Salvatore

6. Salvatore

6

SALVATORE

I walk along the footpath bordering the funeral home, unable to wipe the Ivy-inspired grin from my face as I click Matthew’s fob incessantly.

It isn’t until I reach the back of the building that the lights of a glossy Rolls Royce flash at me from beside the funeral home hearse. I’m halfway to the driver’s door when bleating sobs and hiccupped cries carry from the far side of the building.

I pause, my grin fading as Remy carries a blubbering Olivia into view, the stark pain in his features cutting off any insults I would’ve normally thrown his way.

Our father died, and Remy never once looked like this.

Our mother instigated the harshest of atrocities, yet this is the first time I’ve seen him utterly devastated.

I continue to the car and open the rear door for them, keeping my mouth shut as he settles them both in the back seat.

I don’t taunt him for the obvious display of weakness toward the woman. I don’t make fun of him for curling her into his side and murmuring sweet nothings in her ear as she cries uncontrollably, even though I’m tempted.

I may not understand the affection he’s giving—I guess I’m the only sibling who lacks an addiction to companionship—but I was aware of Remy’s temperamental state well before Abri felt the need to tell me about it.

He’s lost two people he cared about this year—Carlo and a teenage boy he took in from the streets and treated like a brother. Two people who seemed to fill the hole in him that our parents had carved.

Yet all his grief has shown me is the bitter divide between us.

We’re not the same. Not even close.

I’m unlike my siblings.

Remy was the baby. Abri was the beauty. And for almost two decades Matthew was the heir.

There was no predefined role for me. I wasn’t one of the perfect puzzle pieces that fit our family unit. No, I was the dust that collected in the corners of the discarded box. The spare to the heir, only seen or heard when I grew bored of being ignored and decided to cause trouble.

I was nothing.

Of no benefit.

Entirely useless.

Until Matthew ran away from home, and all those nights spent wishing I had even a glimmer of my parents’ attention came back to bite me on the fucking ass.

I drive slowly past the side of the funeral home, hoping to allow those in the wake room time to catch a glimpse of the guest of honor leaving, while also indulging in another quick glance at my troublemaker in the courtyard.

She remains on the park bench, sitting tall as she dabs under her eyes with a tissue.

As if sensing my stare, her focus turns my way, her hardening gaze having the same unnerving effect on my dick as the first night we met. She glances away almost violently in dismissal, her scrutiny straying to the back seat.

My pulse thunders as her face falls.

The shock of seeing her friend in my car is like a checkmate in a game of chess I hadn’t known I’d been playing.

Her eyes widen. She shoves to her feet, all the while I’m smirking like a fucking circus clown as I inch my foot down on the accelerator, never having felt this invigorated while also theorizing whether I’m certifiable or not for my reaction to a grieving woman at a funeral.

Ten hours later, I’m still stuck mulling over my response as I’m held hostage by two of my siblings in a VIP booth at Remy’s nightclub.

Apparently us all being in the same city at the same time means I’m obligated to spend time with them, even though they make no effort to hide their judgment of me.

How I’m the black sheep.

How I’m emotionally stunted.

How I’ve been voted Most Likely to Ruin All Their Lives due to whatever clinical diagnosis they want to label me with this week.

“Has anyone heard from Remy?” Matthew asks over the club music as he weaves an arm around Layla’s shoulders in the closest corner of the booth.

“He messaged a while ago and said he and Olivia are both doing okay.” Abri takes a sip from her wineglass, a sly smile on her face as Bishop whispers something in her ear I’m sure would produce projectile vomit if I was unlucky enough to overhear. “They seem to be a good fit, don’t you think?”

I keep my mouth shut and let the conversation continue without me.

I’m not in the club mood, especially when the atmosphere smothers me with memories of a deity molded against me on the dance floor, her phenomenal body swaying to the music, her mouth against mine, only for her to stiffen to the point of breaking when she saw my face for the first time.

Ivy fucking knows something.

Most women I’ve met part their thighs at the mere sense of danger. But she didn’t just sense it—she understood it. It was as if she had a 3D, technicolor view of who I am and what I stand for.

She couldn’t have obtained that insight from anyone other than Olivia. Insight that will no doubt lead to her death.

Given what’s on the line, I should’ve made looking into her a priority. Yes, I’ve been distracted while taking over my baby brother’s responsibilities and ensuring he wasn’t sent to an early grave. But I’d also found the time to travel to Virginia Beach to see my mother. The ninety-minute helicopter flight was eighty-eight minutes longer than I’d have needed to text Bishop to do a more thorough background check on the woman straddling my mind.

Ivy’s a liability.

One that can’t be excused just because of a sultry face and a phenomenal set of curves.

“I need you to do some digging.” I stare at Bishop across the booth, his lust-filled attention leaving my sister and glowering back at me with annoyance.

“I didn’t come to Baltimore to work.” He slides his arm under the table, no doubt gliding a hand over Abri’s thigh, or somewhere else more bile-inducing.

“Given what happened at the wake,” I drawl, “I’d say old habits die hard.”

Apparently, Bishop had been in the bathroom with Remy, eagerly egging my brother into killing a man who’d threatened Olivia. What would he do if he knew my brother’s latest obsession may have blabbed our family secrets to the world?

“What am I digging for?” he growls.

“Information.”

His glower increases with impatience.

“On a woman,” I clarify, taking a mouthful of bourbon from my rocks glass. “The name’s Ivy Diaz.”

His eyes narrow. “Why does that name ring a bell?”

“Because you already arranged a background check on her before we went into business with Carlo Pelosi.”

“So why the fuck am I doing it again?”

“You did an obligatory check. This time I need something thorough.”

“Was this the woman you kept eyeballing during the funeral?” my sister asks.

Of course she paid attention. Abri could be medically comatose and still notice if me or my brothers glanced at a member of the opposite sex for longer than she deemed casual.

“Yes,” I mutter around another swallow of bourbon.

“Who is she?” she asks.

I scowl at her. “Obviously, that’s what I’m trying to ascertain.”

“What are you looking for exactly?” Matthew cuts in.

A reason not to kill her .

“I don’t know.” I take out my cell and scan the code on the table, hiding the cloying need for information behind the laid-back task. “Something other than the bullshit story I was originally given. There’s gotta be more to her than what was in her file.”

“Why?” Bishop demands.

“Because she knows me, and she shouldn’t. She has inside knowledge and I need to understand how she got it.”

They all look at me in confusion—Matthew and Layla. Bishop and Abri—until finally Layla’s face slackens. “You think Olivia told her about the agreement?”

Abri’s eyes widen.

Matthew’s jaw tenses.

Bishop continues to glower.

“It’s a possibility.” I tap my phone screen, downplaying the threat as I order the same drinks we’ve received three times already.

Matthew drags a rough hand through his hair. “ Fuck. ”

“I’ve got it under control.” I lock my cell and slide it back into my pocket. “I’ll handle?—”

“Forgive me, brother,” Abri sneers, “But having the fate of the woman Remy loves in the hands of my most unforgiving sibling doesn’t really fill me with a giddy sense of relief. Maybe Matthew and Bishop should handle this.”

I smile, all teeth and no charm. “Although your lack of faith in me cuts deep, what’s more concerning is your inability to understand that I’m now in control. Matthew and Bishop took a step back from the family business. They work for me now.”

“What’s fucking concerning is that you think controlling the family business also means controlling the family—” She slams her palms down on the table, threatening to stand. “—But the day you control me is the day I stab a fork through your eye socket and lobotomize your dumb ass. Do you hear me?”

I roll my eyes as I down the final dregs of my bourbon.

“You think I’m joking?” Her manicured nails dig into the polished wood. “I’ll fuck you up, Salvatore.”

I don’t doubt she’d try.

“He’s baiting you,” Matthew drawls. “He’s not going to do anything without proof.” The look my once-estranged brother gives me is lethal. “The woman could know you for a million reasons.”

“I’m well aware of that.” I incline my head. “That’s why all I asked for was a fucking background check. I’m not the one jumping to conclusions.” Not out loud anyway. “Just get me the information and pretend everything is as it should be until we’re fully informed.”

“Sure thing, boss. ” Bishop claps his glass down on the table harder than necessary, then reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out his cell. “I’ll text my contact and make sure he does a thorough check this time.”

Abri’s glare doesn’t waver. Layla glances between us as if she’s watching a tennis match. And Matthew and Bishop stare at each other as if they hold some sort of telepathic bond, their silent conversation hidden from the rest of us.

“Let me know as soon as you have the information.” I scoot my ass out of the booth, needing a breather from their judgment.

“Where are you going?” Abri demands.

“Wherever the fuck I want.” I walk for the VIP bar, taking a detour to the bathrooms along the way.

It’s not like I had a choice in being the heartless asshole of the sibling quartet.

It wasn’t safe to indulge in a bond with my brothers and sister after Matthew ran away and left me to take pole position as my father’s protege.

I stop before the bar where the male mixologists are making quick work of orders as leggy waitresses stand ready with poised trays. I turn my back to them, leaning an elbow against the counter as I focus on the path leading to the dance floor.

Women gossip and giggle. Men loiter close to the VIP entry, no doubt hoping to score a crumb of attention.

I’ve never been one to seek female interest. At least not for anything other than a quick fuck. Last weekend with Ivy had been an anomaly.

Maybe it was because I’d been so fucking tired of watching Remy like a hawk as he snuck around behind my back, trying—and failing—to hide his infatuation with Olivia. Or how the cartel had put a hit on him without even considering how I would retaliate. Or the fact that Lorenzo had shut me down from taking action against our enemies, despite how fucking weak it makes us look.

I’d wanted to release some of my pent-up hostility on an unknowing victim.

Then I’d caught sight of her at the bar and succumbed to the need for a different sort of indulgence.

She’d demanded my attention by merely existing—the way she held herself, the confidence, the goddamn sex appeal.

Not many women can pull off being a walking, talking ball-buster without seeming like a feminist Nazi, but she sure as fuck made it look easy.

“ Don’t touch me .”

The far-off female cry draws my attention to the VIP entry where the bulky bouncer sidesteps back and forth, blocking the view of whatever female is attempting to gain entry.

“ I need to see him ,” the shielded woman shrieks, the shrewd voice oddly familiar despite the heavy club music.

I squint at the scene, at how other men approach in a show of solidarity, all of them seeming to argue in the woman’s favor as she remains out of view behind the bouncer.

“Another wannabe trying to gain access?” a waitress asks as she rounds the bar with a tray laden with champagne flutes.

I ignore her as I wait for that first illusive glimpse of whoever is causing the scene. Normally I wouldn’t bat an eye at club drama. Remy’s staff know how to diffuse a situation.

But there’s something inching its hooks into me, demanding I pay attention. A sixth sense that ding, ding, dings like I’m a winner at the state fair when the woman in question attempts to dart past the bouncer, her dark hair wild and ragged around her face as the man stops her entry with a bear hug from behind, hauling her off her feet.

Miss Ivy Diaz. What a fucking pleasure.

She’s still wearing the black dress from the funeral, her makeup faded but no less flawless.

“ Salvatore ,” she screams, her eyes pinning me at the bar. “ Where is she ? What the hell have you done with her ?”

I relax farther into the counter, every inch of me vibrating with an odd sense of achievement despite having played no hand in whatever manic episode she’s currently raw-dogging.

It’s a fucking sight to behold—her black nails digging into the bouncer’s forearm, her shrewd gaze a mix of fury and desperation.

I’m not going to lie, it sends her fuck-ability index skyrocketing. If she’s not careful I’ll become invested in trying to tame her.

“Your order, Mr. Costa,” the bartender announces over my shoulder.

I shoot him a cursory glance, the action more automated than intentional, and find a woman sidling up beside me with five drinks set out on her tray and an expectant look on her face.

“Table fifteen, sir?” She beams.

I grab my bourbon off the tray and jerk my chin, indicating for her to continue to the table without me as I return my attention to Ivy… only to find her gone.

I stand taller, my pulse kicking up a notch. I scan the dispersing crowd in search of her.

Where the fuck did you go?

I down my drink and slide the empty glass onto the bar. I stalk to the entry of the VIP section, despising the thought of having to frolic amongst the mass populous like all the other vapid club patrons.

“Where is she?” I demand of the bouncer.

He turns to me with a scowl until recognition dawns. “The crazy one, sir?”

“No, the flawless one you carelessly placed hands on. The one you will never touch again, understood?”

He blinks, taking slow seconds to recalibrate his thinking. “Of course, sir. But she didn’t have a wrist band and was acting like?—”

“Where is she?”

“Um.” He snaps his attention to the mass of patrons dancing and drinking in the main club area. “She mentioned something about going to the cops, but I’m sure she’s all bark.”

Like hell she is.

That whirlwind will be at the nearest police station in record time if I don’t find her.

“Get in the earpiece of whoever is running the front door.” I stalk toward the exit. “Make sure she doesn’t leave.”

I don’t wait for a response. I shoulder past people, making my way from the main part of the club to the entry hall.

My pulse kicks at the sight of her about to escape past the front doors, her stride adamant, her shoulders war-ready.

“Ivy,” I call over the music.

She stops dead in her tracks and turns to face me, fierce, wild, intoxicating.

There’s something about her hatred that has the ability to double-fist my balls in the most pleasurable way.

I normally wouldn’t paint myself as a masochist, but here I stand, fucking eager to claim more of her wrath.

“Leaving so soon?” I drawl.

She storms toward me, a violent hurricane of malice. “ Where’s Olivia ?”

This time I actually attempt not to taunt her with a grin. I fight the urge for a solid three seconds, but the curve of lips wins out. “You might want to tone down the crazy and tell your facial expressions to use their inside voice. It’s not helping your cause.”

“You haven’t glimpsed crazy yet.” She steps up to me, her chin tilted slightly to meet my height. “And I’m not sure where you got the impression that messing with me is a good idea. But it’s safer to fuck around in traffic than it is to fuck around with me, ninito .”

Ninito?

I don’t need a translation or even knowledge of what language she’s used to become more infatuated. This queen has her hands all over my libido, notching me higher with every interaction.

“Where’s Olivia?” she demands.

“She’s safe.”

“ Bullshit . Where did you take her? Why did you take her?”

“I was merely the chauffeur. This has nothing to do with me.”

Her eyes narrow, her dark irises scrutinizing as a couple passes us on their way into the club. “She was in your car. Crying . If you think for one second that I won’t go to the cops?—”

I step into her, making her stumble in retreat, backing her into the velvet wallpaper of the entry hall. “Have you ever threatened someone like me before, Ivy? Because you’re inching so fucking close to being in my crosshairs and once you’re there, you’ll never get out. I can promise you that.”

“The day I give a frick-frack-paddy-whack-good-goddamn fuck about your crosshairs is the same day I tango barefoot through a cactus field with a smile on my face. Olivia is all I have. Intimidation won’t make me give up on her,” she says with conviction, with such pure adamance, her chest puffed, that I fucking believe her.

Maybe she’s crazy after all.

And I’m equally certifiable for craving more.

“Where is she?” Her scowl deepens, her hatred for me so thick and rich I can almost taste it. But there’s fear too. The slightest hint of chaotic panic in her midnight eyes.

I’m tempted to run my hand through her thick hair, to fist the long lengths and command her to my will by mere fingers through long strands.

I lean toward her ear, the faint scent of a fading perfume bleeding into my lungs. “What will I get in return for such valuable information?”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she stiffens further, her spine a rigid branch. Her deep swallow draws my attention, her slender throat the perfect handrail. Her breaths deepen, her chest rising and falling under my gaze.

If I wasn’t paying attention I could have mistaken her response to my proximity for fear. It’s the sheen of goose bumps across the tops of her breasts and the slight hint of hardened nipples beneath the funeral dress that cement her insanity.

She fucking wants me.

“I have nothing to give you,” she grates.

“We both know that’s a lie.” My head screams with the need to unravel her. To figure her out. To determine why there’s attraction when there should be nothing more than trepidation. “A few minutes between your thighs would be payment enough.”

“A few minutes?” she scoffs. “You could at least pretend to have game.”

Always with the comebacks.

I should be offended. Annoyed. Enraged.

My dick feels none of those things.

I raise my gaze to hers. “A few seconds, a few minutes, a few hours…” I lean closer, our noses almost touching. “It wouldn’t matter. Once you climbed into my bed, I’d make sure you didn’t want to leave.”

She swallows again. Hard. Telling.

I feel her want. It courses right through me.

“And I’m sure the restraints would ensure I couldn’t,” she drawls and shoves at my chest, forcing me backward. “Now as delightful as it would be to have you break my back like a glow stick, I’m going to let you save that privilege, along with the STDs, for someone else.” She slides out from the wall. “Where’s Olivia?”

I snicker.

This fucking woman is made for me.

“She’s with my brother,” I admit. After all the enjoyment she’s given me she deserves a payoff.

“Why?” Her face loses its rigidity as fear enters her features. “What does he want with her? Is she hurt? Is she alive ?”

“She’s fine. You need to quit worry?—”

“Why take her?” she cuts me off. “Is this about me?”

“About you? Because of last weekend?” I raise a condescending brow. Does she really think her friend was abducted because she didn’t fuck me?

“I know you. I’m sure you’ve done far worse to women who’ve turned down your advances.”

She knows me ? Charming.

“Either tell me where she is or I’ll get the police involved.” She puffs out her chest, a defiant, flawless warrior. “I don’t care who you’ve got in your pockets. I’ll find someone to help me. I won’t stop until she’s found.”

The threat shouldn’t antagonize me. Normally it wouldn’t. But given the number of bodies my brother has recently cremated at the Pelosi Funeral Home, I don’t want to bring any unwanted attention to the best form of evidence disposal the mafia has ever held.

“I suggest you don’t do that.” I slide my hands into my pockets to stop from grabbing her.

She volleys with an I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think look. “This isn’t a negotiation.” She throws her arms out at her side with a sad smile and retreats. “Liv is all I have. I’ll find her, or I’ll die trying.” She spins on her heel and continues toward the open front doors.

I grab for her again. Just like at the funeral home. I mindlessly pull her against me, her back to my chest, her ass to my simping cock.

A breath hisses from her, but her hips don’t tilt away from my dick. She remains in my hold, not fighting, not protesting. Just stock-still and smelling like heaven.

“Give her until morning,” I growl through the painful need to taste her. To fucking lean in and drag my nose along the sensitive skin of her neck. “Your friend will return in one piece… as long as you stay away from the cops.”

She’s so fucking warm.

Soft.

Pliable.

God, how I want to breathe her in. I’m about to succumb. To lean in and indulge when all the air is wrenched from my lungs with her elbow landing a brutal strike to my gut.

I hunch, my hands loosening on her.

“Save your threats for someone with functioning self-preservation.” She strides away with a flawlessly confident sway to her hips. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find her, even if it means making an enemy of you.”