Текст книги "Exposed"
Автор книги: Ivy Stone
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EXPOSED
Copyright © 2015 Ivy Stone
All rights reserved.
Published by Ivy Stone, First Edition October 13th 2015
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing. Except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For permission requests, email the author at [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy of each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Cover Design: Louisa, LM Creations
Edited by: Becky, Hot Tree Editing
Proofread by: Prim and Wild Proofreading
Formatted by: Max Effect
Cover Image by: Michael Meadows Studios
WARNING
For Mature Audience 18+
Contains Adult Sexual Situations & Language
CONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
About the Author
Follow Ivy
Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
To Chris,
Because when I didn’t believe in me, you did.
I love you.
“Love is the most beautiful of dreams and the worst of nightmares.”
–William Shakespeare
PROLOGUE
Lindsey
Age Eighteen
The stench of paint thinners burns my nostrils the moment I shove open the door to our apartment. Our mother’s meth lab. Ali skips in ahead of me, her short blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. She dumps her school bag on the counter and heads in the direction of her bedroom.
I move inside, closing the door and locking it behind me. “Mom, are you home?”
Silence engulfs me, and I exhale a sigh of relief. Walking past our dining table, I eye it in disgust and scoff. The chemically stained table is decorated with glass jars, bottles, containers, tubes, cleaning products, and oddly enough, today there’s cash. My gaze darts toward the front door and my stomach churns. If I get caught, it’ll hurt. If I don’t, everything will still hurt.
I snatch up the dollar bills, clutching them tightly in my hand as I race to my room to hide the money in the only spot no one’s ever found. My body shakes as dread looms over me the entire time it takes me to get to my closet, shift the boxes out of the way that are stacked on the floor, and lift the loose floorboard up. Wriggling the wooden piece of flooring, it gives way, and my small silver jewelry box comes into sight. I stuff the cash inside and as I shut the lid, I hesitate, my eyes catching a glimpse of the tattered family photo amongst the cash. Two parents, two little girls, four smiling faces. One happy, healthy family. Their affection paints the perfect picture of love. These beautiful strangers, who are they? Where did they go? A stabbing pain shoots straight to my chest, and it ricochets, sending shards of unrequited love and heartache through me for the hundredth time. I slam the lid shut, not only on the box, but also my heart. No longer can I look into the eyes of the one woman who is supposed to love me, care for me, and cherish me. I can’t bear the torture of watching her turn the other way. Putting the floorboard back in place, I arrange the boxes back over it and shut the closet doors just as a gut-wrenching scream pierces the silence of the apartment.
I run.
My feet pound on the floor as I race toward the screaming, Ali’s shaky voice sends a chill over my skin and bile to my throat. There she sits, curled into a ball on the floor, her hands covering her eyes while tears fall freely through the gaps in her fingers. I crouch down, wrapping myself around her body, preparing to soothe her from whatever’s caused her to become so upset. That’s when I see it: the needle on the floor, my mother’s scrawny arm hanging loosely over the side of the bed. I squint my eyes closed, pulling Ali tighter into my arms.
Her whimpers don’t stop.
When I reopen my eyes, Mom’s arm still hangs there, lifeless.
Gradually, I pull Ali off me and mentally prepare myself for what I’m about to see. Maybe she’s not dead. Maybe she’s just sleeping. Stepping closer to the bed, I grip the dog tags around my neck, so tight they dig into my palms.
I press my lips together firmly, fighting the fire burning through my belly. Her empty blue eyes stare up at me, I reach for her, placing my shaky hand on her chest to feel for signs of life. My mind is screaming at me that she’s gone—there’s no hope. Her pale skin is icy cold beneath my touch. I pull away immediately.
I sit on the edge of the bed, shock radiating through me. As I stare at her, the first tear falls. Tears of sadness, regret, relief, it all flows out of me until I have nothing left to give. The pain is too much to bear, I can’t leave my heart unguarded. I’ve been used, abused, lost and betrayed and yet still, I sit here mourning the loss of a woman who’d let her children starve so she could spend her last dollar on drugs. How could she do this? How could she die now? This life she’s put us through doesn’t deserve an easy way out. Even in death, she is selfish. No pain, no suffering.
I wipe away the weakness of my tears and coat my heart with iron strength.
Never again will I let myself feel this way. And now I have to be strong to hold it together for my eleven-year-old sister, who’s just witnessed a nightmare we’ll both struggle to erase.
Curling Ali into my side, I walk us to my room. She falls onto the bed and cries into the pillow while I stand beside her, stuffing the few belongings we both own into my backpack, along with my jewelry box. Each time I add something to the bag, my mother’s lifeless face appears in my head, taunting me. I zip up the bag and pull my phone from my pocket. I have two people to call.
“911, what is your emergency?” I don’t answer.
I can’t speak. The words are there on the tip of my tongue, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. The only sound is the thumping of my heart beating rapidly in my chest. Hanging up, I find the other number I need to call.
The dial tone fills my ears and, for every second it rings without picking up, dread threatens to swallow me whole.
A gruff voice resonates on the other end of the line and relief floods me.
“Hello?”
“Oliver.” A lump forms in my throat as I whisper his name. I swallow past it so I can speak. “Ali and I need a place to stay. Please.” I pause, holding back a cry from escaping. “She’s dead.” The words fall from my lips, and it’s hopeless. Tears cascade down my face, each one falling for a woman who didn’t deserve my tears, let alone my love.
“Shit, Lindsey. Get over here. You know you don’t need to ask.”
I stifle a cry and mutter, “Thank you.”
I hang up the phone and put it back in my pocket. I shrug my bag onto my back and rush to Ali’s side.
“Ali, honey, it’s time to go,” I whisper, gently rubbing her back. She nods, keeping her eyes down.
With her small hand in mine, I close the door on our past. Not once do I look back.
CHAPTER ONE
Lindsey
Eleven years later
Time is my enemy, absolution my craving.
Can I find redemption before there is no chance to turn back?
I glance at the world clocks lining the walls, their incessant ticking echoes through the building.
“Anything else I can help you with, Mrs. Marino?” The bank cashier secures the last stack of cash in my briefcase before pushing it over the counter toward me.
As I reach for the handle, I notice my five-and-a-half carat diamond wedding ring sparkling in the daylight. It shines through the glass roof of the bank catching the cashier’s eye, distracting him momentarily.
My lips curve up into a perfected superficial smile. “No, thank you. That’ll be all.”
I step back from the counter and turn left toward the exit. The rhythmic click of my heels on the cream marble floor reminds me what little time I have left to pull this off.
Fifteen seconds.
Ten seconds.
Five seconds until he makes a call to an unsuspecting Mr. Marino.
The electronic doors to the bank open automatically and the cool city air welcomes me with relief. Chancing a last look at the bank cashier’s desk where I stood just a moment ago, I see the phone attached to his ear. His brows furrow as he speaks to the person on the other end of the line.
Two burly security guards appear in the corner of my vision and my adrenaline spikes, flowing through me so fast my heart thumps wildly in my chest. Their eyes undress me hungrily, their obvious interest in my appearance outweighing that of the bucket load of cash I’m carrying.
A rumbling exhaust sounds outside and I smile. A combination of relief swirls with excitement as I subtly hurry my ass into the passenger seat of the black Lamborghini, which pulled in. My door shuts with a loud thud and we’re off.
Oliver weaves in and out of the New York City traffic like a pro and finally, when we’re far enough away from the bank and stopped at a red light, I turn to him.
A forced smile graces his flawless face and his knuckles start to return to their normal color after holding the steering wheel in a death grip. “Mrs. Marino.”
I roll my eyes while pulling back the short bob-cut black wig off my head. Shaking out my hair, I throw the wig in the back seat and rip the ridiculous diamond off my finger. I drop it out the window of the car. “Thank God, that’s over.”
Reaching forward, I dial numbers into the keypad on the car’s dashboard and a dial tone sounds through the vehicle.
Picking up the line, a deep voice answers, “Talk to me.”
My hands tighten around the black case in my lap. “It’s done. Money’s been wired to the offshore account you have the details for. You’ll find all your millions there. I took the liberty of taking out my cut. But Enzo, you better get to those tapes. If he finds out–”
I’m cut off by his sharp voice piercing the air. “He won’t. It’s already taken care of. Nice job. You’re good. I’ll give you that,” he responds, his tone filtered with amusement.
A shudder ripples through me and I grit my teeth. “Get those charges dropped, Enzo. Or I’ll make sure you lose your mafia princess for good.”
I end the call, cutting Enzo off. Falling back into the comfortable leather of Oliver’s car, I exhale a long, slow breath. Finally, we can put this life to rest.
Closing my eyes, I block everything out and revel in the silence I know won’t last.
“You were cutting it fine there, Linds. That was too close.”
I twist my neck in Olly’s direction to find him glancing at me, eyes tight and full of concern. I know what he’s thinking.
My heart slows to a relatively normal pace and I reach across to cover his hand with my own. I squeeze reassuringly. “I know. No more now, Olly. We’re done.”
“Yeah, babe, you said that last time, too.”
My insides twist with nausea, the noose around my neck tightening.
How long until the chair is pulled out from beneath me?
CHAPTER TWO
Lindsey
A few months earlier
Instinct, an intuitive power, one we so often choose to ignore. Why? Why risk it all for the unknown?
I should have listened to my instincts. Instead, I walked the path to hell, into a nightmare bearing an unexpected gift, one that would guarantee a bittersweet demise.
The snow falls delicately through the air, a contrast to the horns blasting all around me. The heating in the taxi keeps me warm. I sink into the worn leather seat, letting the sounds of rush hour in New York City fill my ears like a familiar lullaby. It’s loud, busy. It’s home.
The sanctuary of the moment ends with my destination now within reach. I pass the driver some cash and push open the door. The frigid air brushes my warm cheeks as I step out of the taxi, meeting the cold January air. I fasten the scarf around my neck and pull my coat tighter around my body, clutching the sides. My sister had called for the first time in weeks and my heart lightened at the sound of her voice. The feeling became short-lived when I realized the reason for her call. She needed money, a place to stay. How could I say no when her shaky voice betrayed her fear? Protecting her was a natural habit I had yet to break, even at her age of twenty-two. I can’t keep coming to her rescue.
So here I am, waiting for her in front of the most disgusting strip club in Midtown, while running late to my own business meeting.
Kevin, a muscular African-American man, greets me at the entrance of the shabby building known as Sweet Tarts. Cracks decorate the walls and the paint is faded, the lack of care on the owner’s behalf on display for all to see. It looks every bit the grubby, below-grade strip club that it is. Kevin’s eyes find mine and his hand automatically retracts to the piece he’s carrying at his side. It’s hidden, but I know it’s there. My lips curve into a small smile at knowing I pose as a threat to a man three times my size. My reputation precedes me.
“Kevin. I’m here for Alison. You wanna go find her for me?” I give him my biggest and sweetest smile, hoping my charm will lead him to find Alison without me needing to step foot into this dump.
He sighs and twists his head to the side before turning back to me, unimpressed. “I’ll bring her out. Be back in a minute.”
Ali’s worked at the strip club owned by the Marino crime family for years, even while underage. I worked for them for nearly six.
The day Giuseppe Marino found us was the luckiest day of our lives.
It was also the worst.
It was the beginning of the end.
My stomach growled. We hadn’t eaten a real meal in days. So we did what we had to do to survive. Only on this day we were caught. I used my fake ID to get into a bar and then I stole the wallet of Giuseppe Marino’s right-hand man.
Mistake number one.
We chatted, I flirted, I charmed him and when he was too busy with his hands on my ass, I stole it right from his pocket. I didn’t know it was one of his associates until Ali, Oliver and I were physically restrained at gunpoint down the side alley.
Mistake number two.
I’d fucked up. Not because now this man wanted to kill me, or the fact Giuseppe was happy to let him to do so, but because something worse happened next. Giuseppe liked my attitude. He enjoyed my fight as I struggled to pull myself free. He was intrigued by my talent at deception and impressed with my execution. We lived to breathe another day and we never went hungry again.
Money. Power. Greed. Revenge.
They dangled it in front of our faces that night. They showered our naïve souls with the glamour of their unlawful world.
Alison fell for it.
Olly relished it.
I loathed it.
I’d been around enough men in my life to recognize the corruption buried in Giuseppe’s eyes.
But Marino had something I wanted and that I couldn’t get anywhere else. Information.
So I did what any nineteen-year-old girl seeking vengeance on a man who took everything from her would do. I dined with the devil.
Glancing down at my watch I notice the time. Shit. I’m so late, even later than usual. Olly will be furious.
Oliver Davenport is my business partner and best friend. The man is anxious as hell, always looking over his shoulder, waiting for the moment he’ll be stabbed in the back. Most of the time he’s just an asshole no one wants to tolerate.
After five minutes of pacing in front of the entrance, I give up on waiting for Alison. I groan. I have to actually step foot in the venue where sexually transmitted diseases are served up for dessert with a slice of pussy. In my black Mary Jane’s, I push open the heavy front door and shake off the strange vibe rippling over my skin. Something’s not right. Adrenaline pumps through my veins and my skin feels raw. I tense, every muscle in my body rigid.
Walking through the entrance, the door slams shut behind me. Startled, I look up to see all eyes locked on me. I glance around the room and mentally start counting the men gathered around the circular bar. Shit. Three stand tall alongside one man, who I instantly recognize as Lucio Marino, the club manager. Two are behind the bar’s counter, and all of them are pointing guns at the five furious men dressed head to toe in leather, who are also gripping guns in their hands.
I scan the expansive room for Ali. She’s not in any of the booths that take up the entire back end of the club, nor can I see her on either of the stages on the side walls. She’s nowhere in sight and now I’m not going anywhere without her. Something really isn’t right.
The taut voice of Lucio booms through the room and my eyes land on him in the middle of this testosterone-filled mess.
“Argh, little Lindsey. What can I do for you? As you can see, I’m a little busy and my father isn’t here if you’re looking for him.” He grins a sinister smile and I grimace at the use of the name he’s called me ever since we met.
His sleazy eyes cause bile to erupt in my throat. “Cut the shit, Lucio, I’m just here for Ali.”
As fast as the words leave my lips, the unmistakable barrel of a gun digs into the skin under my chin. I should feel scared, panicked… something. But I’m not.
“Better watch your mouth, little Lindsey. Papa isn’t here to save you now.” His hot breath blows in my face. He stares me down and it’s meant to be intimidating, but no knots tie me up with fear. It isn’t the first time he’s held a gun to my head, and it probably won’t be the last.
Before my mind can register what’s happening, I’m jolted from the left side by a strong force, my ribs aching from the blow before landing face down on the chipped tiled floors of the club. Windows smash, guns spit out bullet after bullet, temporarily deafening me.
I grunt in pain, the palms of my hands stinging, glass now embedded in them thanks to the small shards I fell onto. Tiny droplets of blood leak from the lacerations as I try to find the strength to lift myself up. But I can’t move. I’m trapped. Pinned down by the heavy weight of a warm body refusing to let up no matter how much I push against it. The unsettling fear of being confined sends me into panic mode.
“Get the hell off me, asshole.” Nausea attacks full force and black spots paint my vision. My constricting lungs make it difficult to breathe. I can sense my consciousness drifting away. Before my mind can abandon my body, I’m rolled over and a voice pulls me back into the moment.
“Shhh sweetheart. You’re okay. Just breathe.” His voice is deep. It’s reassuring, tranquilizing, and somehow it soothes my shaking body as his arms envelope me. My racing heart slows to a normal pace and I regain focus of my surroundings.
Eyes the color of deepest indigo, captivate me. So fierce and mysterious, yet the beauty in them pierces me with curiosity and lust.
A hardness stiffens against my leg and I’m pulled back into the moment where I’m in the arms of a stranger and can feel his growing desire against me. I avert my eyes and attempt to find my footing. But the man with eyes the color of the midnight sky doesn’t let me go. He lifts me up with ease and his hands gripping my waist tighten. Our gazes catch again and I’m momentarily hypnotized. He’s gorgeous. Ridiculously tall, I have to kink my neck just to search out his eyes. He’s built, a solid wall of hard muscle, bulging biceps, impeccably huge shoulders, all leading up to dark brown hair styled shorter on the sides and longer on top.
Scruff shadows his face, adding to his allure. His brows knit together as I openly ogle him. He must notice because he squeezes my arms just a little too tight. Lust shoots through my petite, five-foot-two form, settling in a place it has no right to be right now. His touch sends sparks through me, electrifying my nerve endings, causing goose bumps to rise on my skin. I think it shocks me as much as it does him. No man’s touch has ever lit a fire inside of me like the one burning through my core right now. Mirroring feelings similar to my own, this stranger, my apparent savior, traps me securely in this reverie where I can do nothing but bask in the fleeting moment of desire. The world is still spinning, but not for us. It’s as though time has stopped. I’m stuck in this trance with only him.
As quickly as our moment happened, it’s over. A quiet, awkward cough severs the brief connection.
Turning in the direction of the cough, another disgustingly good-looking man stands grinning from ear to ear. Seriously, another one? Where are they coming from? The badge around his thick neck and bulletproof vest protecting his upper body lets me know exactly who he is. The other hot guy is blond, built like a brick house and smiling at me with dimples in his cheeks, which he probably believes pulls all the ladies in.
Immediately, I’m freed from the large hands holding me, and both men gawk at me like I’m from another planet. Yeah, I’d be wondering why a woman dressed in a Prada pantsuit with Manolos on her pedicured feet would be doing in this awful club too. They have no idea.
“Can you stand on your own?” the man I’ve been stuck in time with asks me, genuine concern etched into his chiseled face.
“Yeah, thanks. And sorry.” I cough, trying to dislodge the lump forming in my throat. “…about before. Probably shouldn’t have called my rescuer an asshole.”
Oh, jeez. I cringe, completely embarrassed at my lack of composure.
“All good. I’m Detective Cole. This here is my partner, Detective Tate.” Detective Tate puts out his hand and I shake it in return. His touch is pleasant and innocent, so different from his partner’s. “We’re going to need you to see the paramedics.” He jerks his head to where the club’s front door previously stood. Now it’s in splintered pieces all over the place.
Searching his face for any sign of emotion of what passed between us, I come up blank. Nothing. It’s gone. Maybe I dreamt it all up when I hit my head. Flicking my gaze to Detective Tate, who’s walking away, I push away any thoughts of this total stranger. I break eye contact and pull myself together and ignore the hurt rising to the surface. Why do I care if he felt it too? Why am I searching for the magnetic touch I’m now craving so badly?
Chaos surrounds me. Rubble is on every surface. Blood spatters the walls. Law enforcement is everywhere and as I look around, my brows knit together because there’s no sign of Lucio, or the bikers, just two of Lucio’s men lying in pools of their own blood. Had I been so engrossed with Detective Cole that I didn’t notice them carted away by the police? Choosing that moment, my brain decides to catch up with my body and my limbs ache as if just feeling the initial blow. As we walk to the exit, I search the club for my sister. Hope flourishes. Maybe she had already left before I arrived? Stepping around the deceased, broken glass, and God knows what else as we go, dread languishes the hope. Shit, where is she?
Halting to a stop, my hand raises on its own accord and rests on Detective Cole’s chest. He looks down at my hand then back up at me, raising an eyebrow at my unexpected closeness. The tension between us thickens. He must feel it too? I quickly drop my hand and internally slap myself for touching him. I don’t act irrationally around men. Every word spoken, every gesture is a planned tactic. Normally, I’m in complete control of my emotions and actions, never displaying genuine affection, and in turn, showing them no weakness. Yet I’m letting this man I’ve known all of two seconds affect me in ways no other has even come close to.
“My sister,” I blurt out, like she’s the reason I just let my heart rule rather than my head. “She’s in here somewhere. We have to find her.”
Stepping closer, Detective Cole grasps my upper arm and gives me a reassuring squeeze. He swallows and I watch every movement of his Adam’s apple. He’s uncomfortable with the touch, in my presence. So he did feel it too.
“You don’t need to worry. We’ll find your sister, but for now, you need to see the paramedics. What’s your sister’s name?”
I frown, pursing my lips. This won’t get me anywhere I need to be searching for Alison, not chatting with a police officer.
“Alison Jenkins. She works here. I was here to pick her up.”
He grimaces at Ali’s name. The lines bunching around his eyes showing his age. He knows her.
“Detective Cole, I’m going to find her. I’m fine, just a few scratches.” I stand up straighter with my chin up, hoping my words are somewhat believable as I ignore the pain shouting from my weakened body. Before he can answer me, Detective Tate and a small female with a mass of blonde hair step into my vision and I instantly recognize her frail body. Alison.
“Jesus, just let me go. How many times do I have to tell you I’m okay? I just want to go home.” Ali’s obnoxiously loud voice booms through the building for everyone to hear. I gasp with relief hearing her groan at Detective Tate. She can’t be too badly hurt if she’s running her mouth.
I take her in. She’s walking fine, no limp, no bleeding, and no cuts except for one on her lip. I shake my head at her nonsense. Drama. It follows her around like a bad smell. I cringe, imagining what she has gotten herself into now.
“Never mind, Detective, there’s my delightful sister.” I gesture toward Ali with my hand.
Detective Cole’s face hardens at the sight of Alison and the fact he clearly knows her on some level sends a burn of unwarranted jealousy toward Ali, straight through my chest. Shaking off the ridiculous feeling, I come to my senses and rush over to her.
A strong force grips my forearm, preventing me from moving any further. The hairs rise on the back of my nape and without even turning, I can distinguish his touch.
He spins me around. His thumb caresses my cheek, slides over my dry, blood-crusted lip. It shouldn’t feel so good, but it does.
“You’re hurt. Those cuts on your hands look nasty. Go see the doctor,” he demands, his demeanor serious, leaving no room for argument. A tingling need for closeness subsides and a surge of annoyance takes over at the use of his controlling tone.
Yanking my arm from his hold, I stand tall, narrowing my eyes, ready to give him a piece of my mind. “Firstly, the cuts are fine. They’ll heal, not that my wellbeing is really any of your concern. Secondly, I don’t take kindly to being told what to do. Now, I’m going to ask you to politely, get out of my way,” I snap back, voice low.
To my surprise, he takes a step back giving me space. The even bigger surprise, he steps away with a gleam of curiosity in his eyes and a smirk that I nearly miss but catch at the last second. Doesn’t he know curiosity killed the cat?
