Salvatore

13. Ivy

13

IVY

There’s no denying this moment will be forever carved in my mind. Even if I didn’t want it to be. Even if better-skilled men mark my future and they’re forged in stone with candy-flavored appendages, my memory still wouldn’t deny me this moment.

It’s engrained.

Inextricable.

I turn my head to face him. Smile. Shrug. “Already forgotten.”

He glowers, but a playfulness in his eyes warms me to my toes.

“I’d better leave my mark then.” He swoops in, and his teeth latch onto my shoulder.

I squeal, the bite of pain as shocking as it is invigorating.

I wiggle and fight until he quits the delicious punishment, marking the sting with a kiss so uncharacteristically gentle my heart doesn’t know if it should curl in on itself or disintegrate.

“Let me get you a cloth.” He climbs off the bed and I’m stuck staring at the masterpiece of his ass while he walks to the adjoining bathroom, then returns moments later with a damp wash cloth, that skyscraper between his legs no longer skyscraping, but still remarkably epic even at half-mast.

I shuffle to the edge of the mattress and hold out a hand for the cloth.

“I’ve got it.” He jerks his chin at me. “Lie on your stomach.”

I pause, unable to reconcile the harsh, threatening man with this considerate, gentlemanly stranger before me. “Are you sure? I can?—”

“Lie down, Ivy.”

I sigh and comply, stretching out across the heavenly softness of his duvet.

The mattress dips with his weight and his leg grazes mine, then the cool cloth carries over my lower back.

It soft, and smooth, and incredibly soothing.

Given my lack of sleep, not to mention the emotional upheaval of this week and all the surging hormones from what I will never admit was mind-blowing sex, it’s a struggle to keep my eyes open and not fall victim to the bliss.

What I should do is get up. Dress. Flee… It’s just that his bed feels so good and the sheets smell incredibly nice, like his housekeeper must spritz them with the subtlest hint of expensive cologne.

He drags the cloth over my ass, gently guiding it between my legs. “It’s concerning how wet you are from horrible sex. You should probably get that checked.”

I close my eyes and grin into the duvet. “I plan to make a doctor’s appointment first thing Monday.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

I keep smiling as the monstrous hands of exhaustion grip every inch of me in an attempt to drag me toward slumber.

I’ve never been this tired before. The alcohol numbed me. The orgasms sedated me.

I try to pull out of the nosedive toward unconsciousness. To fight to stay awake. But I have even less strength of will to overpower the onslaught than I did from succumbing to lust with a member of the mafia.

I feel myself falling as he cleans me, drifting pleasurably, only to startle awake from the micro nap, my brain protesting the snap back to consciousness. I glance over my shoulder to see if my greatest mistake noticed me tapping out, but Salvatore isn’t there.

He’s not hovering over me with the washcloth.

Not in the bed.

Not even in the room.

“Why the fuck does your house smell like sex?” a man’s voice carries from downstairs.

I sit up, my skull throbbing, and stare at the open bedroom door.

“Fuck off, Bishop.” That voice is Salvatore. Steely, gruff, and annoyed.

“I should be back in D.C. by now. I don’t have time for this shit.”

Footsteps carry along the ground-level hall. More than two sets. Maybe three.

I fling back a light blanket I definitely didn’t place upon myself, shoot from the devil’s bed, and rush to snatch my funeral dress off the floor to drag over my head.

Where the heck are my panties? And my goddamn self-preservation?

I rewind the drunken debauchery, speeding my thoughts over the bedroom festivities, then the kitchen counter. I think back to the moment I lost my underwear. How Salvatore dragged them down my legs and— shit . He still has my panties in his fucking pocket.

I do a visual sweep of the room in search of the next best thing—my phone.

When that tactic is a bust, I opt for a more chaotic physical search, yanking the bedcovering back from the mattress, then scrambling onto hands and knees to check the floor.

Nada . Nothing. Not even a glimpse.

I do, however, find my shoes and rush to grab them. I’m still trying to juggle the heels between my fingers as I approach his dark-wood dresser and scour every drawer.

“Where the hell are you?” I hiss under my breath.

I can’t leave without my phone. I’d have no access to money. No way to get home.

I do another visual once-over of the room, this time noticing something black, sleek, and remarkably phone-like sticking out of the top drawer on the nearest bedside table. I practically dive for it, snagging the device, never more happy to be staring down at my blank screen with the slight long-term crack in the bottom left corner.

I turn it on as the faded male voices murmur from a far-off place in the house, my jaw unhinging at the time stamp in the top-left corner of my phone screen.

3:09 p.m.

Are you fucking kidding me? I slept for hours?

Missed calls and text messages are alight on the screen. All from Olivia.

Liv

What’s going on?

Where are you?

Are you okay?

Why are you with Salvatore Costa?

I’m freaking out, Ivy. Call me.

I raise my brows, surprised she’s concerned about my choice in company when hers has apparently been far more questionable. At least I have a history with underhanded men.

Ivy

Can’t call right now. I’m fine. Will talk soon.

We’re going to be having one hell of a conversation. Gloves off. Hearts on sleeves. Secrets exposed. The type of chat that needs to happen face-to-face.

I lock my cell, determined to get out of here—preferably with air still in my lungs—and tiptoe to the open door to peer into the hall.

When the coast is clear, I continue the journey downstairs like a sordid assassin. The male conversation is more decipherable from the bottom step, Salvatore’s grated tone coming through loud and clear as he says, “I’ve got the situation under control.”

“I find that hard to believe,” another guy drawls.

Then a third mutters, “Does Lorenzo know?”

Odds are they’re talking about me. I’m the situation, which doesn’t bode well for my longevity.

I descend the final step, my bare toes plastering against the cold tile. I walk backward toward the entry, my pulse manic, my gaze fixed on the living room at the end of the hall.

Still I don’t see anyone, and the lack of visual has me in a chokehold of gratitude.

I reach the front door and twist the handle, then silently drag the heavy wood open. Cold blue eyes snap to mine from outside, the devil’s royal guard still standing in the same exact place as earlier inside the brick-enclosed stoop.

I startle. Panic.

The guy merely looks away, not acknowledging my escape attempt or sparing a second glance at the makings of my mid-afternoon walk of shame. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all as he turns his attention to stare at those closed metal gates, the courtyard now housing an additional car.

“Hi…” I whisper, carefully creeping outside and closing the door behind me. “How’s things?”

He ignores me, remaining enviably statuesque, only the occasional blink confirming he’s alive and breathing.

“I’m just getting some fresh air.” I eye the gate, not enjoying the thought of scaling the towering height in a dress sans underwear. “Can you let me out?” I flash him a pleading smile. “Salvatore is talking with guests, and I don’t want to cramp his style.”

He scoffs. “You’d be foolish to think he’s unaware of your departure.” He presses a green button on the brick wall to his right. “Nothing happens in that house without him knowing.”

His confidence hollows my insides, but the heavenly subtle squeal of metallic hinges fills me with confidence as the large gates begin to part.

“Thanks for the tip.” I hustle from the stoop, eager to get the hell out of there, and power-walk between the moving gates, then onto the neighbor’s lawn.

I’m twenty yards down the long-stretching block, feeling the entire weight of an unwarranted hangover, and poised to confirm an Uber on my cell with the little battery I have left when a black Aston Martin pulls to a screeching stop at the curb beside me.

I brace, ready to run from an attempted abduction as the door flings open, then Liv rushes from the vehicle, her eyes crazed with relief.

“Oh my god.” She races forward and engulfs me in a hug, the impact threatening to topple me. “I’ve been worried sick.”

I slump with relief and return the embrace. “It’s been a crazy day.”

“What the hell happened?” She pulls back, her hands moving to grip my upper arms. “Where’s Salvatore? Why were you with him?”

I probably should’ve spared a few seconds’ thought to work out a game plan for this conversation, but here I stand, completely clueless.

“He, um…” I glance to the car idling at the curb, the man behind the wheel none other than Remy Costa—the murderous criminal Salvatore claims she’s exchanging bodily fluids with.

“Tell me it’s not true.” I skewer Liv with a narrowed look. “Tell me he’s not the guy from the dive bar you were obsessed with.”

Her face falls. It’s enough confirmation to turn my stomach.

“It’s a long story.” Her hands fall to her sides, her eyes imploring. “Can we go somewhere so I can explain?”

“In that car? With him ?” I scowl. “Are you high?"

“Ivy, please. It’s complicated.”

“You’re right. I don’t think it gets much more complicated than letting someone like him diddle your skittle.” I glare at the man who must have lied a million times to win her over. Who must still be lying to have her begging me for understanding. “Do you have any idea who he is?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know what he does? What you’re getting yourself into?” I swallow down the acidic taste of my own mistakes and return my attention to Liv.

She lowers her gaze and releases a heavy sigh.

The weight of it echoes in my own chest, painful and deep. I don’t like this. I can’t stand the thought of her leading a secret life the same way I have. She’s not built for deception.

“Ivy, I know everything.”

I don’t believe her.

Remy has lied. Deceived. There’s no way someone so kind and loving would be with a man capable of the atrocities necessary to be a part of the underworld if they had full transparency.

“You’re right.” I scan the street, attempting to figure out an escape route. “We need to go somewhere.” I have to get her away from here. Away from him.

As if sensing my intentions, Remy climbs from the car, his broad shoulders and confidence stance a voiceless threat.

I tense with his approach. I’ll fight him if I have to. It’s not like I start arguments in nightclubs with assholes without having the ability to protect myself. I’ve got skills. Definitely not enough to defend a bullet, but I’ll wham, bam, kick him in the clam if necessary.

“Do you want the car?” he asks Liv as he stops beside her. “I’ll walk back to Salvo’s. You can drive Ivy wherever she wants to go.”

I glare, unsure what he’s playing at.

He slides a palm around her waist and places a delicate kiss to her temple, the display of affection horrifically sweet, before he guides the car fob into her hand.

“Thanks.” She leans into him. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”

It’s like I’m on an acid trip, hallucinating the fuck out of my introverted best friend loving it up with the nephew of one of the most notorious men in the country.

“Drive safe. And make sure you watch for a tail.” He walks away, heading toward Salvatore’s townhouse.

I keep my dumbfounded stare on him every step of the way, waiting for him to quit the charade, pull a weapon, and pepper us with bullets.

“I know whatever you’re thinking must be crazy,” Liv murmurs. “Especially given the week we’ve had, but all I’m asking for is a chance to explain.”

The reminder of Carlo’s death squeezes my chest. How the hell was the funeral only yesterday?

“Please, Ivy. I need you to have an open mind.”

I turn to her, hating the plea in her voice, the pain etched into her furrowed brow. She looks exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed, her skin unusually pale.

“Okay.” I nod despite the apprehension. I have to at least try.

It’s not like I’m not going to ask her to do the same thing when I lay the truth of my past at her feet.

These secrets are going to change our friendship. She’ll judge me, just like I’m judging her dumb ass for doing something so recklessly stupid as falling for a Dolce-wearing, espresso-drinking death dealer.

I lead the way to the Aston Martin and climb in without a word, dumping my shoes in the footwell. Liv is a few beats behind me, taking her position at the wheel and readjusting the seat.

We remain quiet as she pulls from the curb, the car filling with an awkwardness that’s never cloaked us before. She drives us from the classy harbor suburb and away from the city, the quiet pop playlist humming from the stereo becoming the backing track for the discomfort.

“You’re right,” she finally murmurs. “He’s the guy I met at the dive bar.”

My heart crumples. Shreds. “Please tell me you haven’t been sleeping with a career criminal for almost a year without telling me.”

“No.” She scrunches her nose, her gaze remaining locked on traffic. “Things between us didn’t transition into anything physical until recently.”

“Oh, good.” I roll my eyes. “I’m glad you took the time to weigh the pros and cons of opening your thighs to a murderer.”

Pot. Kettle. The hypocrisy isn’t lost on me, but Liv and I are different. She grew up in a loving home, with equally loving parents. She had stability. Guidance. A lack of trauma. At least until her mother died.

She shouldn’t be slumming it with a guy capable of killing her in her sleep.

She sighs. “You have no idea what’s been going?—”

“Oh, I’ve got a fair idea.”

She hasn’t been with a guy in forever, then Remy came along, dripping in riches, good looks, and bad-boy vibes. I bet he has hypnotizing pheromones like his brother, too.

Those bastards .

“No.” Her voice turns serious. “You really don’t.”

“Believe me, I already got the CliffsNotes from Salvatore.”

She shoots me a bug-eyed look. “What did he tell you?”

I take a beat to formulate a response, unsure how to share my wisdom while also seamlessly redacting the part where I climb the Washington Monument with my vagina.

“Ivy,” she prods. “What did he say?”

“He told me you and Remy are together. That you’re one of them now. Do you even know what that means?”

She cuts her attention back to the quiet suburban street. “Yes. I made an informed choice.”

I scoff. “Your dad would be devastated.”

“Excuse me?” She hits the brakes, the car lurching to a halt. “Don’t do that. Don’t lash out at me and throw my dad’s death in my face just because you’re scared. He knew , Ivy. He treated Remy like a son and gave his blessing before he passed.”

I blink in disbelief.

“I know Remy,” she states with conviction. “I understand him. And I get that this is wild because obviously you know the rumors surrounding his family?—”

“They’re not rumors?—”

“—But my heart is still lost to him. I truly, emphatically feel things for that man despite my best intentions. And being with him is what I need at the moment. So please support me in this?”

Feel things? Support ?

Dear fucking Lord.

“You’re right.” I focus out my side window, shell-shocked. “You’re my best friend and I’ll always want to support you, so let me be the first to say—I’m sure you’re going to look absolutely fabulous tied up in his basement.”

That sounded meaner than I’d intended. Total grade-A bitch material.

“Joke’s on you,” she drawls. “He lives in a penthouse. There is no basement.”

I fight a smile as she continues driving, appreciating her attempt to lighten my outburst. She’s so incredibly good to me like that. Not only the best friend, but the best human.

“Has he hurt you?” I ask.

“No.”

“Has he ever threatened, intimidated, or harassed you?”

There’s a pause. One that lasts more than a few heartbeats.

“Liv?” I return my gaze to her as she sits a little straighter, her mouth parting on silent words before she smacks her lips shut. “ Liv ?”

She shrugs. “At one point, he did all three?—

“ Jesus fucking Christ. ”

“—But for good reason.” She pins me with a harsh stare. “We have a complicated history. And I’ve wanted to tell you everything for such a long time, but the truth isn’t easy.”

I can understand the truth being hard part. What I don’t like is how she’s a total catch who seems to have scored a relationship out of a dumpster fire.

“How do you even know who he is?” she asks. “I’ve scoured the internet and there’s nothing online that connects him with…” She clears her throat. “Um, underhanded things.”

I clench my fingers in my lap as the complications of our situation gain more steam in my head.

Yes, I’d already known the situation was messed up. Severely. Liv will look at me differently when I tell her about my past. She’ll see me as someone other than the fun, flirty friend I’ve curated myself to be. But what the mind-fuck of the last twenty-four hours didn’t allow me time to consider is how my temperamental family situation won’t allow for me to have associations with someone who has ties to the mafia.

Which means my biggest issue isn’t whether or not Olivia will judge me for my past. The terrifying reality is—does our friendship even have a future?

“My story is complicated, too.” I stare at my hands, my palms sweating. “It’s the reason I’ve never really spoken much about my?—”

An incoming call trills through the car’s speakers, cutting off the radio as Remy alights on the display screen.

“Sorry.” Liv winces. “I should take this.” She presses a button on the steering wheel, buying me some time to think as the call connects.

“Ollie?” Remy’s apprehensive tone carries through the vehicle. “Where are you?”

The car slows as she shoots me a concerned look. “We’re a few blocks from Ivy’s apartment building. Why?”

“Pull over. Now . I’m on the way to get you. Just stay where you are.”

“Why?” she repeats. “What’s going on?”

“It isn’t safe. Salvo just clued me in on the situation with Ivy and?—”

I lunge forward, jamming my finger against the disconnect button on the display screen, my heart in my throat as the call goes quiet, then the soft murmur of a Korean pop song fills the silence.

“Ivy?” My name is a fragile plea while Liv pulls to the curb.

I don’t know where to start. My ancestry? My childhood? The emancipation?

I swallow against the painful ache at the back of my throat. I’m going to have to make her choose, right? Is that my only option? “Liv, I?—”

Another call comes through, Remy’s name crossing the display screen again.

Jesus Christ.

“Please don’t answer,” I beg. “I just need a minute.”

There’s a beat of silence before her quiet “okay.”

She rejects the call, thankfully gifting me her loyalty over the guy she’s seeing, then sits silently, waiting for me to unravel.

“I need fresh air.” I meet her gaze, my insides feeling like they’re going through a meat grinder. “Will you step outside with me?”

“Of course.” She cuts the engine and removes her belt.

I grab my shoes and we climb out together to stand on the lawn of a random colonial-style homeon a quiet street.

“Why did you disconnect the call?” she asks, patient and kind as always.

Because I know what Remy was about to say, and hearing those words out loud will make this real.

“I, ah…” I dump my heels on the grass and toe my feet inside them, attempting to buy more seconds to think.

“Ivy, please talk to me.” Her voice is fragile. Pleading.

Shit. I can’t do this. Not when I’m the illogical choice in this situation. Given my empty bank account and lack of resources, I’m not only the risky option, I’m the one that can’t protect her.

“Do you really have feelings for him?” I keep my gaze locked on my shoes, my eyes burning.

“Yes. I swear I do. He means the world to me. And you know I wouldn’t say that lightly. I’ve never been in love before.”

Love ?

A splintered razor stabs through my chest. “Wow… okay.” She’s in love. That’s even worse. There’s no way I can compete with money, protection, and the greatest emotion in the whole wide fucking world.

“He feels like home to me,” she continues, not realizing her words are digging the grave for our friendship, each affirmation of affection making the hole deeper. “I’d give anything to make it work.”

I swallow down the emotion clogging my throat and force myself to meet her gaze. “I’m happy for you.” I really am. Given her isolating personality and her realist nature, whatever complications they’ve endured must’ve sunk soul deep. “But given the circumstances, I think we might need to put our friendship on hold for a little while. Just until I can get my head around everything.”

“What? Why?” Her eyes bug. “Ivy, I promise Remy’s not the type of guy you think he is. He’s not dangerous—well, not to people like us.” She grabs my hands. “He won’t hurt me. He’s the one who arranged and paid for the best oncologists for dad. And the home-care nurse. He even took us all to Berkeley Springs a few weeks ago and booked out an entire restaurant, just so I could have more special memories.” She squeezes my fingers. “He’s a good man. Please trust me on that.”

I can see it in her eyes. She believes every word she’s saying. But that only solidifies the end of our friendship.

“I do trust you. With my life.” I slide my hands from hers and backtrack. “I just need some time to get my head around it.”

She balks, her eyes watering. “No. You don’t get time. You’re my best friend. I need you.”

I tense against the ache behind my sternum. “I know. And I need you, too. But like you said, this is complicated. Just give me a few days.” I take a retreating step, the distance already killing me.

“Ivy Rosa Diaz, do not walk away from me.”

I should laugh at her parental tone. Given any other argument I definitely would, but that name is our biggest problem, because it’s not real. Nothing she knows about me is.

I give her a sad smile and take another backward step. “That’s not my name.”

She straightens.

“That’s why Remy called.” I take another step. “Salvatore dug into my past.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Liv, the name on my birth certificate is Isabella Rosa Rodriguez.” I give her a second to let the news sink in. “I grew up in an abusive home and fought with all I had to get emancipated when I was sixteen.”

She blinks at me as if I’m a blurred image she’s trying to focus.

“My father was a lieutenant for the Mexican cartel.” I keep backtracking, attempting to distance myself from the pain I’m inflicting on her. “He’s since been promoted to leadership.” I try extra hard to give her the friendly smile she deserves, to at least attempt to make her believe everything will be okay while my nose burns with emotion. “If he found out about my association with someone in the mafia, he’d not only kill me, but he’d kill you, too.”

She keeps staring at me, mouth slackened, expression distraught as a tear treks her left cheek.

“I’m sorry.” I choke on the words with my retreat. “I’m so sorry, Liv. Just give me some space to figure it out.”

I turn and walk away, my heartbeat growing faster, my footsteps following suit. I’m jogging by the time I hit the end of the block, then I stop to kick off my shoes and palm my cell so I can run, determined to outpace the tears threatening to spill, but their advance gains on me.

I’m alone again. Back where I was at sixteen. Friendless. Soon-to-be jobless, and eventually homeless.

I’m a panting, sweaty mess as I reach the front doors of my apartment building, my hand shaking as I input my access code to enter the foyer.

I climb the stairs at a sprint, holding my shit together with the barest of threads, and make a beeline for my apartment to place my cell against the smartphone lock. It’s the only safety concession my landlord gave me after my apartment was broken into last year. But the slight nudge of my device against the black screen has the door creaking open an inch.

I freeze. Stop breathing.

All my senses are on alert as I calmly take in my surroundings, eying the common hall for signs of danger that aren’t apparent.

Everything is quiet. Not a whisper of noise except for the barely there scuffle of nails from Mrs. Hale’s poodle in the apartment above.

I wish I could back away. Call the cops. But there’s no one who can help me.

I’m a one-woman show, and all I have left is in this apartment.

I inch the door wider, taking in my darkened living room with its drawn drapes and shadowed kitchen. I can’t remember how I left it. Yesterday morning before the funeral is a blur.

Still there’s no sound as I slowly chance a calming breath and lean forward to slide my hand along my living room wall toward the light switch.

Then my wrist is captured and I’m yanked inside.