8. Nicola
Nicola
S orrow is a really strange thing when it's tempered by delight.
My dad is dead, and the thought of never having to navigate the halls to avoid his fists again…In Edward’s arms, I sleep well for the first time I can remember.
There’s only the dull ease of liberation. Even Mom doesn’t bat an eye when I deliver the news to her in the morning. The usual gray cast to her face doesn’t lift, and she hardly smiles, yet something in the air releases the longer we stand in the kitchen.
She doesn’t ask me if I’m sure or how I found out. She doesn’t insist on overseeing the funeral arrangements herself when I assure her it’s being taken care of. There’s only the habitual pat of her hand on the top of my head and a hastily muttered “good girl” before she zombie-walks to the fridge.
She stills only on her way to the stove to make the same breakfast she always does for Daddy, as if realizing she never has to slave over it again.
For the rest of the day, things are calm. Blissful. The rooms are silent even when Scott stumbles back from his party, his smile blossoming like sunshine after a week of rain.
Families shouldn’t be happy when a husband, a father, dies, especially not when it’s murder.
Yet we are.
Edward will handle things for me. For us. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can lean on someone without terrible effort. The blissful feeling lasts for a handful of hours. Until it pops.
Until the newspaper shadows my downfall and police slap handcuffs over my wrists, tightening them to the point of pain.
“You have the right to an attorney,” the young cop on the left drones.
The one on the right, hardened to the point he is way past his prime, only glares at me as though he is hoping to pin every unsolved murder of the last five decades on my shoulders.
“If you cannot afford an attorney, then one will be?—”
Mom is somewhere in the background screaming at them to stop, telling them they’ve made a huge mistake and our lawyers are going to fight them tooth and nail.
I hold the other cop's stare with one of my own, and say nothing about the cuffs. This isn’t the time to break. My father might have been a drunk, a liar, and a slave master when the occasion called for it, but he taught me well. Better than he would have thought, considering I was the girl and thus someone to shrug off.
These cops won’t break me.
The lawyers will have me out in a few hours because no matter what evidence they claim ties me to the scene, it’s bogus. A ploy to take us down while we’re weak.
Someone leaked the death to the media.
My mind spins in useless circles as my gut churns and their questions buzz in my ears like a swarm of angry bees. This kind of thing isn’t unusual. Witnesses can place my brother at his party, the young one tells me, while my mother is too frail to leave the house for too long.
It leaves me with motive and with means, they assure me. Even Mary couldn’t assure them I’d been home all night with her. She’d confined herself to her room with the door locked.
They’re blind. They’re looking in the wrong direction and too hungry for a high-profile case to listen to reason, so I supply nothing. Not a word while the wheels churn behind the scenes.
Should I have expected this? Yes. Mental berating is the only constant through the interrogation. Because I’m so stupid, it hurts. I trusted Edward when he said he had it handled and what did he do the first chance he got?
He ran to the cops to point his finger at me.
It makes sense.
He’d know exactly where to strike and when. The opportunity practically fell in his lap. I’d handed him the key to the Salvatore downfall.
Gio Balestra must be dancing the tarantella.
There’s always a spotlight on families like ours. Just like there is always someone holding the purse strings of the cops who bob along and play their parts. Good little marionettes. True to form, my father’s lawyer gets me out of things in a matter of hours.
In the back of the car, I scrub my wrists and the dark red lines from too much pressure.
“Are you all right, Miss Salvatore?” the driver asks.
Our lawyer, a tall man with pinched features and a slightly hitched stride, fixes him with a glare of reprimand before pressing the button to raise the partition between the back of the car and the front.
“There are a few things we need to go over together,” Mr. Cunningham begins. His suit is buttoned up to his pointed chin, and it’s vastly appropriate for him to resemble a crypt keeper.
There is no compassion in the mafia.
One of the first lessons taught from the time you’re able to walk, even for the children who will never be more than pawns, who will never lead.
“There has been a storm of press and media attention already.” He cuts to the chase. “Along with this.”
From his briefcase, he draws out a set of photographs along with what looks like a typed-out statement.
My numb finger grips the edge of the photograph. The image hasn’t been doctored in any way I can see. “My mother should be here for our meeting.”
Mr. Cunningham adjusts his seat, one leg balanced over the opposite knee. “Your mother is in hysterics, and your brother has decided to flee rather than deal with the consequences of this. Which leaves you, Miss Salvatore. Only you.”
I shake my head vehemently. The image blurs, but I see it clearly enough because I lived it. It’s a still shot of me staring down at the back of the car the other night when Edward brought my father’s body home.
I’m alone, the top of Dad’s head visible in the shot, but Edward is nowhere to be found. Blackmail. I’m not so stupid to categorize it as anything else.
“I’d feel more comfortable if Mom were here,” I insist.
Hysterics? The woman is prone to them, of course, but Cunningham is wrong. I’m not the right person for him to deal with. I’m the target. I’m the person Daddy moved around on the gameboard, one of his pieces, in order to expand his empire, and I’d failed.
“We’re talking about blackmail here, Miss Salvatore. It’s the sort of thing your father has dealt with before, but now the attention has transferred to you. There is a reason the police chose to target you in this matter.”
I slowly suck in a breath and hold it to the count of six before releasing it in a slow hiss. “I had nothing to do with his death. I wasn’t there when it happened.”
“Of course you didn’t. However, this type of press will create a problem for you and your family, and in the melee, others will attempt to step up.”
“Such as?” I snap.
“The Balestras.”
Yes, I knew it. Separating my feelings for Edward with the reality of who he is and what he does is a herculean task. I sink back in the seat, my gaze going unfocused.
The grainy photo slips out of my hands.
“Your family needs a leader,” Cunningham continues, ignorant of my mental stress. “Someone is going to have to step up to do what needs to be done; otherwise, we are going to disappear. Die, or be absorbed by another organization.” His tone reeked of all the things that might happen if the latter came to pass.
“Don’t talk to me like I have no idea what’s going on.”
“I’m simply reiterating for you.”
“And right now, I have a headache.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We’ll discuss this once I’ve had a chance to…”
I trail off. Once I’ve had a chance to what, exactly? Taking a bath won’t make the issues disappear or lighten their severity.
Cunningham stares at me with an infuriating mixture of disappointment and sympathy. The poor daughter. The one who wasn’t supposed to have any part of this now thrust into the spotlight and forced to do what needs to be done.
He’s looking at me like he expects me to fail.
Throughout the rest of the ride back to the compound, he speaks in terse, short sentences. Those small sentences are easier to digest, of course, but nothing penetrates the haze over my mind.
Another car waits for us in front of the house, and a chill slides along my spine.
“I’ll be in touch with you, Miss Salvatore. Do not go anywhere. Expect a phone call from me later this afternoon,” Cunningham says on my way out of the car.
Our men move into place to hold the door, but I’ve already got one foot out, and the lawyer hasn’t lifted a finger to help me.
We never even got to the typed statement, whatever demands are going along with the blackmail picture.
It doesn’t matter.
None of it matters with my gaze locked on the black town car, no doubt housing Edward Balestra in its belly.
A knot of panic and tension grows in my chest, a pit opening up beneath it and the anchor dragging me down as well. Every breath sees it growing heavier and more complicated. I’m only halfway aware of the car rolling into motion again, Cunningham leaving me alone with the guards and the empty house.
Edward is here again.
If Cunningham is telling the truth about the hysteria, then Mom isn’t here either, no doubt checked into the clinic the same way she was the last time.
We’re alone. Just me, the guards, and our enemy.
Edward unfolds himself from the back seat, sliding one leg out of the car at my approach.
“Nicola, stop. Wait!”
I refuse to slow down on my way to the door, keeping my shoulders squared and my chin tense and high. The photos and statements are clenched in my hand, my arm stiff at my side.
“Nicola, damn it. Don’t walk away from me.” The car door slams but I’m already in the house, the guard stopping at the door.
And infuriatingly, they allow Edward through. He follows me into the foyer and stops only when I whirl on him.
“What did you do?” I bark out. “What the hell is going on?”
He looks around the room, taking in the rows of dirty windows showing the lawn and the terrace beyond. Finally, he looks at me, and I’m not imagining his smirk. “Excuse me?”
“What did you do to the guards? They should not allow you inside.” I stand up straighter, surprised.
“They know I’m not a threat to you.”
“Then they will all be fired.” As soon as I get it together. It doesn’t matter what’s come before this, only that he lied to me. He lied about everything. My opinion of Edward Balestra has changed dramatically.
“What do you have in your hand?”
“Stop talking, Edward. Stop talking to me!” I can’t breathe. The house, the four walls, presses closer and closer to me. The weight of memories and an empire hardly grown, hardly gotten off the ground, and now vulnerable to attack. It’s too much.
“I’m the only one who’s going to tell you the truth. I read the newspaper?—”
“Yes, because bad news travels fast.” I rub at my wrist.
His gaze immediately drops to the area and narrows. “Did they hurt you?”
“You know what the cops are like. I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of scrapes with them. My lawyer got me out.” I shouldn't be telling him any of this. Not when he’s the one responsible.
Edward was the one who brought Daddy back here. He must have known about the person waiting in the garden, taking covert pictures of us, snapping away.
“Am I supposed to be grateful your photographer stopped at the body? I can’t even imagine what would have happened if they saw you come up to my room.”
I drop the pictures on the ground between us, and a keen sense of delight fills me when Edward has to bend and stoop to pick them up. He looks handsome enough to take my breath away. The ocean lines of his suit and the slight pinstripes are tailored to emphasize the strong lines of his body. His black hair arches over his strong foreword, those cupid bow lips pursed, and a light layer of stubble decorating his proud jaw.
“Someone watched us.” His face is blank, but his eyes darken as the gears turn in his mind.
Damn me. I bite down on my lip, needing the pain. “Nice observation, genius.”
“If you’re going to bite the hand trying to help you, let me save you the trouble. I don’t have to be here,” he reminds me.
“Then get out because I’m done dealing with you and your goddamn lies.” The curse word said out loud emboldens me.
“I can’t. I’m not leaving you alone, little fox. I?—”
“Don’t you dare tell me you care about me,” I interrupt.
“Is it so hard to believe? I want to help you. If it means dealing with this together, figuring out our next steps together, then I’ll do it.”
“Fuck you, Eddie.”
His earnest tone gets my back up. “Is that what you want to do?”
“I want to tear your head off your shoulders. I want to make you suffer for everything I’ve been through and every slide of the knife that killed my dad.” Because he did it.
He did wait and now he’s got the nerve, the balls, to look me in the eye like he’s my savior in disguise.
“If you’re going to attack me again, then let's at least move away from the breakables. Some of this shit looks really old,” he says, holding up a hand.
I’ve got to get away from him. Except Edward trails behind me, prowling like a fucking panther and following me all the way to the living room. “This isn’t a joke.”
“I didn’t say it was. Especially not when the police hauled you in for questioning.”
I growl, ducking my head to hide the expression even with him behind me. “Get the fuck out. Your lies are poison.” What will he do if I hold my hands over my ears?
“What are you going to do? Call your goons over here? They’re not going to listen.”
“You paid them.” I sink down on the wingback chair, then gulp when Edward cages me with his arms.
His face is inches from mine and my next inhale brings with it the spicy hit of his cologne. It’s a punch to the gut and worse than any pinching from the handcuffs.
“Get away from me,” I growl.
Pink scratches mar his face, healing lines where I’d attacked him the other night. I’m not sure if they’ll scar or not, but they add a roguish element to his already dangerous features.
“You’re going to listen to me, little fox.” He points his treacherous finger right between my eyes. “I didn’t kill your dad. And I had nothing to do with this blackmail bullshit. Now, I’m offering to help you, and if you’re a smart woman, you’ll take the offer. Because right now, I’m the only person you have in your corner.”
“Or else?” I bite down on my lip again, and Edward tracks the movement. He’s too close and my skin prickles with awareness, the same kind shooting down to the area between my legs.
“Or else the police with crush you. If they don’t, someone else will come in. A pretty girl like you? A virgin? You’re a prize. I’d hate to think what would happen to you.”
I want him to hurt. I want him to cry. I want?—
I’m the first one who makes the move. My hands go around his neck and haul his face to mine, our lips pressing together.
“I hate you.”
Nearly as much as I hate myself right now for walking right into this trap. He needs to know how I feel about him. Especially when he grabs my hair and yanks back, hauling us both to our feet, struggling to find his balance.
His arm bands around my back, chaining us together, and I lift my knee to kick between his legs through kisses.
He squeezes my leg with his to stop me before I make a hit. “You are such a little bitch.”
“You’re a fucking demon.”
His smile widens, and I catch a flash of very white teeth before he kisses me again, hard and punishing. I match him stroke for stroke.
“You’re going to let me fuck you,” he growls against my skin. His tongue strokes against mine, and he bites down on my lip in the same place I had.
The pain is bright and sharp, and I cry out, giving him the leeway to spin me around and force me to the chair. Anger, grief, confusion, everything tangles together before the feeling of his cock against my ass obliterates them all.
“You’re going to like it when I do, Nicola.”
Edward uses his strength to force my chest down to the cushions, and I grab the arms in the same place he had, my knuckles white. He keeps his palm, unyielding, against the small of my back and slides his other hand between my legs.
“Won’t it devalue me?” I remind him.
Except I’m aroused. My core pulses, and my panties soak right through, my breasts tingling. How can I want someone who does such horrible things? Who treats me this way and hurts me? Who killed my father and blackmailed me?
There’s something wrong with me.
“Not to me. It will only make you more beautiful with my cock inside you.”
Something is seriously wrong with me when Edward grinds his erection to me, and I gasp. His lips are hot on the back of my neck when he draws my hair aside. His fingers trail above my center.
“Why aren’t you wearing a skirt? I’ve dreamed of pushing your skirt up and finding you dripping wet for me,” he growls. I reach back for him, only for him to slap my hand away. “Stay still.”
I’m not the type to take orders, especially not when he’s going for my zipper. I buck, jostling him, and manage to turn in time for him to catch me in his arms.
“I’m not going to stand like a statue and let you rape me.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” He kisses me hard, and I start to melt. “Because you want this. You want this so badly I bet you’re already throbbing. You’re going to be so tight around my cock, Nicola.”
I don’t need to turn around to feel the hardness of him through his pants. He thrusts his hips against me again.
I want to taste him so fucking badly. Saying no to him all this time has made me a challenge for him to conquer. Little does he know, I want him the same way he wants me.
Every part of me flushes with heat.
“Are you sure you want to sleep with your enemy, Edward?” My voice is a purr I equally love and despite.
Nothing matters in the end. Not when I have a pressing need to feel him.
“Do you want to be my enemy now, little fox?” His hand brushes the hair from the side of my face and grips it between his fingers.
“I want a straight answer.” Frustration laces my voice.
He kisses it away and his lips taste like desperation. He certainly doesn’t taste like an enemy right now. He tastes like a man. Hatred is our foreplay. “Answers are the one thing I can’t give you,” he murmurs against my lips.
I push hard against his chest, but Edward is immovable.
I hate him.
Except I don’t, not really. It isn’t the black, putrefied distaste driving me. Inside of me is an amalgam of grief and confusion. About everything except Edward.