Salvatore

9. Ivy

9

IVY

Even if I was tripping on acid while stuck in a Godfather movie marathon, never would I have imagined that I’d be spending the middle of a delightful June day in the sports car of a drug lord less than twenty-four hours after my boss’s funeral where my best friend was abducted.

But here I am.

In Salvatore Costa’s Porsche.

Being driven God knows where, to be told God knows what.

All because he said something that implied something that might not even mean anything at all.

Obviously, sliding into his car was a bad idea. But I went willingly in the hopes my compliance would buy me brownie points and some extra time to figure out what’s happening with Liv.

It’s not like I actually feel in danger.

Not entirely, anyway.

Despite the intimidation, there’s something about him that’s non-threatening.

Given past experience, I can typically tell when shit is about to turn south, and although I’m paranoid about what he might know, I don’t feel like my death is imminent.

Then again, maybe I’ve reached the height of psychosis. Carlo’s death probably triggered some sort of breakdown. I could be mid-mental collapse, straddling the line between reality and being completely balls-to-the-walls crazy.

“So, where’s this place of yours?” I ask, hoping for a clue to what my future holds. If we’re headed toward an industrial area or a construction site where I could disappear under tons of concrete, a girl might just start to hyperventilate.

“I have a townhouse near the harbor. It won’t take long to get there.” He pulls the car to a stop at a set of traffic lights.

I glance at the old Dodge beside us, the elderly driver taking in my sporty ride as if he knows the owner has a tiny dick. I wait until his eyes reach mine, then finger-wave with a smile.

“For someone who eagerly rejects men, you sure like to flirt,” Salvatore drawls.

“I’m not flirting.” I keep smiling at the old-timer who beams back at me. “I’m trying to make my last whereabouts known in case my face winds up on a milk carton.”

“Then maybe pick someone young enough to still have working memory.”

I roll my eyes as the light turns green, then I’m thrust back against the chair when Salvatore accelerates in a rush of horsepower. He breaks the speed limit in seconds, the noisy rev of the engine fueling my pulse for one block, then two, until eventually the car stops at another set of traffic lights, and he blasts the horn.

“Is that enough attention for you?” he asks.

I stare out my side window—at the kid holding his mother’s hand as they wait to cross the street, at the people in cars on the adjoining roads, all of them gawking at us.

“I guess so.” Is Salvatore Costa attempting to alleviate my concerns?

The light turns green and this time he takes off at a normal pace, as if allowing our audience to get a good look.

“You know witnesses can go missing too, right?” he asks conversationally.

Ah, okay. So this isn’t him alleviating anything. It’s him on a power trip. He wants me to know just how high above the law he thinks he is. How many people he’s willing to kill to keep his villainous lifestyle.

How delightful.

I open my mouth, about to tell him how charming his insight is, when my cell vibrates in my hand. Liv is illuminated on the screen.

I dump my coffee in the cup holder and rush to connect the call, anxiety and relief tag-teaming me. “Liv?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t handle the wake yesterday so I left, but I didn’t take my cell. I should’ve called?—”

“It’s okay.” It’s seriously not okay, because now this impromptu trip in a murderer’s car is all for nothing. “Where are you?”

“At work. I wanted to take care of?—”

“Are you safe?” I cut her off.

“Yes. And I’m doing well. Are you okay?”

Physically? Yes. But mentally? I have a feeling whatever’s in store will have me munching on antipsychotics for the unforeseeable future. “Yeah. I’m good. I just?—”

“That’s enough,” Salvatore warns.

I stiffen, not expecting him to open his mouth and expose our secret field trip.

“Ive?” Liv hedges. “Are you with someone?”

I glare at my idiotic driver. “No one important.”

There’s a rustle over the line, like Liv’s covering the mouthpiece. She murmurs undecipherable words to someone, then says, “Ivy, tell me who you’re with.”

“She’s with a friend,” Salvatore responds.

“What the fuck, Salvo?” A man’s voice carries through the phone.

Who the hell is that?

Salvatore snatches the cell from my hand and raises it to his mouth. “There’s no need to worry,” he says in a taunting voice. “She’s in good hands. We just have a few things to discuss, like her fake name, and why someone with her lineage would be stupid enough to frequent Smoke & Mirrors.”

All sense of hope flees my system.

Well, not so much for Liv, because before she became worried about my companion, she seemed safe. Confident. Apologetic. But it’s now clear Salvatore’s bella reference wasn’t coincidental.

“What fake name?” Liv pleads. “What lineage?”

“Those are questions you can ask once I’m done with her. Until then, you two need to stay out of it. I’m handling the situation with mi bella reina , and I won’t tolerate being interrupted.”

I wish I could scoff, but I’m too numb as he disconnects the call, severing whatever hope I had of returning to the happy life I’d fought hard to carve for myself.

“Turn your phone off.” He holds out the cell for me to take, yet my hands won’t move. I’m numb. Entirely hollow.

I’ve spent years distancing myself from my past. I’ve survived homelessness, poverty, and isolation. I’ve overcome it all and made friends. I’ve cultivated a new family. Maybe not one born from blood, but our ties are just as deep… At least they were.

God only knows what Olivia and Allison will think of me when they learn the truth.

“Turn it off.” Salvatore dumps the phone in my lap and clasps the steering wheel, ignorant to the devastation he’s created or possibly just not giving a shit.

I do as he asks, navigating the cell buttons with numb fingers.

“You’re awfully quiet for someone whose concealed identity has just been unveiled.” He shoots me a smug look.

I raise my chin, fighting the urge to claw at his handsome face. “And you use a lot of three-syllable words for someone who looks like he doesn’t read beyond a fifth-grade level.”

He returns his attention to the road, humor shifting his lips.

I hate that he finds my insults amusing. I hate it so much I’m tempted to release my belt and swan dive out of this moving vehicle. Problem is, I know he’d follow, and I don’t have the resources to run. I barely have enough to hide.

I may have overcome poverty, but I still have to penny pinch. My bank account lacks the necessary zeros to flee the mafia.

I gnaw on my bottom lip, trying to convince myself there’s some fairy tale way to get out of this while Salvatore takes us to a wealthy suburb on the harbor, then pulls into a drive with looming steel gates before a two-story townhouse.

He reaches for the center console and finds a remote. Seconds later, those overbearing gates part and I’m being escorted into his lair.

A lone man stands in wait at the front door, suit-clad, face blank. It’s the first sign of security I’ve seen for the underworld criminal. But the lone soldier doesn’t acknowledge our arrival. He doesn’t even move.

Salvatore parks sideways across the two parking bays before a flowering hedge at the front of the building and cuts the engine.

“Wow,” I muse. “I hope you don’t fuck like you park otherwise you’d never get it in.”

I’m gifted with another conniving curve of lips, the sight making my stomach clench.

“Would you like me to ease your concerns with a demonstration, mi bella reina ?” There he goes with that antagonistic endearment again, not in his ancestral language, but mine.

My beautiful queen.

What an asshole .

“I’m good.” I smile. “When you spend big bucks on designer lipstick you tend not to waste it on fuck boys.”

It’s probably the worst retort I’ve ever given—one, because I haven’t applied lipstick since yesterday morning, and two, I haven’t had anything designer since my father ruled my life. But I’m not going to waste a good opportunity to put Salvatore in his place.

He releases his belt and turns to me. “I bet I could change your mind.”

“I bet you could too. All it would take is a lobotomy.”

That tempting mouth kicks upward, all untarnished ego and overflowing confidence. I fucking hate how attractive he is.

He climbs from the Porsche, not waiting for me to follow.

“Damn you.” I shove my cell beneath my bra strap, take a mouthful of necessary caffeine, then leave the takeaway cup to litter his car and follow after him.

He’s already disappeared inside by the time I reach the lean, middle-aged man standing under his brick-enclosed stoop, his white polo shirtsleeves threatening to cut off circulation to his muscled arms.

“You wouldn’t feel like opening the front gate and letting me skedaddle out by any chance, would you?” I ask.

He ignores me, keeping his gaze straight ahead, his posture statuesque like he’s auditioning for the King’s Guard.

“Good chat.” I continue inside the townhouse, the marble tile polished beneath my black pumps, the air smelling clean and surprisingly homey.

Salvatore stands in wait before an open door a few feet down the hall. “I have something for you.” He indicates for me to walk inside.

“Your torture chamber?” I ask as I approach.

“My office.”

I raise a brow and turn on my heel to enter a brightly lit room, the sun streaming in from a large arched window unmarred by curtains or blinds. Floor-to-ceiling dark wood bookshelves line the walls to my left and right, each shelf filled with perfectly aligned paperbacks.

“You know, in some cultures it would be considered sacrilegious to have so many books while lacking the education to read them.” I flick him a two-second stare over my shoulder then turn my attention to his desk, the large slab of mahogany entirely bare except for the closed black Mac and a small stack of pages sitting neatly to one side.

“That’s rich coming from someone who quit school before junior year.” He moves to stand inside the doorframe, one shoulder leaning against the jamb.

My face heats, his ability to insult evidently far better than mine.

“The papers on my desk are for you,” he adds. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Let me know if you need help with any of the big words.”

I grind my teeth, determined to keep my expression neutral as he blocks my escape for a heartbeat, then two, until finally he walks from view, the clap of his shoes trekking down the hall.

I wait more pain-filled seconds before expelling the congealed air in my lungs. I’m in so much trouble. Probably far more than I experienced as a teen, and that’s saying something.

I inch toward the desk, throat hoarse as I stare down at the top page of the document, the first line creating an ache in my chest.

Name: Ivy Rosa Diaz .

Those three words have done so much for me. Granted me freedom. Inspired my confidence. They kept me safe for years and allowed me to live a life I wasn’t born to have.

I scour the additional information— address, family history, education —all the details I curated at the age of sixteen to separate me from the hell of my past. It’s all printed in black and white. Times New Roman. Bullet points.

Such simplicity.

I fold back the first page to find details of the life I’ve lived for over ten years. The car I drive. My employment history.

It’s what’s stated on the third page that makes my eyes heat and vision blur.

Name: Isabella Rosa Rodriguez.

I drag in a breath, my past swallowing me whole.

Mother: Valentina Rodriguez (nee Valentina Morales).

Father: Gabriel Rodriguez (current leader of the Baltimore faction of the Mexican cartel).

My stomach bottoms.

My father got a promotion. I guess congratulations are in order. Gabriel had only been a tenientes —a lieutenant—when I walked away from my family as a teen. Now his satanic hold on the world is far worse.

Education: Attended Bryn Mawr until grade ten. No further education records available.

Legal actions: Emancipation at age sixteen.

I stare at the words, the person I once was coming back to haunt me.

I risked everything to start fresh. To be normal. To live free. But I knew this day would come. That my family had too many enemies for me to remain under the radar. That’s why I like to think I grabbed life with both hands and shook as much joy out of it as I could.

I’ve partied. I’ve indulged in men. I’ve forged the strongest of friendships with two exceptionally wonderful women.

Now some smirking, egotistical, half-baked-focaccia, balsamic blowhard is threatening to take it away from me.

Fuck that. Fuck him.

I shove the pages from his desk, the flutter of black on white falling to the floor in a disheveled heap.

If Salvatore wants to play games, fine. I’ll give him a dose of the skills I learned while living in an emotional war zone.