by Krista Holt
“Reagan,” he rasps, gripping the back of my neck to pull me down for a kiss. “I missed you, too.”
I part my lips to speak, but Becca flings open the front door.
“You are never going to believe the night I had . . .” She stops short when she sees us. “I didn’t realize the Italian was here.”
Nic’s brows shoot up and he mouths ‘the Italian’ to me as a question.
“Yeah,” Becca responds before I can, “that’s what we called you after your little disappearing act. Your name was off-limits around our apartment for months.”
He clears his throat as a thundercloud expression moves over his face.
“Uh . . . Becca . . . ,” I stammer, scrambling off of him. “It’s fine. He’s apologized.”
Nic stands, pulling me up before turning to her. He starts to say something when Becca jumps in. Looking beyond him, to me, she asks, “Did he beg sufficiently?”
“He did,” I assure her.
“Fine. Whatever. But I’ve got my eye on you.” She points at him. “Don’t screw her over again.” With one more threatening hand gesture, she turns, disappearing into the kitchen.
“She hasn’t changed.” Nic slowly turns to me.
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
“I’ll sleep better now,” he says dryly.
His phone rings, and he fishes it out of his pocket.
“Yeah.” He pauses, listening to the caller. “That’s not what we discussed,” he says, walking into the entry for some privacy.
I follow the trail of Becca’s disapproval into the kitchen. She shuts the fridge with more force than necessary and frowns at me. “Do you know what you’re doing with him?”
I force back a sigh. Having just straightened this mess out with Nic; I’m not in the mood to rehash it, but I know she’s only looking out for me. “Yeah, I do. There will be no secrets going forward.”
“What about before? Do you even know why he left?”
“Yes, his dad was sick.”
Her frown harshens, and I can tell she doesn’t believe him. “So he just dropped off the face of the earth?”
“Family pressures. He was busy.” I shrug. “We’re not jumping back to where we were, Becca, just starting over again. He knows there’s a lot to make up for.”
“It’s really not my place to say anything.”
“You’re my best friend, Becca,” I argue. “You were here when he wasn’t. I think you’ve earned an opinion on this, but he’s back. I told him we could try again. You can’t just be mad at him. This is my choice too.”
“I still don’t trust him.”
“I understand, but if you could be a little less . . .” I pause, thinking of the right word, “ . . . threatening when he’s around, I’d appreciate it.”
She takes a deep breath, blowing it out loudly. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Reagan. There’s something he’s still hiding from you.”
Nic enters the kitchen before I can say anything else. I’m pretty sure he overheard us, but his face gives nothing away.
“It was nice to see you again, Becca,” he says before turning to me. “I have to go. Walk me out?”
“Sure.” I follow him to the door. “Listen, about what Becca said—”
“I don’t care what she thinks,” he interrupts me. “I care what you think. Do you still have concerns?”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.” I look at the floor and then back to his face. “There are a lot of things we never talked about. Both of us held back. Then and now.”
“I don’t want it to be that way this time.”
“Me either. But we should probably talk about this later, when you’re not headed out the door.”
He nods, running a hand down his jaw. “Are you here for the holidays?”
“I’ll be here. Becca is heading back to California.”
“Good, we can spend them together. I’ll call you after I get this straightened out, it may take a day or two.”
“Okay.”
“You need a tree.” He gestures to the only blank corner in our tiny little apartment.
“Only if you’re volunteering to cart it in here.”
That ridiculous smirk of his makes another appearance. “I think I can manage that.” He wraps an arm around me, using the other hand to tuck some hair behind my ear. “Call me if you need me.” He leans down, invading my space. “And don’t do anything crazy.”
“No promises,” I whisper in reply, right before he seals his lips over mine.
When he finally pulls back, my cheeks are red hot. “Bye, Italian.”
“I like it. I sound intriguing.”
“Oh, you have intrigue in spades, believe me.”
He shakes his head and walks away, striding into the elevator. Just as the doors begin to close, he turns around and gives me a wink.
CHAPTER 24
Nic
I shouldn’t be over on this side of town.
This isn’t my corner of the city. It isn’t my father’s. This is enemy territory. Goretti turf. This is a damn bad idea.
Even Enzo sits up a little straighter in the passenger seat. It’s just a quick trip, I remind myself. Drop some money and pick up a package. Get in, get out. But still.
“I wish your father would find a different supplier,” Enzo says, as if he read my mind.
“You and me both,” I reply, “but what happens to us will be nothing compared to what happens to Mickey if Goretti finds out he’s helping us.”
“I know, but . . .”
“Yeah.” I agree, because it is unsettling. It’s that sinking feeling of crossing lines that you know you shouldn’t cross, but you’re doing it anyway.
We used to get along with the Goretti Family. Until we didn’t. About two years ago, my father and Daniel Goretti’s close relationship suffered a blow. I don’t know the specifics, my father won’t talk about it, but I do know that things aren’t as friendly as they used to be. And while we may not be feuding, if they catch me here, we will be.
I pull up to the curb, two blocks away, and kill the engine. “No screwing around in here. Stay at my back,” I tell Enzo.
“Got it.” He opens his door and gets out.
I do the same on my side, scanning the neighborhood. The Mercedes stands out like a sore thumb on a street lined with four cylinder engines and rundown hatchbacks. If the right pair of eyes notices it and calls Goretti’s men . . .
“You got a gun?” I ask Enzo.
He opens his jacket just enough to show me the piece strapped to his lower back.
“Good.” I lean back inside and grab a brown paper bag off the floorboard. It’s bulky and taped closed. I didn’t ask what’s inside when my father handed it to me. I already knew. It’s money, and a lot of it.
Enzo waits at the curb, surveying the street just like I did.
“Ready?” I shove my door closed.
“Yeah . . .”
“What is it?”
“I got a bad feeling about this.”
Me too. “Then let’s do it and get it over with.”
My steps pick up on the sidewalk until I stop in front of a weathered old door. The paint is missing in places and the bottom is scuffed from being pushed open with a shoe.
I knock twice, pause, and then knock one more time. Seconds later, the sliding lock jangles on the other side of the door and it opens a crack.
“Whadaya want?”
“I have a payment for your services.” I show the beady eyes peeking through the crack the package in my hand.
The door opens a little wider. “Nicola?”
“Yeah. It’s me, Michael.”
It swings fully open. “I haven’t seen you in forever, boy.”
“It has been a long time,” I agree.
“Where you been?”
I tuck the wad of cash back underneath my jacket. While I don’t think I’m under surveillance, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.
“
Are you gonna let me in or keep me out here like an unwelcome religion peddler?”
My tone snaps him out of his surprised stupor. “Of course, of course. Come in.”
I step over the threshold, followed closely by a tightly wound Enzo. The smell of mothballs is heavy in the room. Dust. Sweat. Alcohol. The furniture is old, most likely purchased in the 60s, when burnt orange was all the rage. Plastic covers the couch, and dark wood paneling lines the small room. Even the shag carpet is a throwback to decades past.
“Have a seat.” Michael gestures to the couch.
“I’d rather not.” I take out the money again. “If you have what I need, I’ll be on my way.”
His eyes jump over my shoulder to Enzo and then back to me. He’s uncomfortable. I glance at Enzo and see that he’s picking up on it, too.
Michael runs his hands up and down his jeans, repeatedly. His eyes wide, pupils dilated. He’s higher than a kite.
“Michael,” I snap. “The product?”
“Yeah, uh . . .” One hand rubs at his nose, the other nervously taps against his leg. “Yeah.”
He seems like he’s waiting for something, or he’s just that impaired. It’s hard to say. But it’s putting me on edge.
Unease hangs in the air, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Enzo keeps shifting behind me, and he needs to stop, because the tweaked out mess in front of me is getting even more paranoid.
“Michael?” I try again.
“Yeah?” He finally looks at me. There it is, a moment of clarity.
“The drugs . . .” I tear the paper bag open and show him the stack of bills. “For the money. Remember?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” His hand picks at the skin on his other arm.
“Go get it,” I order.
Michael nods once and then takes off running out of the room.
“What the hell . . . ?” Enzo whispers, reaching for his gun.
“I have no idea. Be quiet,” I hiss, straining my ear. I thought I heard something, but it’s gone now.
Michael comes running back a second later with a black duffel bag weighing down one side. He tries to hand it to me.
“Can you show it to me first?”
“Sure, Nicola. Sure.” He rubs his nose again before opening the bag and showing me the neatly bundled white bricks.
“Good.” I hand the money to him and gesture toward Enzo, telling him to pick up the bag and walk. He does it quickly but he shoots me a glare, clearly unhappy about having to touch the dirty druggie’s bag.
“We’ll be in touch, Michael.” I work my way to the door.
He doesn’t reply. He’s too busy drooling over the money, counting it. Remorse picks at me knowing most of it will buy shit that either goes up his nose or into a needle. But I can’t save everyone.
I follow Enzo outside, and we walk down the street toward the car. He carries the drugs, while I keep an eye open for unwelcome visitors. We’re one block away when a panic alarm goes off. The sound of broken glass follows a split second later, and Enzo takes off running.
When I catch up to him, he’s staring at my car. My all-smashed-to-hell car. The windows are missing, and the windshield is shattered. The side paneling is dented, like someone took a bat to it.
A sudden burst of air snaps my eyes toward the driver’s side where a petite brunette with tan skin and dark brown eyes pops up, knife held in between her teeth and a bat in one hand.
So there’s the bat.
The car abruptly lurches to one side, tires going flat. Enzo’s jaw is on the ground, his gaze bouncing between the Benz and the girl.
“What the hell, Bella?” I step around him, glaring at her.
She drags the knife out from between her teeth. “What are you doing on this side of town?”
I don’t answer, my eyes are busy scanning the street, trying to find her shadow. I know he’s here. He’s never more than twenty feet away from her at all times—and there he is. Stefan Spinelli leans against the black Escalade parked in the middle of the street, the engine still running and passenger side door open.
He’s tall with brown hair and black eyes, and he has the bloated ego that comes with being handpicked by Daniel Goretti to protect his only child. His daughter. Right now, though, that asshole looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world as he stands there, arms crossed. Laughing. At me.
Bella walks toward him and tosses the bat into the SUV’s back seat. “Nicola, Nicola, Nicola,” she taunts my name like she used to when we were younger and forced to hang out with each other, back when our fathers were friends. Back when we were friends.
It’s been ten long years since I’ve seen her, but she hasn’t changed much. Her curves are more pronounced and the ever-present man-hater persona is out and bitchier than ever. I don’t know why I’m surprised by this little stunt. She’s hated me for years, and I’m sure this thing festering between our fathers hasn’t garnered me a soft spot in that cold, frigid heart of hers. Despite our history.
“I should strangle you,” I call out after her.
“Oh yeah?” She saunters back my way. “What are you doing here? You buying something from Mickey?”
I cross my arms and scowl at her. “What would you know about Mickey and what he does, Bella?” Women are persona non grata within our affiliation, so she shouldn’t know anything at all about Mickey. “Did you get lost on your way to a tea party or something?”
Stefan stops grinning, and Bella’s expression shifts to murder.
“Run along, little girl. This is man’s business.”
Her eyes narrow to slits as she approaches the hood of my car with the knife still in her hand.
“Bella Goretti, don’t you dare!”
“Don’t I dare, what?” That innocent act isn’t fooling anyone. My jaw clenches as her arm swings up and then down, imbedding the knife in the paint and metal. She starts to carve a very impolite Italian word into the hood when a shot rings out from behind me.
I slam into the ground, hard. Bella disappears on the other side of the car, using it for cover. She’s cussing so creatively my ears would be turning red if I hadn’t just been shot at.
Asphalt digs into my skin as my eyes hurriedly scan the street. They lock onto Enzo, who is still standing on the sidewalk, pointing a gun at her.
“You idiot!” I roar, pulling myself up and barreling toward him. I yank the gun out of his hand and smack him upside the head with it.
“Ow, shit, boss!” His hand rubs the injured part of his fat head.
“Do you have a damn brain, you moron? What were you gonna do—shoot her? She’s Goretti’s daughter! You wanna start a war?”
“I know who she is,” he insists. “I wasn’t going to hit her, but what sort of bitch takes a knife to a man’s car?”
He does have a point. I turn around just as Bella pushes to her feet. She brushes the dirt from her black pants, still glaring at me. Over her shoulder, I notice Stefan has a gun trained on me.
“Put it down, Stefan,” I yell. “He’s disarmed.” I show him the gun in my palm, my finger far away from the trigger. “Bella, there seems to have been a misunderstanding,” I address the barely five-and-a-half-feet of pissed-off Italian princess.
“One that would have you fifteen blocks into territory that isn’t yours?”
“What can I say?” I give her a smirk. “I’m bad with directions.”
She rolls her eyes. “Consider this your warning. You have an hour to get someone to come tow your German piece of shit outta my neighborhood or—”
“I get it,” I cut her off with a wave of my hand.
“Good.” She walks toward Stefan and climbs into the SUV. He shuts the door behind her and flips me the bird.
“Goretti,” Enzo grouses from behind me, muttering the name with all the finesse of a curse word as they drive off.
“Yeah, this whole mess was Goretti’s fault.” I toss the gun back at him, not caring if it accidentally shoots his foot off. “Call a dam
n tow truck.”
“Okay.”
“Then go find out if Michael called her.”
“Got it, boss.”
I walk around the car, taking inventory of the damage. So, this is what I heard earlier. It seems a little harsh and unnecessary. I would have taken a verbal warning before having my car pummeled. It didn’t do anything wrong.
I check to make sure Enzo is out of sight before I lean through the nonexistent window and unlock the glove box. I carefully remove the burner phone, and tuck it into my jacket pocket for safekeeping.
“He swears it wasn’t him, boss.” Enzo comes back.
Of course he does. What junkie is going to cop to something that gets him even deeper into trouble. Whatever. It’s already been a long day; I have no desire to end it cleaning blood out of my clothes.
“What about the tow truck?”
“I know a guy. Said he’d be here in ten.”
“Good.” I roll my tight shoulders, trying to ease the strain. “Keep the bag with you.”
“Yeah. Got it.”
I pull out my phone and prepare to give my father the bad news.
“Nicola?” he answers.
“We’re going to need another supplier.”
“Why?”
“Goretti caught us. Michael will be dead before the sun sets.”
He curses, loudly, and I refrain from reminding him that I told him this would happen. “Did you get the product at least?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Are you on your way back?”
“Not exactly. Bella Goretti kinda beat the shit out of my car.” He stays silent, and curiosity gets the better of me. “Is she . . . involved?”
“There are rumors that she’s handling more for her father than just his laundry,” he admits.
Well, how do you like that?
“Send someone to come get the bag.” I glance over at Enzo talking with the tow truck driver and gesturing to my car. “I’m heading back to D.C. as soon as I can get a rental, unless you need me for something else?”
“No. That’s it, but you need to focus on this investigation, Nicola. I need something to go after.”
“I will.”
He hangs up, and I quickly delete his call from the history before creating a new text to Reagan. It’s been less then thirty hours since I left her place, but it seems like days.
