counter, I find the last open spot and order a shot of whiskey. And then another.

  “Careful.” Becca appears beside me.

  “Because being careful has done wonders for me in the past,” I complain, before ordering us some proper cocktails. The bartender shoves a Manhattan into my hand and a gin and tonic into hers.

  “I’m gonna have to carry you home, aren’t I?” Becca says dryly, watching me take a long sip.

  I grin behind the glass, already feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  After two drinks and a few more shots, Devin pulls her out onto the dance floor, and I join them another Manhattan later. The whole time, my brain is shouting at me, telling me this won’t fix anything, that I should be home plotting my next move. But I keep pushing the thoughts aside because Becca is right. I shouldn’t be carrying around so much stress and anxiety, like I’m responsible for holding the world together. I just want to pretend I have no cares, no responsibilities. For tonight.

  A hand grabs my waist, startling me. I spin around and take in the striking face of a complete stranger. Blond hair, light eyes, and a perfect smile. He says something I can’t hear over the blaring pop music. So, I smile. Like an idiot.

  He takes it as an invitation to dance, and I don’t stop him. Smiling wider, I bravely lace my hands behind his neck.

  “I can do this,” I tell myself, knowing he can’t hear my quiet words. “I can pretend.”

  I can pretend I’m this girl. The one who only worries about where her next drink is coming from. The one that doesn’t give a second thought to consequences. I can fake an enthusiasm of life, for fun. He turns me around and then pulls me back into his chest, his hands running the length of my body. I close my eyes, banishing thoughts of anyone else.

  Of brown eyes.

  Olive skin.

 
And an infuriating smirk.

  It doesn’t exist anymore. He doesn’t exist anymore.

  The stranger’s hands rest on my stomach, holding me close, moving my body in rhythm with the music and his own. Between the thumping bass and the way our bodies sway with the song, I find myself letting go. Blissfully numb.

  And then he ruins it. His hand brushes my hair over my shoulder. Hot sticky breath hits my skin, sending a prickle of unease down my spine, seconds before moist lips press a kiss to the back of my neck.

  I stiffen and pull away. Mouth open, I start to shout something at him, but I don’t get the chance. A heavy hand grips my elbow, yanking me out of the stranger’s hold and dragging me across the club before I can say a word. I stumble, trying to keep up with his rapid stride. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down as he hauls me along, my feet barely hitting the floor.

  We turn down a dark hallway, and I dig my heels in. “Let go!” I shout, smacking his shoulder with an open palm.

  He ignores me, gripping my arm even tighter as we barrel toward an emergency exit. He punches the heavy door and it flies open, pounding into the exterior wall as he all but flings me into the freezing weather.

  Before I can even breathe, Nic crowds me against the wall. His face is just inches from mine, close enough I can see the fury radiating in his eyes.

  “What the hell was that?” His voice scrapes over the words, anger vibrating off of every one.

  “None of your damn business,” I snap, hitting his chest with my fists. It feels good. Too good. Something bursts inside of me, breaks open, spilling heat throughout my body, sending me over the edge. “What part of me being done did you not understand?”

  His body presses mine into the brick, rattling a gasp from me. “Don’t even start with that, we both know you don’t mean it. You wanted a reaction from me. And this is it. So, why am I really here, Reagan? Don’t spare my feelings. Tell me exactly how I’ve managed to piss you off this time.”

  “You had me followed, again.” I shove him back. “And what I can’t wrap my head around is that it wasn’t just some guy, it was one of the guys from that night. Like I would actually feel safe with him around? What the hell is wrong with you? Was this supposed to make me trust you? Give you more time to explain yourself? Because, it didn’t. All it did was show me, one more time, that I can’t trust you.”