Truth in Pieces Page 2

  Relief pummels me. “No. I was born in Connecticut and my father’s name was Liam. My mother’s name was Beth.” I mash my lips thin against the anguish that still manages to edge its way in after all these years. “They’re both dead.”

  The edges of his mouth quirk the slightest bit. “Wrong.”

  “What do you mean, wrong?”

  “Your real mom ain’t dead.” He leans toward me, voice dark with a steely edge. “And you’re my ticket to get her to come out of hidin’.”

  2

  Olivia

  Confusion riddles me. I stare at him for a long beat before finding my words. “My parents died in a plane crash years ago.”

  “Your freshman year in college, to be exact.” His features harden. “But they weren’t your real folks.”

  Horror ekes past my defenses. “What?”

  Deep brown eyes holding a slight tinge of gold assess me. “That’s enough talk for now. Ain’t got time to waste. Need to get you outta here.”

  “As I said before, no, thank you.”

  His gaze turns glacial. “You don’t understand—”

  “I understand just fine! You’re obviously a criminal.” I gesture between him and where Goliath remains standing. “And I want nothing to do with any of this. I pay my taxes. I return my damn shopping cart at the store while the other assholes leave them in the parking lot. I’m not someone who gets involved with people like you!”

  He lets my outburst settle in silence. His lips press into a thin, irritated line before he speaks in a low, deceptively subdued voice. “Can’t tell me that fancy professor brain of yours ain’t dyin’ of curiosity ’bout your folks. That you ain’t eager as fuck to find out if your real dad was murdered.”

  I flick my eyes to the gun holstered at his side. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

  “I always follow through on my end.”

  “Right,” I say derisively.

  His expression turns ferocious. “You questionin’ my word?”

  Bravely, I lift my chin while maintaining eye contact. “I’d be stupid not to.”

  He stares at me for a long moment. Wordlessly, he pulls his cell phone from his pocket and scrolls through it. When he stops, his eyes flick up to mine, eerily watchful before he turns the screen of the phone my way.

  I suck in a sharp breath at the sight of the woman pictured on the screen, shock ricocheting inside me.

  “That’s Johanna Santilla. Your mom.”

  Oh my God. OhmyGod. I’ve heard of that name. Hell, anyone who hasn’t been living under a rock has heard of the Santilla drug cartel. They originated in Cuba and began calling Miami home over sixty years ago.

  No photos exist of Johanna Santilla—at least none that have hit the Internet. Photos of her father, Carlos Santilla, have surfaced since his death, but they’ve often been grainy and slightly pixelated, like the ones featured on Dateline NBC and other true crime television shows.

  As for Johanna, however, once she took over the cartel for her father years ago, it’s as though all photographic traces of her were somehow wiped clean. According to rumors, she decided to keep a low profile when word got out about the FBI poking around in her business.

  With criminology being my specialty, stories such as these fuel my brain, making me analyze the psychological reasoning these particular individuals employ. I recall learning that once Nico Alcanzar came into power, taking over for Salvatore Vega, Santilla allegedly grew more secretive. Authorities couldn’t gather enough substantial evidence to pin any murders on her, and she’s remained elusive to them ever since.

  My eyes lock on the photo of Johanna Santilla standing beside her father, Carlos. But that’s not what has me struggling to draw oxygen into my lungs.

  “She looks…” I’m unable to finish, so stunned.

  It’s as though I’m peering into my future. It’s undeniable that we have the same dark hair and facial features.

  “That viral video put you on everybody’s radar. One look at you and nobody could deny you weren’t the goddamn spittin’ image of her.” His eyes flick to the phone a second before the screen times out and goes dark. “Luckily, I’m the first to track you down.”

  Even though the screen no longer displays the image, it’s as if it’s been embedded in my brain. Is Nico telling the truth? And, if so, how?

  Dammit. My parents—I can’t bear to refer to them as otherwise—were good people. I’m equally as certain that, if they were still alive and in my position, they wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it took to help me uncover the truth.

  Resignation settles deep within and leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. I never do anything without having a good idea of what I’m getting myself into. Except with this guy, I’m not even remotely on deck to call the shots.

  Expression filled with skepticism, I cast him a sharp look. “Why exactly do I need to go with you?”

  “’Cause you’re in danger if you stay here. I’ll fill you in once we’re outta here.” He tips his head, gesturing to the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Got you packed. Let’s go.”

  “Wait, what?” Irritation over his indefinite answers riddles me. “What do you mean you got me—”

  Movement in my periphery has me turning to find another man coming from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. With my large suitcase in his hand, bulging at the zippered seams, he sweeps his eyes over me. His gaze lingers on my breasts, eliciting the sensation of a mass of ants crawling along my skin. He nods at Nico and draws to a stop near us.

  The man picks up my laptop briefcase and purse from the floor, but his eyes flick back to me a second before he turns and exits the house.

  “We’re leavin’ now.”

  My attention snaps back to Nico, but when I give no indication that I plan to move, he narrows his eyes. “Do this the easy way, Professor.” His voice drops lower, and the sinister tone has goose bumps rising along my arms. “’Cause you ain’t gonna like the hard way.”

  I can infer that the hard way might very likely include Goliath carrying me out of here with duct tape over my mouth.

  Pinning him with a harsh glare, the challenge behind my words bleeds through in my tone. “I need some clarification, dammit. Who poses a danger to me if I stay here? Because you’re a criminal, so that sure doesn’t give me any indication I’ll be safe with you, either.”

  A muscle in his jaw clenches. “Listen, Professor. If I found you, that means anybody else can find you, too. And chances are, they’re not far behind.” He steps closer, and I strive to stand my ground, not budging as he towers over me. “And those others won’t be as nice as me.”

  I can’t stifle the derisive sound that escapes my lips, and his eyes sharpen in response. “For your own safety, we gotta go now.”

  Allowing myself to be taken to a second location isn’t wise—not in the least—but I have enough knowledge to recognize when a criminal has ill intentions toward me…and he doesn’t. Yes, he’s arrogant as hell and strong-arming me into this situation, but I also can’t bear the idea of relinquishing the chance to discover the truth about his claims.

  “Look, there’s a lot about your family you don’t know. And you’re gonna wanna know it all, Professor.” His gaze bores into mine. “This kinda information’ll impact the rest of your life.”

  My eyes drop to his holstered gun before rising to meet his gaze. But when I part my lips to demand he tell me more, different words come out instead.

  “You said earlier you swore on your mother’s grave that you wouldn’t hurt me.” Those golden brown eyes are watchful. Assessing. “What’s her name?”

  I don’t care if he recognizes it for what it is—a tactic. Making a connection with the criminal’s past or reference to their loved ones helps to establish better footing. Depending on his answer and my gauge of his truthfulness, this can make a vast difference in how things progress.

  An edge of his mouth tugs upward ever so slightly. “Maria.”

  Dipping h
is head, he brings his face closer to mine, and I tense against the onslaught of awareness it causes. His voice drops lower, muted and barely above a whisper, yet the underlying threat is clear. “But don’t go thinkin’ just by askin’ ’bout my mama that you’re gonna figure me out.”

  I hold his gaze steadfast. “Did you love her?”

  That muscle in his jaw goes crazy, and I know the answer before he voices it. His voice is gruff with barely concealed emotion. “Yeah.”

  He eases away with an irritated glare. “This won’t be a long-term arrangement, but I gotta have you to smoke out Santilla.”

  Taking one step back, he never breaks eye contact, and I wonder if he’s silently daring me to make a run for it.

  “Told you before…you’ll be safe with me.” His eyes never flicker with any indication he’s lying. “But you gotta come with me now. We’re wastin’ precious time.”

  With my academic mindset, the curiosity is utterly killing me. When faced with a puzzle, I’m driven with the need to complete it. But in this case, I need all the pieces to do so.

  Which means I must find out more about Santilla and whether I’m her biological daughter. And, dammit, Nico Alcanzar currently appears to hold the answers. I wish he didn’t have the upper hand. Wish he hadn’t planted the seed of doubt in my mind, potentially rearranging my family tree.

  I cast him the haughtiest of glares while threads of reluctance weave through me. Try to maintain the upper hand, Olivia. “Fine.”

  I’m at least permitted to stuff my feet into my heels before Nico guides me toward the front door. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror adorning the entryway wall as we pass by, I’m bombarded by the distinct and troubling notion that I’m already in too deep.

  As soon as we step from the house and head toward the vehicle, he places his palm at my back. I jerk away from him. “I know how to walk just fine, thank you very much.”

  The need to regain some semblance of control is necessary—to prove to this man that he doesn’t hold the reins to this operation.

  Even if, for now, he does.

  Within seconds, I’m in the back of the black Audi. Goliath is behind the wheel, the man who’d carried out my belongings sprawled in the passenger seat beside him, and Nico sits at my side.

  It’s safe to assume when I woke up this morning, I was not prepared for my day to convene like this.

  A thought hits me suddenly; my brain such a convoluted mess ever since this man showed up in my house. “What about my job? How long will this take?” I demand.

  Nico doesn’t bother to glance at me, far too busy typing on his cell phone. “Everythin’s been handled. Your mail’s forwarded to my place. You’ll be driven to and from work each day.”

  I mull this over for a beat, studying his profile. His imperfect vernacular greatly contrasts with his exterior. It’s as if the universe recognized this man’s potent masculinity and attractiveness were so compelling that he needed a flaw.

  Too bad it backfired, because it creates more of an enigmatic cloud surrounding the man who possesses strikingly handsome features, an impeccable wardrobe, and teeth so perfect they’re an orthodontist’s dream.

  As though he senses the weight of my gaze, his eyes cut to mine.

  I reach for my purse that sits at his feet. “I need to at least tell my best friend—”

  Strong fingers capture my wrist, stopping me. “No.”

  I speak slowly as though he’s dense. “You basically kidnapped me. She’ll be worried if I don’t text her like usual.”

  His intense study of me is unnerving, as though he’s privy to far more than he should be. He proves it with his next words.

  “Ain’t no best friend worryin’ ’bout you.” His eyes gleam in satisfaction at calling my bluff. “You’re a loner. Got one friend you hang out with sometimes. But a best friend?” He gives a curt shake of his head. “Ain’t got one of those.”

  I shake off his hold, my eyes spitting fire at him.

  He slides my purse from my reach, setting it between his feet. “You’ll get a new phone and laptop to use while you’re with me.”

  “What if I don’t remember my friend’s number?”

  “You’re shit outta luck.”

  I nearly grind my teeth in frustration. Forcibly attempting to regain patience, I switch gears. “You said you’d fill me in. Can we go over that now?”

  With a final glance at his phone, he tucks it in his pants pocket. “You’re gonna accompany me to some events and live with me, so everybody’ll think we’re together.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You want me to be your arm candy?”

  Those brown eyes lock on mine, narrowing at my cynicism-laced question. “You’ll have everythin’ you need. Just gotta act accordingly.”

  “Everything I need, except for coming and going in the free world, as usual, you mean. And working out like I normally do.” With a pointed expression, I add, “You know…a life where I’m not told what to do or forced to live with a complete stranger.”

  He studies me like I’m a curious specimen under his microscope. “If there’s somethin’ you need, it can be supplied.”

  Like I want anything from this man.

  “So, tell me…” I start off, unable to stifle my disbelief at his claim. “How exactly does my”—I hook my fingers to make air quotes—“real mother play a role in all this?”

  “Your mom’s been fuckin’ with my business.”

  When we cross over Biscayne Boulevard, heading toward the Broad Causeway drawbridge, my stomach churns sickly.

  Million-dollar homes sit along Bay Harbor Islands in this area. Waterfront locations with glass windows galore to take advantage of the view and have no fewer than six bedrooms.

  We turn onto West Broadview Drive, and I stare numbly at what truly embodies stunning architecture. Easily spanning at least three lots, the gated home resembles a fortress.

  Evidently, crime pays well.

  Goliath stops the car, then rolls down the window to press his thumb against a small scanner. A moment and a beep later, the gates slide open to grant us entry. Once we pull to a stop in front of the house, the beast of a man gets out and opens my door, offering his giant paw of a hand to assist me. I warily place my palm in his and exit.

  “Thank you.”

  He nods and reaches for my laptop briefcase and purse that Nico hands him. When I attempt to take my possessions from Goliath, he shakes his head.

  “You’ll get your new stuff later.” With a chin lift, he gestures over my shoulder. “Bossman needs you first.”

  Heaving out an irritated breath, I step away from the vehicle. Nico slips from the car with suitcase man trailing him.

  I turn and find Nico, now wearing sunglasses. Even so, the weight of his gaze penetrates my senses. “Come with me.”

  When he spins around and ventures up the steps leading to the front door, I place a hand on my hip. “A please would be nice every now and then.”

  He pauses on the top step. “Now, Professor.”

  I glare at him, but it’s worthless since he continues on his way.

  “Let’s go.” Goliath urges me forward, tapping his fingers against my arm. I shrug off his touch and stride forward, following the path Nico took while the giant man trails me.

  Every step I take serves to reinforce the frightening premonition nagging at the back of my mind.

  Once I step across the threshold of this house, everything I thought I knew about my life will be permanently altered.

  3

  Olivia

  “Your mom’s been fuckin’ with my business.”

  Nico’s earlier response repeats on a whisper in the back of my mind, intermixed with three questions:

  Is Nico telling the truth about my parents?

  Is that woman truly my biological mother?

  What the hell is she doing that’s “fuckin’” with Nico’s business?

  Maintaining a brisk pace, Nico strides through the enormous hous
e, tossing out, “kitchen,” and “dining room,” in a clipped, almost robotic manner. In what feels like a blink of an eye, he leads me up a small set of stairs and draws to a stop outside a bedroom doorway.

  When I step closer to peer inside, I’m astounded by the mere size of the room. I spot a door that I assume leads to the en-suite bathroom a second before my eyes catch sight of suitcase man. At the dresser just inside the walk-in closet area, he places my unmentionables in a drawer.

  Nico’s deep voice draws my attention. “Get settled. Dinner’s at six. We’ll talk more then.” Without another word, he turns and strides away.

  I step inside the room I’ve been assigned as the man finishes unpacking my underwear but leaves the drawer open. Dark eyes clash with mine, and his features border on taunting as he reaches in and plucks out a black thong. His smirk sends an eerie chill skittering down my spine.

  “Got you unpacked.” He shuts the drawer and steps closer—far too close for my liking—backing me up against the wall. His grin indicates that he senses my discomfort.

  “All set, Professor Wright.” My name falling from this man’s lips has my skin crawling. He brings a fist to his face, and I realize it holds my underwear. Eyes locked with mine, his voice is hushed. “Wanna trade these for the ones you got on? Bet they smell sweeter.”

  I dart a glance at the open doorway. Shit. What the hell am I doing? I’m searching for Nico when he’s a criminal who clearly has this creepy asshole on his payroll.

  He leans in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper as his nose brushes along my jaw. “Don’t worry.” The pungent scent of chewing tobacco assaults my senses. “It’ll be our secret.” His eyes narrow dangerously. “’Cause you’d be a stupid bitch to cross me.”

  Men like him get off on intimidating those they feel are weak or easily shaken. Vulnerable, with buttons they can push to send the “weak” spinning out of control.