Savagely (The Italian Book 2)

by Krista Holt

  I guess that’s the price of telling the truth. It alienates you from people you once believed were your allies. Like me and Simmons. Me and Nic.

  “Speaking of which,” Scott clears his throat, “have you heard from him?”

  “Yes.” I answer truthfully because there’s no point in lying anymore.

  “When?”

  “A couple of times. Friday was the last time I spoke to him.” The night he got arrested. Simmons had been kind enough to confirm Nic was in handcuffs before allowing me to leave his office. After I’d rinsed the taste of horror out of my mouth and was able to stand on weak legs, I’d numbly taken a cab home and spent the next hour crying, devastated by my own actions.

  “He was arrested,” I announce numbly, despite the way my heart squeezes and my stomach rocks.

  “What?” Scott shouts, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. He gives Cameron an apologetic look before grabbing my elbow and steering us toward the nearest corner.

  “Let go of me,” I snap, pulling my arm free.

  “Sorry,” he says, not appearing all that contrite. “Tell me what happened.”

  “A few days ago, I met up with Simmons, my contact at the FBI. He gave me a device to search Nic’s phone, but it also installed something that let him listen to Nic’s calls and track his GPS.”

  “Damn,” Scott breathes. “He sent you back in, after what that guy had already done to you? He just sent you back into the lion’s den, without protection?”

  I want to tell him I don’t need protection from Nic, that he won’t hurt me. I don’t though, because Scott doesn’t care. In his mind, Nic is the villain. But in mine, I’m the one who can’t be trusted.

  Or maybe, we both are.

  “Anyway…” My eyes cut to the hearing room door as it opens again, but there’s still no sign of the whistleblower. “It worked. It copied Nic’s phone and gave Simmons access to all of Nic’s past GPS locations.”

  “And?”

  “It turns out one of the men from that night, Saul Marino, was killed a couple days afterward. At Battery Park.”

  The words feel disjointed and foreign as they leave my mouth. Like I’m talking about something else, something removed from me. Like it has all the familiarity of a news story you’d hear late at night. But I’m not detached from this. This story is woven so tightly into my existence, it’ll eventually become part of my story, part of my past.

  “Simmons thinks Nic was there, around the medical examiner’s estimated time of death.”

  Stunned silence follows. Scott runs his hands through his hair as he stares at me, wide-eyed.

  “So, they arrested him,” I finish.

  “I—he—what?” he stammers.

  “He was arrested,” I repeat, even though it doesn’t feel any more real than the first time I said it.

  “Does he know you did it?”

  I honestly don’t know. I wonder if Simmons will tell him, or will my transgressions stay hidden. Do I even want them to? Do I want all those secrets to remain in the dark, unspoken and dirty, constantly shaming me?

  “I’m not sure if he knows I was involved.” I sigh.

  “That’s dangerous. Is this Simmons guy making sure you’re protected? He should be, given what you’ve done for him.”

  I’d agree with him, except, I don’t want anything to do with Simmons. In fact, I think that was one of the things I screamed at him right as I left his office. He hasn’t tried to call me since.

  I’m still so angry. He tricked me. He didn’t tell me that his plan, from the start, was to punish Nic for the sins of his father. I would have never agreed had I known. I had only wanted to prove Nic’s innocence, not his guilt.

  “Can we not talk about it anymore?” I force back the tears threatening to spill. “Please?”

  Scott gives me a funny look, like he doesn’t understand why I’m so upset. I guess I can’t expect him to. He can’t possibly understand what it was like, what we were like. The late nights at Nic’s off-campus loft. Back when it was completely normal to wake up on his couch, his arms wrapped around me. Back when my only concerns were midterms, study sessions, and Nic.

  He wasn’t there the first time Nic said he loved me. Or when I finally found the nerve to say it back. Only two people were privy to those moments. Nic and me. And if the last however-many hours I’ve spent on the floor of my bedroom wallowing in my grief have made me realize anything, it’s this—I refuse to believe it was all a lie.

  It’s not possible. No matter what he did, no matter what I did, there was a part of us, what we were, that was real.

  Thankfully, Cameron picks that moment to return, saving me from my thoughts by taking his seat.

  He gestures for us to take our places behind him. “They should be here any second.”

  As if on cue, the heavy door at the back of the room creaks open and a cluster of FBI agents enter. They stand just inside the doorway, scrutinizing the interior.

  Anticipation fills the air like static electricity. Everyone is on edge, waiting, straining to see behind the living shield of agents dressed in black suits and adorned with shiny badges. They start to move, in unison, marching down the aisle.

  Like the rest, I strain to see, catching glimpses of two different men. The man with red hair I immediately recognize as Agent O’Neil. But I can’t make out the other witness. Agents surround him, unwittingly blocking his face.

  My Blackberry, hidden in my purse, buzzes with an incoming email. I glance down, wondering if I should get it, when Scott inhales sharply.

  “It’s him,” he whispers, his face paling. He bends forward, tapping Cameron on the shoulder and whispering something into his ear.

  “Is that him?” Cameron turns to me.

  My forehead creases. “Is that who?”

  He nods toward the men, repeating his question. “Is that the guy?”

  I glance back toward the table and step to the right, trying to find a better vantage point. The FBI agents have cleared the aisle but the whistleblower has his back to me.

  A black suit covers broad shoulders and a white collar kisses the back of his neck. An expensive watch wraps his wrist and dark hair brushes the collar of his jacket. He tugs at the cuffs, his motions confident, unruffled. He hardly appears unnerved by the Capitol Police presence, or the fact that everyone is waiting with bated breath to hear him speak.

  Cameron watches me impatiently, waiting for my answer. My eyes flicker back toward the man as he slowly turns around, revealing a bruised jawline, full lips, and dark eyes that clash with mine.

  A hush falls over the room, real or imagined, I can’t say. Everything seems to stop. I squeeze my eyes shut, for just a second, before forcing them open again.

  No. No. That’s not him. It’s not possible.

  It’s a mirage. A delusion brought on by lack of sleep and wishful thinking. It can’t be…

  Nic?

  The weight of his stare is heavy, and heady. My heart jumps into my throat. I cover my mouth, trying to keep it inside, trying to keep it all inside.

  “Did you know?” Scotts asks, leaning toward me.

  I shake my head, too choked up to speak, too stunned to say anything. Nic stares at me and I can’t look away. Molten eyes peer into my soul, begging me to connect the dots.

  His mouth moves, spitting out two inaudible words. And just like that everything snaps together, like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle, and I finally understand—he was trying to explain the only way he could.

  After all these months, after all my attempts to get the truth from him, after all the heartbreak, after everything, my doubts, my fears, and my anger are tamed with two words.

  Two. Words.

  Trust Me.

  CHAPTER 21

  Nic

  SHE’S LOOKING AT ME WITH wide, disbelieving eyes. Like she isn’t sure I’m here.

  Instinct and need draw my body tight. I want to go to her, but I can’t. Last night, when Garrett told me his
bosses had agreed to let me testify, he made me swear to follow every single one of his orders. Including keeping my shit together.

  I’m only supposed to confirm that the FBI agents the committee suspected of taking bribes, were, in fact, taking bribes. Nothing more, nothing less, and not another word beyond that. His bosses threatened to throw out my immunity agreement if I so much as strayed an inch outside of their clear-cut rules. And while I hate following anyone else’s rules, I had reluctantly agreed, contingent on the promise that Arnoldo Moretti, the congressman from New York who was also in my father’s pocket, be barred from the hearing.

  Sure enough, in the back of the black SUV on the way to the Rayburn building this morning, Garrett showed me the official statement from Moretti’s office, announcing his resignation, effective immediately. Since Garrett has fulfilled all my demands, I’m going to abide by his rules. I’ll stay on this side of the table, keep myself together, and keep my words for Reagan to myself for now. I’ll have time to explain everything to her later. I hope.

  Someone bangs a gavel, jarring my thoughts and pulling my focus from Reagan to the older man sitting in front of her.

  “Thank you all for being here today,” he says. “I think we’re all anxious to hear what Mr. X has to share with the committee…”

  “Mr. X?” Garrett mutters under his breath. “It makes you sound like you’re a superhero or something. It’s ridiculous.”

  The corner of my mouth twitches, despite the seriousness of testifying, because the relief is palpable. This is happening. I’m getting out. I’m finally going to have a life beyond my father, beyond this. Something more than looking across the room at the woman I love and having to reveal parts of my past to other witnesses because there’s no other way she’ll believe me. I’ve hidden too much from her, but that stops now. I’m an open book, open to all of her questions, from this point on.

  “…so without making us wait any longer, I’d like to introduce myself for the record. I’m Congressman Eric Cameron, Chairman of the House Oversight Committee. This hearing has been orchestrated with the intention of determining if current FBI practices are doing enough to safeguard its agents’ loyalty. Some of the questions we seek to have answered include the following…”

  The man keeps droning on. Next to me, Garrett shifts in his seat, but I find myself staring at Reagan. She’s got a little more color in her cheeks now, not so ghostly pale. The man sitting next to her, Scott, leans over and whispers something in her ear, and jealousy strikes like a snake. Suddenly, I wish I’d taken a swing at him that night. I don’t like that he’s over there, sitting next to her, and I’m over here, on the opposite side of the issue.

  He’s probably never had to lie to her either. He’s the good guy, the straight-laced man that women like Reagan plan their lives around. Men like me, we’re the cautionary tale they one day tell their daughters to avoid while begging them to learn from their mistakes. The thought of not being good enough for her grates on my nerves, even though I know it’s true. Even though I want to be. I want to try. For her.

  Garrett kicks me under the table, and I snap upright, fighting off a wince as my hurt ribs complain.

  “Sir…sir…Mr. X,” Cameron repeats, irritation thick in his voice, like he’s been trying to get my attention and I haven’t noticed. Which, to be fair, is probably the case, given that they’re all looking at me, waiting.

  “Uh, sorry.” I lean toward the microphone, glancing at Reagan before focusing on her boss. “What was the question?”

  “Can you give us a little background on yourself? For informational purposes. It would help us understand why your testimony might be pertinent to the facts at hand.”

  “Mr. Chairman,” Garrett interrupts, “in the interest of Mr. X’s future testimony in a criminal case about to be brought before a New York State judge next week, it’s essential that his anonymity be preserved. Too many details could risk his life, and by extension, the prosecution’s case.”

  “I understand, Mr. O’Neil,” Cameron says, nodding. “However, this body does need assurance that Mr. X is qualified to speak on this topic.”

  A noise in the back of my throat, one that could be construed as a scoff, hits the microphone and echoes around the room.

  “Mr. X,” the chairman says, glaring, “would you care to enlighten me as to your thoughts?”

  “Let’s cut the bullshit here. I’ll tell you what you want to know, provided you all keep the details to yourselves for a couple of days. Deal?”

  Beside me, Garrett groans, muttering something under his breath, and Reagan frowns at me, but I push ahead.

  “I’m gonna need some sort of confirmation, because my life depends on keeping my identity under wraps for as long as possible.”

  Cameron looks around the room at the other elected officials. There’s some nodding and looks of agreement between everyone seated behind the committee bench before he leans toward the microphone in front of him. “I think we can agree to that. Any reference to your identity will be redacted from the transcript. We will continue to refer to you as Mr. X during these proceedings, and we’ll keep any details out of the press until we have the FBI’s approval to speak on the topic.”

  I glance at Garrett, who’s pissed, but I don’t see how giving the committee a little more information on me is a big deal. My father is already behind bars, the trial is fast tracked, so my name will be out there in a matter of days anyway, and the FBI is already all over my ass with their protection detail. It won’t change the risk I’ve already taken; it just increases it slightly. But I’m willing to take that chance for Reagan.

  I glance at her, catching the way she stares at me with wide eyes, hope and anxiety warring in them. She wraps her arms around her waist and leans forward, waiting for me to go on.

  “Now that we’ve all agreed,” I take a deep breath. “I’ll start with the basics. My father is the head of the Selvaggio Crime Family.” I wait for the collective gasp to finish before continuing, “So, to answer your earlier question, I have firsthand knowledge those FBI agents were on my father’s payroll. David Pastore and Henry Clark are as guilty as sin. Have been for a few years now. I’m not entirely sure why this is such a surprise to you all. It shouldn’t be. Our reach is long; we have friends in every organization, in every entity you can think of. NYPD, the FBI, Congress…speaking of which, if any of you see Arnoldo Moretti anytime soon, be sure to give him my regards.”

  Shocked silence descends on the room like broken glass falling from a window as they realize a traitor was in their midst. Reagan’s features narrow into a glare, pricking at my conscience. Because I know she just realized Moretti is the reason I knew everything about the investigation, despite never asking her for a thing.

  “Now, are there any other questions?”

  The room erupts, everyone talking at once, but I only have eyes for her. They all ask questions, and I answer them one at a time, unwilling to look away from her beautiful face. The members start to notice how I’m only addressing her, and even her boss keeps checking over his shoulder, glancing at her before he poses a question.

  Reagan shifts in her seat, uncomfortable with all the attention, but I can only hope she takes this for what it really is—me, telling her the truth, the complete and utter truth, for the first damn time. That’s why I insisted on testifying. I knew she wouldn’t believe me any other way. Unless I was in a suit and had consented to be badgered by stuffy old men with a god complex, she would have thought it was another attempt to dissuade her.

  It goes on for hours. They ask questions about everything, some of them I answer, some of them Garrett heads off. Telling the duly elected representatives of the American public that their curiosity doesn’t outweigh the potential for justice in a New York City courtroom. In essence, I don’t have to answer anything that might jeopardize the chances of convicting my father on a mile-long list of offenses.

  My ribs start to ache from sitting in one position for too long,
and my patience with these men is growing thin. I want this over, now. I want to talk to Reagan, and I can’t do that until they’ve dismissed me, or I’ve dismissed myself. To tell you the truth, it’s looking like the latter option might be my only one, because these people are so rabid in their search for the perfect news bite that we could be here all night.

  “Mr. X,” Cameron takes another stab at me, “can you shed any light on the disappearance of our intern, Trevor Peters?”

  Reagan’s blue eyes swing my direction, intent, waiting for my answer. Garrett, too, leans toward me.

  “No.”

  “What about the attack of my two staff members? Can you share with us anything about that incident?”

  “No,” I repeat.

  “Perhaps we should swear them into these proceedings, ask them if they can identify the man that kidnapped them off the street, choked my female staffer, and beat my male one?”

  Tension snaps like a lightning strike throughout the room. Reagan blanches, and her eyes drop to the floor. I don’t want her to have to relive that night, but I’m not about to incriminate myself either. It’s one thing to have a deal that guarantees me immunity, it’s quite another to see just how much water that deal will hold if they all decide to rain down upon me.

  The court of public opinion is a fickle one, and big government agencies like to be liked. It wouldn’t be the first time an agency such as the FBI had to pull a signed and sealed immunity deal because of public outcry. And these men, these politicians, are masters at whipping up public outrage when they need it. When it helps them look like the white knight, showing up to the rescue after the dirty work has been done.

  “Mr. Chairman,” Garrett interjects, “we came here today as a sign of good faith, and at great personal risk, I might add. I had originally advised Mr. X against it, but he insisted. Surely, this body would not want to unfairly retaliate against an individual whose sole intention in appearing before you was to answer your questions about the agents in question, and nothing more. Now, I do believe he has been more than accommodating, but I must insist on bringing this hearing to a close, or at least end our participation in it. Mr. X needs to return to a secure location as soon as possible. Every minute he’s here is another minute he risks his life. So, you get one more question before he leaves. Make it a good one.”