Reign (The Italian Cartel Book 3)

by Shandi Boyes

  I shrug out of Rocco’s hold when he snatches my wrist. I’m not about to race over to Dimitri’s side of the club to beg for his scraps like a fool. I’m going home to lick my wounds and refuel, then I’ll start again on my quest to find the person responsible for the death of my child because despite what my heart believes, she isn’t in this room.

  The shocked sigh that collectively rolled around the no-longer thrumming space during the middle part of my confession was too loud to exclude a single patron. They were all horrified by my comment our baby was killed—even the blonde with her hand halfway into Dimitri’s pants.

  34

  Roxanne

  “Can you please hurry the fuck up? It’s a pimped-out Range Rover. How many could you possibly have in the lot?”

  The valet excuses Rocco’s foul language since it was said after a pleasantry. “Surprisingly, quite a few. Tonight’s guests seem to be fans of that make and model.”

  “It’s fine,” I interject, stepping between Rocco and the valet before Rocco can sock him in the nose. “My flight was scheduled to depart hours ago. I doubt there’ll be another one until dawn, so there’s no need to hurry.”

  I twist to face Rocco when a pfft noise vibrates his lips. “What?”

  For the first time since I’ve known him, he lies to my face. “I didn’t say anything.” Mercifully, my tapping foot and my crossed arms soon call him out as the liar he is. “Dimitri didn’t organize for you to fly home commercially. He’s paying five thousand an hour to have a jet fueled and on the runway. Has been since Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday.” Although it sounds like I am asking a question, I’m not. “The day of my ultrasound?”

  Unsure if I’m summarizing or seeking answers, Rocco halfheartedly shrugs. His lackluster response should ease my annoyance. It doesn’t. Not in the slightest. I thought Dimitri believed my claims our baby was killed. The fact he’s had a private jet on standby since the day India told him otherwise proves he doesn’t.

  “Then I guess you better hurry,” I say to the valet. “I’d hate to waste another dime of Dimitri’s hard-earned money.” The way I spit out ‘hard-earned’ exposes exactly what I think about Dimitri’s family business.

  They’re proof money can’t buy happiness. They just rent it for a few hours and pretend their life is bliss, having no clue substance should always override quality.

  “Finally,” Rocco breathes out with a groan when our car rolls to a stop in front of us.

  The darkness swamping me doesn’t seem so dense when Rocco beats the valet to my door. He holds it open for me, his smile more welcoming now than when I used him as my pawn.

  His grin would have you believing we won tonight. My nanna always said sometimes you must lose an occasional battle to win the war, but I don’t feel anything close to victorious right now.

  “Chin up, Princess P,” Rocco mutters like he heard my private thoughts. “You’ve got more chance of jabbing the main players in the ass if you’re tailing them from behind.” He winks, shuts my door, then jogs around to the driver’s side door by darting around the trunk.

  Without speaking another word, he slips into the driver’s seat, fires up the ignition, then commences our solemn trek to a private airstrip in the middle of nowhere.

  It’s a somber, unsatisfying twenty minutes filled with tension and unvoiced questions. I can feel the tension radiating out of Rocco, smell the unease slicking his skin, but he remains quiet. That is as foreign as Dimitri not responding to my attempt to goad him and proves what should have dawned on me three days ago. My relationship with Dimitri was nothing but an arrangement to improve the odds of him getting his daughter back.

  For some stupid reason, I’m okay with that. I never wanted to steal him from Fien, and I most certainly have no intention to do that now. I just wish I could be a part of their unit. I’ve always felt a little lost. I didn’t experience that once while in Dimitri’s realm. Even when he threatened to kill me or hurt those I love, I still felt wanted.

  My watering eyes stray from the scenery whizzing by the window when Rocco shifts down the gears in the Range Rover. As stated, a gleaming state-of-the-art private jet sits halfway out of an airport hangar in a town bordering India’s suburban mansion. It’s fueled up and ready to go, meaning I only need to farewell Rocco with a kiss, and I’ll be done with this life.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Rocco asks before my lips have even left his cheek. “I’m not a fan of flying, but if it saves me facing Dimitri’s wrath for a couple of hours, I’m all for it.”

  I’d laugh at his mumbled comment if I believed it held an ounce of truth to it. Dimitri would have to be jealous to respond to our horrible scam to make him jealous, and we both know that shipped sailed the instant our ruse was implemented with only the slightest hiccup.

  No one was prepared for me to be actually pregnant—not even me.

  With my shoulders hanging as low as my mood, I reply, “I’m only going to sleep the entire flight, so why bother?”

  Stealing Rocco’s chance to reply to my lie, I press a second peck to his cheek, snatch my clutch purse from the floor, then exit his stationary vehicle.

  I don’t look back while climbing the stairs of the private jet. I’m not a movie starlet, and this isn’t a fairy tale.

  When I break into the cabin that smells of wine and freshly baked cookies, a friendly voice greets me. “Good evening, Ms. Grace. We’re pleased to have you aboard this evening.”

  “Thank you,” I reply to the air stewardess, truly grateful for the sincerity in her tone. It is the nicest one I’ve had all week.

  After removing my denim jacket, she folds it over her arm. “Can I get you something to drink? Perhaps a snack?”

  “Umm…” I take a moment to consider the demands of my aching stomach before shaking my head. “I should probably take care of my sweaty body and face before eating. Is there a restroom I can freshen up in?”

  Gratitude for perks I have no need to become accustomed to smack into me when the pretty brunette dips her chin. “I turned down the bedding in your suite earlier today. It’s ready as requested.” She steps closer to me, her eyes genuinely friendly. “While you freshen up, I’ll instruct the pilot to finalize last checks. We should be in the air within the hour.”

  “Thank you,” I reply through a yawn.

  Once I have my purse dumped onto one of the dozen or more plush leather chairs lining the aisle, I head for the highly varnished door the stewardess pointed to when she mentioned my ‘suite.’ My steps are sluggish and slow, weighed down by exhaustion no amount of rest will cure. I honestly feel ill, like more than heartbreak is responsible for the shards of pain sluicing my veins.

  The room at the back of the jet is small but fancy with silk sheets and hundreds of scatter cushions. I’m tempted to crawl into the middle of the mattress, roll into a ball, and pretend the world doesn’t exist, but I need to use the facilities first. My face is covered with gunk I haven’t worn since I thought black mascara and white powder would stop the uncomfortable gawks of my high school professor. It worked for almost a month, my ruse only ruined when he stumbled upon one of my erotic drawings in my school notepad.

  I usually reserved my sketching for home, but Professor Lewis’s constant after-school detentions saw me switching things up. I don’t know what happened to him. He was constantly there, then he reported my artwork to my grandmother, and he disappeared not long after that. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now it seems a little odd.

  Too curious to discount, I do a final wipe over my face before entering the main part of the cabin. “Smith…” I wait a few seconds, aware he’s always listening, but also know I’m not the only person he keeps tabs on—if he’s still keeping tabs on me. “Smith—”

  “Is handling other matters right now.”

  With my heart beeping in my neck, I shift on my feet to face the voice that froze my heart. Since his Italian accent was heavier than I
’ve heard it before, I assumed it belonged to Dimitri’s father. If the dangerous pump of Dimitri’s nostrils is anything to go by, I’m kind of wishing it was still him. Dimitri is bristling with anger, and once again, all his focus is on me.

  I hate myself for running. I pledged on the way here that the rod in my back won’t bend for anyone. But that doesn’t count when the man you love is looking at you like he wants to kill you.

  Besides, I’m not running from him. I am running away from what he represents. More than once he hurt me, yet all I want to do is smooth the groove between his brows with my lips.

  That makes me as unhinged as Dimitri’s growl when he slams the door shut before I get close to darting through it, then crowds me against it. I’m scared shitless, but for some stupid reason, I relish his big brooding frame looming over me. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be here. If he were done with me, he wouldn’t have needed to check that Rocco drove away after dropping me off.

  As I consider the possibilities of what his arrival means, my heart picks up speed. Will he beg me to stay? Will he tell me he’s sorry? Will he introduce me to his daughter instead of pretending he hasn’t noticed me watching their connection from afar?

  The possibilities are endless, I just never considered this one.

  With his big hand cupping the little pouch in the lower half of my stomach from eating too many carbs the past week, and his lips squashed against my ear, he whispers five words more important than any, “I cared. I still do.”

  35

  Dimitri

  Every step I take away from the private jet feels like a knife is being stabbed into my chest. My words shattered Roxanne, she broke down in front of me, yet I still walked away.

  I don’t have a choice. I can’t be who she needs me to be and protect her at the same time. She craves a monster, a bastard, a man who’d rather destroy her than have her ever believe she deserves better than him, but I need to be more than that.

  I need to be the lowest of the low, the scum on the bottom of a seedy one-star motel shower stall, the man my father raised me to be. I need to rain terror down on those who have done me wrong and resurrect the innocent I burned along the way.

  And I need to start with her.

  Megan’s eyes are as red-rimmed as Roxanne’s. They’re puffy like she’s been crying, but not a touch of moisture is seen on her cheeks. She’s scared she is about to meet with her maker but considering that couldn’t occur until I broke her out of a mental hospital alters her perspective on things. She isn’t close to being free, her wings are fully clipped, but it’s better than being dead.

  It’s the same with Theresa. As much as I want her to be the villain of my story, that isn’t a title I can give her just yet. She shared information with me tonight I couldn’t have gotten elsewhere. Undeniable evidence that will have Roxanne returned to my bed even quicker than I’m hoping.

  That alone will spare Theresa of my fury. It isn’t a lifetime guarantee, but bearing in mind the many ways I had planned to kill her when her overzealous hands had Roxanne acting out, she should count her lucky stars. If she hadn’t spilled a vault load of my father’s secrets the past four hours, she would have been wearing concrete boots by now, and Rocco would be guzzling down saltwater right along with her. That’s how much my blood boiled watching Roxanne and Rocco get cozy and how tenacious my itch to kill was.

  It’s just fortunate for them both, my wish to return Roxanne to her rightful spot at my side was greater than my urge to slit their throats.

  It was a fucking hard feat—one I’m still struggling to maintain.

  After sliding into the back of a prototype vehicle, I signal for the driver to go. We have a long trip ahead of us, and I want it done before Fien wakes. Since that’s usually right at dawn, I better get a wiggle on.

  “Do you recognize any of these people?” I remove a stack of licenses Smith printed when the drugs tracing through Theresa’s veins couldn’t stop the waggle of her tongue before twisting them to face Megan. “Whether in your family or outside of it.”

  I can’t believe I’m playing into Theresa’s suggestion Megan and I are related. The Petretti genes are strong, and Megan looks nothing like me. Her hair is mousy, her teeth are chipped and crooked, and her eyes are hazel. And don’t get me started on the fact she’s batshit crazy, or we’ll be here all night.

  I’m fucked in the head, but I’m not mentally challenged.

  “I won’t hurt these people, Megan. I just want answers.” I’m such a fucking liar. If any of the thoughts running through my head are true, all these men are dead, then I’ll move for their families like Clover is hunting Maestro’s now. He broke the rules when he touched Roxanne, and now his entire existence will pay the price of his stupidity. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d remove a man’s legacy if he hurt Roxanne. I don’t play games when it comes to people I love.

  I work my jaw side to side to loosen its grip when Megan asks, “Are you from the hotel?” Her voice is as weak as the fragile mouse she’s portraying, exposing I need to play on her insecurities. If she’s a damsel in distress, I need to pretend I’m a hero. It’s like good cop, bad cop, everyone has their role.

  I unbutton my jacket before sinking into my seat, hopeful a blasé response will show Megan I mean her no harm. I don’t even have a gun on my hip. It’s stuffed down the back of my trousers, but that’s not the point. “I don’t own any hotels, but why would you ask that? Are you having trouble with some people at your hotel? I can help you with it if you’d like.”

  She licks her cracked lips before twisting them so they match her screwed-up nose. “They’re okay. They are just really annoying.” The woman seated across from me would have to be mid-twenties at least, but she speaks as if she hasn’t reached her teen years yet, furthering my proof she isn’t a Petretti. Even when it could fuck her sideways, Ophelia was fierce.

  After scooting to the edge of her seat, Megan drops her eyes to the stack of licenses. “Can I look through them?”

  “Sure.” I smile at her like she asked to suck my dick before handing over the pile of papers. It is stupid of me to do. She’s more scared now than she was when Preacher snuck her out of a mental facility with a hessian bag pulled over her head and his hand clamped around her mouth. From what I heard from Smith, more than Preacher’s hand is suffering bite wounds.

  I join Megan in balancing on the end of my seat when she says, “The staff asks about him all the time. I don’t like talking about him.” When she swivels on the spot, it dawns on me that the heat on her cheeks has nothing to do with the heat pumping out of the vents. “Nick, though… I talk about him all the time. Have you seen him lately?” She stops, huffs, then folds her arms in front of her chest. “He wasn’t with her, was he? I tried to fix his mistake. I gave her the drink like the man said. It didn’t work. She still had her baby.”

  Her jump in and out of personalities gives me whiplash, but I attempt to maintain the momentum of our conversation. “What man, Megan?” I’ve shown her over a dozen images. She needs to narrow down the list of suspects for me.

  She appears more innocent than insane when she brings her father’s identification card to the front of the stack. Carlyle Shroud looks like a cruel, villainous man incapable of raising a rat, much less a daughter whose mother died before she reached womanhood.

  “Your father gave you something to hurt a woman?” I sound like a fucking moron, but mercifully, it seems to be a language Megan understands.

  “Not my daddy, silly.” She laughs like I’m hilarious. “He is who the men in the white coats at the hotel asked about all the time.”

  “The hotel you just left?” I ask, finally clueing on to what she means. She has confused the mental hospital she was admitted in the past week with the Ritz Carlton. It makes sense when you see the conditions she grew up in. A pigsty would be glamorous compared to her family ranch.

  While nodding, Megan pulls a second photo out of the stack like she isn’t about to unlock
the treasure chest I’ve been hoarding the past almost two years. “He gave me the medication.” She holds up an outdated photo of Rimi Castro in front of me—the once ringleader of the baby-farming syndicate who kidnapped my wife, held my daughter captive, and killed my unborn child. He’s dead, so I can’t get the answers I need from him. Megan, though, she’s very much alive and very much on my radar.

  “How long ago did you meet with Rimi?”

  She takes a moment to contemplate. Her delay reveals she isn’t as stupid as she wants me to believe. She’s playing an act. I’m confident of that.

  Don’t get me wrong, she’s fucking mental, but she could be a genius if her evil was harnessed the right way.

  Once she’s confident she has me on tenterhooks, she answers, “Last week.”

  “You saw Rimi last week?” I rush out before I can stop myself. I’m supposed to be portraying a cool and collected cartel leader, not a dweeb who comes after only two pumps.

  Megan smiles, loving the shock in my tone. Since it places her on my team, I let the mocking gleam that arrived with her grin slide. “Yes. His home isn’t too far from here.” Just like earlier when she spoke about Nick, her expression perks up as she asks, “Do you think he’d like to see me again?” As quickly as her excitement bristled, it slips off her face with a groan. “She won’t be there again, will she? I don’t like her. She’s mean.”

  “A woman was with Rimi when you visited him?”

  She mistakes the shock in my tone as devious. “They’re not like that. They don’t do the things Nick does with her.” She looks like she vomited a little in her mouth. “Rimi’s friend sleeps in her own room.” I feel as if our conversation is about to veer off course when she curls her hand over her basically flat stomach, but am proven wrong when she mutters, “Her baby is really cute. My baby will be cute, too. When she’s born.”