Salvatore

7. Salvatore

7

SALVATORE

You’d think being slightly winded and publicly humiliated would have an adverse effect on my dick. But it seems nothing stands in the way of my lust for this woman.

She’s a fucking tornado, the wind catching in her hair the moment she steps outside, the breeze kicking at the loose black material around her calves.

I spare a second to pull myself together, then follow her, but the brief pause of hesitation is enough to allow her to disappear.

She’s nowhere in sight as I stand at the top of the few stairs leading down to the club doors. Not along the sidewalk. Not in the growing line of people waiting to get inside.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Costa?” the bouncer asks from his podium as he checks IDs.

He should’ve received word to stop Ivy from escaping. Obviously he didn’t. Turns out Remy’s staff aren’t competent after all.

“No. There’s no problem.” I scan the block one last time, scrutinizing the shadows, checking the passing cars, then drag my ass back inside.

I return to my siblings and their insignificant others. I drink more bourbon and ignore all conversation. And while normally I’d rein in my reckless thoughts, tonight I let them run free.

I sit in silence, allowing the dark eyes and thick ebony hair of my provocateur to wreak havoc over my concentration.

She doesn’t know about Olivia and Remy.

Her best friend has been keeping secrets, and if the relationship is still under wraps, I’d bet it’s safe to assume the agreement with the unlawful disposal of bodies would be too.

Ivy may not have to die after all.

Then why does she claim to know me?

“It’s time to call it a night.” Bishop slides from the opposite side of the booth, his gaze on me as Abri follows close behind him. “I’d say it was great catching up, but I’ve had better conversations with a milk carton.”

My sister chuckles. “I don’t think we should complain about him being quiet. I prefer it to the alternative.”

I give her the bird, then turn my attention to Bishop. “I want that background check yesterday.”

“You’ll get it when it’s done.” He gives me a dismissive glance and turns his attention to Matthew. “I’ll?—

“I’m not fucking around.” I raise my voice.

“And he’s not incompetent.” Abri gives me that annoyed sister scowl she perfected in childhood. “Like he said, you’ll get it when it’s done.”

Matthew and Layla scoot around the U bend of the booth, following the others. “We’re going to make a move, too. We’re heading back to D.C. in a few hours. I need to catch some sleep before then.” My brother stands and holds out a hand to Layla, helping her to her feet. “We’ll see you again soon, Salvo. Hopefully under better circumstances.”

“I’m sure you will.” I dismiss them all with a jerk of my chin.

Abri rolls her eyes.

Matthew smirks.

What? Do they expect a fucking hug?

They pigeonholed me as the family asshole a long time ago. It takes little effort to keep the title.

I don’t bother watching them leave. I order another drink from the scan code on the table and fall back into thoughts of Ivy. Scrutinizing our conversations. Dissecting every word.

The media hasn’t painted me as a local villain yet. Despite the blood that’s been shed in Baltimore since my arrival, the lack of dead bodies—thanks to the Pelosis’ cremator—has meant that there’s been little news of our growing rivalry with the Mexican cartel.

So nobody, apart from those involved, should know enough about my role in the family business to fear me.

Yet Ivy does.

How?

Why?

The midnight rush comes and goes. Patrons begin to clear out. The music dies down. But it isn’t until my cell vibrates with an incoming call that I snap out of my mental analysis, Lorenzo’s name alight on my screen when I pull it from my pocket.

“Yeah,” I say in greeting.

“ Figlio ,” he states in a tired Italian accent. “I’ve just received a call from an officer friend of mine about a woman claiming you’re involved in the abduction of Olivia Pelosi. Is this something I need to be concerned with?”

Fucking Ivy.

She may not need to die, but if she’s not careful she’ll sign her own death warrant.

“No.” I down the last of my bourbon. “I’ll handle it.”

“You’re aware of the problem?”

Not only aware, but deeply engrained in, highly attuned to, and fucking fixated on it.

“Yes,” I grate. “I know who she is. The woman works at the funeral home and saw me driving Remy and Olivia home after the wake. She came sniffing around Smoke & Mirrors earlier?—”

“Do I have to outline the complications that may arise if the authorities?—”

“No.” I also don’t appreciate the insinuation of my idiocy. “I said I’ll handle it.”

“Good. The officer advised it’s too early to file a missing person’s report, so this is being kept between us for now. I’d prefer if it remained that way.”

“Understood.” I disconnect the call and slide from the booth, leaving the club via the underground parking lot in a new black Porsche 911 Turbo rental.

I navigate to my email inbox as I drive toward the outer suburbs near the funeral home. I pull up Ivy’s previous background check as I navigate the dark residential streets, locate her address, then add it to my GPS.

I take corners at speed and run amber lights while typing her number into a new text message.

I warned you not to cross me. You won’t get another chance.

I should’ve refrained from contacting her until I reached her door. The element of surprise and all that. But the kick of adrenaline is thick in my veins, the anticipation for another reunion making my exhaustion nonexistent.

I pull to a stop beside a moonlit three-story apartment building, the grey exterior highlighted with large bay windows and two balconies on each floor, all situated above a lower level made up of an entry foyer in the middle of three parking garages on either side.

Six apartments in total.

Ivy’s is number three.

I cut the engine and make my way to the illuminated foyer, the glass doors locked with a security panel on the right with an intercom for each apartment beside it.

I press her number, the grating buzz deafening in the silence of the night.

I wait. And wait some fucking more.

There’s nothing. No response. No seductive yet snide female voice.

I press her number again, and again, and again.

Still nothing.

I press number six, then number five. I’m about to slam all the numbers like an arcade game when a grated male voice comes through the speaker. “What the hell? Who is this?”

“I’m detective Lucas Grant. I require access to the building to do a welfare check on a resident.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning. Jesus Christ. I was asleep.”

I scowl at the security panel. “Just buzz me into the goddamn building.”

There’s a muted click of the door. Then the slam of what I assume is the guy’s phone.

I push at the handle, the glass panel opening before me. My adrenaline gains new life, the fucking thrill of unfamiliar excitement driving me up the stairs two at a time until I reach the second floor and the apartment with a tarnished gold number three on the wall.

I pound my fist against the door. “Open up, troublemaker.”

I can already picture her, hair disheveled from sleep, tits loose and nipples beading against the skimpy material of her pajamas.

I pound again. “Open the door, Ivy.”

The seconds pass like hours, my impatience for another verbal slinging match making my skin itch.

Open the goddamn fucking door.

I bang a third time, the thunderous pound rattling the nearby window at the front of the building until the only other apartment door on the floor opens and an older man in cartoon character boxers inches out.

“Is there a problem?” He squints at me, his face scrunched from sleep.

“Where’s Ivy?”

“I don’t know.” He blinks fast as if attempting to get his eyes to adjust to the light. “I didn’t hear her come in.”

“Is that normal?” Frustration bites at my tone. “Do you usually hear her? Does she tend to stay out this late?”

He yawns, exacerbating the wrinkles around his eyes. “She’s out late all the time on the weekends. And it’s not uncommon for her to come home with company.” A tight thud takes over my chest. “But she’s been in and out at different hours this week. Not going to work or following her usual habits. She mentioned something about a death and that she was spending time with friends. Maybe she’s with them.” He cocks his head, scrutinizing me. “Is she okay?”

I’m sure she is. That woman seems to be the type to constantly fall on her feet. What will happen after I get my hands on her is another question.

“For the time being.” I eye the door handle, fighting the need to break it. To snoop through her belongings. To take a silken prize or two. “But who knows what the future holds.” I return my gaze to his, finding the guy staring with concern. “If you see her, make sure she knows Salvatore stopped by.”

I make for the stairs and stride from the building.

Fifteen minutes later I’m driving past Olivia’s house, checking for the white Ford Fiesta that Ivy’s background check says she’s meant to drive.

I can’t picture her in such a basic car. Not someone who acts as if she rules the world and everyone in it.

But Ivy isn’t at Olivia’s house either.

There are no cars. No sign of life.

I check a few other places—the funeral home, the nearest police station parking lot—there’s no trace of her.

It’s less than an hour before sunrise when I drag my ass into my townhouse, my watch vibrating in response to the door motion-detector as I enter.

I grab a glass of water from the kitchen, wash down the lingering taste of stale liquor, and hunch over the counter, my hands clutching the granite as exhaustion takes hold.

I should text Remy about Ivy’s meddling. Should warn him to get his woman’s friend under control. But he’s been through enough, and he’d only deem my interference antagonistic.

At this point, perceptions are hard to break.

I’ll find Ivy soon enough. I’ll figure out what she knows and shut her down. I don’t need any help.

The faint glow of the sun begins to warm the sky when I finally kick off my shoes and crash onto the sofa. I rest my head on a cushion, close my eyes, and snarl at the vibration of an incoming text message in my pocket.

Bishop

Check your emails. You’re welcome, asshole.

I sit back up, scrub a hand over my face, and navigate to my inbox.

The latest email comes from a name I’m not familiar with, the details not forwarded from Bishop but delivered directly from his contact.

Attached is the more detailed information as requested.

The initial background check was standard protocol. There was no way to have known the contradicting history that was hidden.

If any further insight is needed, let me know.

I shove to my feet.

Contradicting history?

I stride for my office, wanting to read whatever he’s referring to on something other than a three-inch screen, and sink behind my mahogany desk to open my laptop.

The file starts out the same way it had before. Word for word.

Name: Ivy Rosa Diaz.

Address. Cell number. Work details.

It’s the sad story of a basic life. Deceased parents. No siblings.

It isn’t until I reach the third page with an Updated Information heading, that anticipation grabs me by the throat.

Name change. Emancipation. Homelessness.

A grin pulls at my lips. This woman is a fucking goody bag of surprises.

No wonder she transformed from a tempting seductress to a livid hellcat the moment she turned to face me on that dance floor.

It’s because Ivy isn’t Ivy Diaz at all.

Nor is she the only child of deceased parents.

The reality is far better than that. Not only has she been living a double life, she’s also just become someone far more interesting to fuck with.