Chapter 8 Holt
EIGHT
HOLT
“Tell me you have a handle on this, Holt.”
I stop dead in my tracks and hang my head, pinching the bridge of my nose so tightly, I think I might fracture it right down to the bone.
A sea of people continue to surround me. They check me with their shoulders and elbows, but I don’t give a shit. I’m just trying to make it through this phone call without blacking out or taking my frustration out on an innocent bystander.
“It depends on what your definition of handle is, Dad,” I grit, moving my fingers from my nose to my forehead.
“Please,” he scoffs. “Don’t be a fucking smartass.”
“I’m not, but I’ve been working all day to contain this, and you’re talking to me as if I have no clue what I’m doing or like I’m just letting this shit happen to me.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, but I’m not certain this can be contained, Holt.
It’s all the city is talking about. You and the magazine are plastered across every headline,” my father seethes.
His anger is evident through the speaker pressed to my ear, and it’s a rare sound for someone who has spent his entire forty-year political career containing scandals.
The majority of those being while he was the mayor of New York City.
Every statement and act was a strategic chess move, doing whatever it took to keep the media’s attention off the shiny object while flashing another object to distract them.
“Any situation in which our name is tied with those fucking Montgomerys needs to be shut down immediately,” he continues.
“It’s been twenty-four hours since this news broke, and that’s entirely too long.
The media has posted the article written by someone accusing Rome of holding sex parties at his multiple estates, among other details I’d rather not repeat.
This accusation will no doubt leave a bad taste in the mouths of those who’d ever want to do business with Rome.
What I don’t understand is how you could publish that piece in your magazine.
You know the Montgomerys won’t let gossip such as this just slide. ”
“It’s an anonymous column,” I explain gruffly. “I personally don’t vet every single article. The anonymous column has its own editor and staff.”
“You should have told them.”
“Seriously?” My anger ramps up, and I feel like I’m back in my office with Julianna standing in front of me again, questioning my life choices as if it’s her fucking place. I narrow my eyes at absolutely no one. “Told them what, exactly?”
“Told them not to ever mention a single Montgomery. Ever.”
The Capuleti and Montgomery rivalry goes back generations.
The exact start date is unknown, but every generation as far back as I know has been raised to never question the last. From birth, we’re told the Montgomerys are our sworn enemy—something to do with a Capuleti son being caught having an affair with a spoken for Montgomery.
As retribution, the Montgomerys gifted the Capuleti family the son’s head on a spike.
From there, the domino effect began, with a river of bloodshed following for centuries.
Or so the story has been told over the years. We’ve been told to never question it.
We don’t dare get involved with them or even attempt to cross their paths, or we’ll be exiled from our respective families or perceived as a traitor, no questions asked.
Over the years, the lines drawn between our families have weakened, and I guess you could say Julianna and I have worsened it between my attempts to cozy up to Rome and Julianna’s constant string of pranks.
I can’t blame her, though, when Rome continues the cycle, pushing Julianna to take it a step further.
A Capuleti never could let a Montgomery have the last word.
Julianna played with fire the moment she decided to entertain Rome’s interventions and teasing. I danced in it the second I convinced myself we could fix a centuries-old rivalry just by simply playing nice.
What a fucking joke. My ancestors would be rolling over in their grave if they saw us now.
I tilt my head back and squeeze my eyes shut. Dusk has set in across the city. The sunlight is nearly gone.
“I’m not going to tell my staff to avoid publishing the Montgomery name over a stupid family rivalry.”
“Tell that to the countless lives lost and blood spilled at the hands of that family over the years,” my father hisses. “Our family rivalry isn’t a joke, Holt.”
I open my mouth to point out that the Capuletis are just as guilty as the Montgomerys but stop myself. There’s no point. There never is a fucking point. Instead, I settle on muttering, “I understand.”
“Good.”
“I have one more question.” I blow out a heavy breath. I’ve debated having this talk with him, but curiosity gets the better of me. I should drop it, but I’ve never been very good at listening to the rational part of my brain.
“Always,” he says confidently. “You can always talk to me.”
“Okay.” I inhale a deep breath. “About Mom’s death—”
“That’s not a question, Holt,” he interjects quickly. A little too quickly. “But what is it?”
“I know it was a long time ago, but something never sat right with me about it.” I swallow around the lump in my throat. Suddenly, I’m nervous. “I remember the police saying it was a common type of death. A random shooting on the subway, but—"
“But nothing, Holt,” he clips, his voice hardening.
“We’ve been over this a million times. There’s no reason to go down this rabbit hole.
I was almost certain it had to do with the Montgomerys, but the police did their investigation.
Some random drug addict or criminal decided to cut your mother’s life short for absolutely no reason.
While I have the urge to question it myself sometimes, I don’t. That’s all there is to it. Understand?”
I rake a hand through my hair and hang my head, looking down at the pavement beneath my feet. Honestly, I’m not even sure I have the bandwidth to argue with my father at the moment. We’ve been through this conversation before, and we always end up circling back to the beginning.
Unlike him, I don’t think the Montgomerys had a hand in her death. They hate us, but I don’t think they would stoop that low.
I’m exhausted, and I only have myself to blame. This is all my doing. In truth, there’s only one thing I know will make this feeling go away, and it sure as fuck isn’t talking to my dad.
Especially when he convinces me to believe that my mother’s murder was random.
I can only tackle so many battles at once. I don’t have enough fucking weapons to fight this one.
“Understood, Holt?” my father presses.
I hesitate but ultimately decide to give in. For now. “Understood.”
Honestly, my mind isn’t completely in this conversation with him anyway.
It’s on someone else. While I’ve been tackling the lawsuit and Julianna’s surprise visit to my office all day, plus this random thought about my mother’s murder, I’ve been doing it all with only half a mind.
My thoughts are too tangled up in a green-eyed wallflower.
It’s as if kissing her has opened the floodgates. I surrender to the current, allowing the torrent of waves to whisk me away. The feelings I’ve kept bottled inside have exploded, Selene’s luscious lips the key to the lock.
“Listen, Dad,” I blurt out. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wait!” he calls out before I pull my phone away. “I can tell you’re pissed at your circumstances, but I didn’t call you to criticize you for what you’ve done in the hours after this media leak about the lawsuit.”
“No?” I bite back a bitter laugh. “I couldn’t tell.”
“No,” my father huffs. “While the lawsuit seems to be the main story, there’s an emerging story coming out about what happened at the charity auction last night with Selene.”
“Seriously?” I ignore the way my pulse skips a beat at the mention of Selene.
“Yeah.” I can practically hear the hope in my father’s voice. “It seems the public has more interest in this mystery woman that caused you to break the rules than the lawsuit.”
Wow. Sounds like Treena was right.
Rome’s lawsuit has been overshadowed by me kissing Selene on stage at the auction.
“Not sure how you’re going to work this out, considering she’s your sister’s close friend.”
“I’ll figure it out,” I tell him, wanting to end this conversation right fucking now.
She’s more than Julianna’s close friend. She’s her best friend—one Julianna hasn’t stopped telling me, practically begging me, to stay away from.
“Talk to her. Maybe take her out just the—"
“Dad, I said I’ll handle it. I’ll talk to you later and update you about the lawsuit.” I hang up before he has the chance to steer the conversation back to our family rivalry or drudge up any more mistakes I’ve made in my past.
Fuck, what is it with Julianna and my father today?
I don’t need either their help or advice, especially when it comes to Selene. Because the truth is, I don’t need a fucking new storyline to use as an excuse to get close to her.
Truth is, this is what I’ve always wanted. I’ve just been too deep in my own shit to make a move. But I made mine last night, and now there’s no going back, no matter how much Julianna likes to keep me drowning in the past.
I’ve never let Julianna’s nagging get to me, but for some reason, I let her today.
I’m impulsive, I know. It’s been both a strength and a weakness throughout my lifetime—an attribute I’ve learned to live with—but I’m probably allowing her nagging to get to me because she’s sticking her nose into my love life as if I have one.
Truly, I can’t blame her. After what happened with Rebecca, I understand her fear, but that shit bothers me.
It’s been eleven years. I was still a kid back then, and there’s so much she doesn’t know.
I’ve protected her from hearing the truth about that day she claims I destroyed Rebecca Henry’s life.
But she wasn’t the only one hurt that night.
I tried to mend things with Rebecca, but it’s difficult when the person you’re trying to help wants nothing more to do with you.
So, I let it go, just as she had. That still didn’t stop me from making sure Rebecca was living the life she deserved.
Several years ago, I searched for her on Instagram and raked through a profile filled with images of her wedding day, the birth of her first child, then her second. The most recent pictures at the time were family pictures she’d had taken at the beach, drenched in sunlight and love.
I hardly destroyed Rebecca’s life.
Frustration over the past three days is still blistering beneath my skin when my phone vibrates in my hand, and I read the message bubble.
Cory Editorial Writer: At the docks now. I’m scoping out who to talk to first, keeping an ear out for anything that might give me a lead or hint at where to start.
Holt: Thank you for doing this for me. If it wasn’t for this fucking lawsuit with my name and face plastered all over the news, I would have gone myself.
Cory Editorial Writer: I know you would, Boss. But don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.
Holt: Thanks. Be sure not to use your real name, and don’t let anyone see where you’re headed when you leave.
Cory Editorial Writer: Roger, Capuleti. I’ll report back when I have any new information.
I shake my head as I drop my phone back into my pocket and shove down the sinking feeling in my stomach.
Cory, my youngest editorial staff writer, is tracking down a lead on Rhys O’Connell’s ties to Boston.
I considered talking to West about what Heath said the night he’d risen back from the dead and confessed why he’d faked his own death but thought better of it.
West is one of my best friends, and I think the second death of his brother is still too fresh for me to start asking personal questions such as those.
Julianna’s warning earlier still rings in my ears.
My sister may be dramatic about my track record of destroying women, but she isn’t being dramatic when she’s warning me about following this story on the O’Connells.
But I can’t tell her about this gut feeling I’ve been having.
About how hearing the O’Connells name hasn’t just spurred on this sudden need for a story on the Irish mafia.
There’s an itch in the back of my brain telling me there’s a connection to my mother’s death. I know I heard it that night.
City air fills my lungs as I take a deep breath and run my hands across the front of my suit before smoothing my palm over my hair and brushing off any thoughts of work or Rhys O’Connell.
My foot meets the crosswalk, but the breath is knocked from my lungs before I’ve taken another step when, through the glass window facing the street, I see her.
Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail—one I immediately want wrapped around my fist. Her sage green yoga pants leave nothing to the imagination when it comes to her full, tight ass.
Six inches of bare skin is exposed between the top of her leggings and her matching sports bra.
She adjusts the top of her leggings before bending over to stretch, touching her toes.
Fuck. Me.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her since kissing her.
I’ve kissed plenty of women, but seeing Selene now, knowing her lips have been pressed against mine stirs a new sensation in my gut.
There’s a raging firestorm burning through my veins that shoots straight to my dick but also to the left side of my chest. I massage the delightful pain away, having never felt anything like it.
Well, shit. This is new.
She turns her head, glancing out at the busy street.
It’s crazy how she can take a yoga class with thousands of people walking past. The thought of others seeing her in multiple contorting positions, ones that have her ass on full display, sets me on edge.
I’m in no position to be jealous of strangers.
Her eyes sparkle through the clear glass.
The last bit of orange sun peeking from between the buildings shines across her soft, gorgeous face.
I want to reach out and touch it. I want to feel the way I felt last night with my skin on hers, lighting a match inside my dark chest that’s felt empty, hollow and, at times, robotic.
I feel like I’ve woken up after discovering I’ve been in a deep sleep my entire fucking life.
Ignoring the searing sensation spreading across my chest, burning me from the inside out, I take another step and, for the first time today, I’m looking forward to what I’m about to walk into.