Dirty Lies Read online

  "You'll thank me when you win the Pulitzer someday," he'd said. "You're the future of journalism, with your stupid fucking Twitter and Instagram. I'm the past."

  He'd eventually pulverized my self-esteem as a woman just as I felt like I was becoming one. Nothing—from how I sat sipping my drink at a bar, to how I moved my hips during sex—was ever good enough. A moment never passed with James without me being left with the sense that something about my very existence needed correction.

  It had left me wondering whether I could ever make a man happy.

  Chapter Eight

  Not So Simple

  LUCA

  "What the hell did you do that for?"

  We were in the backseat of my uncle's Mercedes. An armed driver was behind the wheel.

  Federico laughed. "My boy. For all of your talent, you're sometimes kind of dense. You were a journalist and best-selling author. You should know it's better to control the press than have the press control you. Never turn down a chance for publicity. And I think the better question is, how are you already so acquainted with a local reporter?"

  Shifting my body to face him, I tried to tamp down my irritation. I didn't mind much that Skylar had met Federico, but I'd never imagined she'd want to write a story on the old man. It was a complication I didn't need.

  "We met when that plane crashed the other day. She came over and had a glass of wine afterward, and…" I waved my right hand in the air in a circular motion.

  Federico continued to chuckle. "Good for you."

  "I just didn't think we'd run into her, or that she'd try to interview you. I really don't want her poking around and mentioning me in her article about you."

  "Relax, Luca. I'll make sure she doesn't mention you. This is The Palmira Post, not The New York Times. I know the publisher. I can always make a call if we think it's going to be a problem. And anyway, don't worry about Bruno Castiglione or the mafia finding you because of a Florida newspaper article. If I were hiding you, would I go out of my way to be in the news? I'm in the papers all the time. Castiglione is awaiting trial. Your book did its job. Your days of worrying are over."

  "I'm not so sure about that," I said slowly.

  I didn't want to rail at my relative out of a sense of old-world respect, but sometimes, I wondered if Federico took my concerns about safety seriously.

  It was difficult to tell. Even though Federico was his blood relative, I barely knew him. He was the older brother of my father, and the two men had been estranged for the entirety of my life for reasons unknown. Federico had come to America before I was born, and had lived here long enough to assume the country's breezy, anything-goes facade. Which was why it was difficult for me to tell if Federico's concern for his situation matched its gravity. I'd feel safer when Castiglione—Naples's biggest mafia boss and the subject of my first book—was convicted and in prison.

  Soon.

  "And you didn't have to come to the store with me," my uncle chided.

  I rolled my eyes. "I've been in the house for two weeks. I needed to get out. You're the one who said it was safe."

  "Palmira is safe. And don't worry about the reporter. She won't put two and two together. She's young. Is she even old enough to drink? She won't find out anything. There's so little about you online. That was the benefit of writing your book anonymously, no?"

  I snorted. "Yeah, only my agent and editor knew I wrote the book. And my parents. And you." I made a fist and crushed it on the leather seat. "It still burns me that Castiglione found out I'm the author. I'd love to kill whoever told him. I'm doing my best to lay low until the court case is over. God knows enough people disappear in the months before a trial…"

  "Then don't worry about my interview, Luca. Worry about yourself. Have you started on your second book?"

  I grunted. I didn't want to tell my uncle I'd spent the last few days moping around, wondering if it was even worth it to write anymore. I didn't want any more complications, violence, or death—three things I abhorred. The inertia had lately morphed into a more sinister emotion: apathy.

  Usually, I was outraged by the corruption that had seized my country in a death grip, and I wanted justice for my parents' murder. But justice hadn't done me or my prosecutor father any good. A desire for justice had gotten my parents killed and forced me to go on the run.

  I constantly reminded myself there were far worse places in the world to hide out. I'd been in some of them in my attempt to disappear from Bruno Castiglione's scrutiny. Going on the run had worked, because I was still alive.

  But when would I stop running?

  My uncle's summer home was as good a sanctuary as any, but sometimes I wondered if it was more like Alcatraz—a jail on an island with 300-thread count sheets, a home gym, and wine cellar. Worse, I felt added guilt for my life of luxury in the wake of my parents’ murders, and guilt at my ingratitude.

  Guilt on top of guilt on top of guilt.

  Maybe I wouldn't write the second book after all. It wasn't like I needed the money. Between my parents' inheritance and the profits from my first, best-selling exposé, I never had to work again. And my rich-as-fuck uncle, who had never married or had children, made it clear he would help me any way he could.

  Still, I was itching for something different. My round-the-world trip hadn't quenched my restlessness or made me feel any safer. I was unsettled, unmoored, tense.

  Was it the girl? Skylar?

  Had that scorching kiss sparked this? What would it be like to really get to know her?

  But why would I want to, at this perfectly wrong time? I'd always had short, meaningless flings—always made sure the women were aware I didn't want attachments.

  "Zio," I said, using the Italian word for uncle. "Why didn't you ever marry?"

  It was an intimate question of a man I barely knew, but I'd been without any meaningful encounters for so long, I hoped my uncle would forgive my curiosity.

  Federico stared at me for several seconds. "I almost did. Once, back in Italy. No one since. You? Did you have a girlfriend before you left?"

  I laughed. "Many."

  "Ever been in love?"

  I snorted. "No. I'm not even sure about love. Not after what I saw my parents go through. I don't know if you were aware, but they were pretty nasty to each other while I was growing up. I never understood why they didn't divorce."

  Federico stared out the window and cleared his throat. "Luca, here's what I can tell you about love. Love is when you feel regret decades later for making the wrong decisions. That's love."

  What an odd statement.

  I frowned, and there was silence in the Mercedes for several moments. Only when the car pulled into the gated community did my uncle turn to me and add, "I know you're anxious, and I know you miss your parents and Italy. Anyone would feel like that after what you've been through."

  Federico continued, speaking in rapid-fire Italian. "You should relax while you're on Palmira. I invited you here so you could work on your second book and plan your next move. I'm trying to do everything I can to make you safe. Who's going to find you here? Who even wants to find you anymore? I got you the bulletproof Mercedes. I got you the gun. There's an excellent security system at the house. And I offered you bodyguards."

  "No. No bodyguards." I raised my hand in a halting gesture. The idea of someone monitoring me around the clock made me queasy. I chided himself for even questioning whether Federico was taking my situation seriously. My uncle had actually done a lot for me. Much more than I ever expected. So maybe I should calm down. Palmira seemed sleepy and safe. Just what I needed: a quiet place to be alone with a mountain of guilt.

  The car pulled into the driveway.

  "Take it easy, Luca," my uncle said. "Rest. Here's what you should do. Find a girl on the island to fuck. Keep it light. You know how to do that. Don't get too involved. That's what I always do when I'm stressed about a big case. I find a cute girl to spend time with, take the edge off."

  My answer was a quic
k flick of my hand and a grimace. Hearing about my uncle's sex routine during personal injury trials wasn't what I wanted, and I didn't desire any random, easy American girl, not anymore at least.

  I wanted the not-so-simple Skylar.

  Chapter Nine

  Engulfed

  ANNALISA

  “You have a great condo." I rolled onto my side away from Carlo and looked out the narrow, floor-to-ceiling window at the buzzing downtown Miami street.

  He pressed against me and kissed my shoulder. I'd thrown on his button-down shirt before he woke up so he wouldn't see the scars on my arms. Went without underwear, though, knowing that would distract him.

  The bed was too soft, and I sank into the pillowy mattress. I wanted to leave, but still didn't have the information I needed. Hopefully this wouldn't require a weeks-long relationship. I didn't have time for that.

  "Meh. It's only a studio. It's all I can afford now. I can't wait to be rich. Really rich. Like my boss. You should see the places Rossi has."

  I rolled over and stroked Carlos's bare chest with her fingertips. “Oh yeah? How many homes does he have?"

  "I know he's got the downtown penthouse. Not too far from here. He likes to walk to work. On the weekends, he sometimes goes to this little place across the state. He took a bunch of his top-billing lawyers there for a Christmas party. It's a huge mansion on an island. Palmira. I think he also has a condo somewhere in the mountains. Asheville, maybe."

  As Carlos talked about how he loved the snow because it was so different than Miami's humidity, I tuned him out.

  "What's this?" he abruptly asked, running a finger over three faint red marks on my inner thigh.

  "Oh!" I wouldn't tell him I'd carved the marks intentionally. With a razor blade. "Can you believe that's from waxing? This bitch at a place on South Beach really messed with my skin."

  Carlos cooed and settled himself between my legs, kissing the marks softly before moving his lips to the junction of my thighs.

  A couple hours and one weak orgasm later, I hugged Carlos goodbye with promises of drinks and dates that would never happen.

  I went to my hotel and changed into a casual sundress and a lightweight sweater, then sat at a café drinking espresso on the bottom floor of Federico's building. It would be worth scoping this out for a while, but I suspected Luca was on that island.

  He adored sun and sand. I remembered how he looked one morning, running along a beach south of Naples, rivulets of sweat running down his tan chest and thick back muscles. He hadn't known I was watching him that day. I didn't want to ruin that moment of looking at his perfect form.

  Surely he'd choose Palmira Island over Miami. It was smaller and safer. Calmer.

  He was definitely somewhere in Florida. That's what my cousin had said.

  And God knew her cousin—Bruno Castiglione, Naples's most powerful mafia boss—had informants throughout the government and Italy's banking system.

  Luca must have talked to someone in Italy, and that someone told someone, and that someone was on the payroll of Bruno. Or maybe Bruno's men had infiltrated Luca's computer. It didn't matter now. All that mattered was I was going to rescue him.

  Luca was smart and handsome, but he wasn't infallible. He had never figured out Bruno—the subject of his book—was my second cousin.

  To be fair to his excellent reporting skills, I did have a huge family. It stretched back centuries and through neighborhoods in and around the sprawl of Naples. Even I hadn't met everyone.

  It wasn't like Bruno and I were close or had even grown up together. Bruno was older than me by twenty years.

  He was just one of dozens of relatives, some more criminal than others. It was only after Luca broke up with me that I hacked into his computer and stumbled on his notes about Bruno. While we were dating, I had no idea what his project had been about, because he never shared it with me.

  If Luca hadn't cracked open my heart, I wouldn't have had the breakdown or snooped in his computer. If I hadn't had the breakdown and gotten angry, I wouldn't have told Bruno Luca was the author of the anonymous bestseller.

  This was all my fault, and I wanted to make it right.

  It was awful, though, how Bruno had Luca's parents killed. Signora Rossi was so kind. Made such delicious panettone at Christmastime. I'd cried and cried when I heard.

  Still, Luca brought his troubles onto himself by writing that book. But that was all in the past.

  "I'll always be grateful to your loyalty, Annalisa," Bruno had told me right after I revealed my discovery about Luca's book. He'd squeezed my little hands with his big ones, and I felt useful and needed. For once. "That's why I'm paying for you to get better, so you'll stop hurting yourself."

  I'd gone away to the hospital in a little town three hours south of Naples. One long year—that's what it took to get better, the professionals said. But it didn't stop me from doing some of the things I loved, like fucking tall, dark-haired men. One of my conquests was even a doctor. And I'd managed to cut myself a few times in the hospital, once with a piece of broken glass I found on the grounds.

  The psychiatrists tossed out all sorts of diagnoses. Probably genetic, they said, but my stepfather's advances when I was twelve hadn't helped either. After the long and tedious treatment, I'd convinced everyone I wouldn't cut again. I'd be a good girl and take her meds. Live a normal life.

  After I was released, I'd tried, and somewhat successfully, forgot about Luca. Then, a few weeks ago, Bruno called and asked me to visit while he was on house arrest. He told me Luca was in Florida, and the news triggered all the old, intrusive, obsessive feelings. My need to see him flared up like lighter fluid on a bonfire.

  Looking back, telling Bruno about Luca's book was the worst thing I could have done. How could I have been so horrible? But that was back when I hated him. Now I loved him again. Now I was certain about my feelings.

  Now that I was in the Sunshine State and off that stupid medication, my mind was calm. Purposeful. Invincible. I'd make it all up to Luca by finding him and never letting go. I'd help him hide from my evil cousin. I would die for Luca.

  "You need to stay away from him," my best friend had told me before I flew here. "Get back on your pills and return to that hospital."

  Closing my eyes, I allowed the morning sun to wash over my face. I wasn't crazy, no matter what my family and friends thought. I was in love. Luca would understand after I proved my loyalty to him. He would kiss me long and slow like he used to, and my pain would vanish.

  The memory of our first meeting was still fresh and pure, even here on this busy Miami street.

  The way he'd strode confidently into the newsroom at the paper in Naples wearing a charcoal gray jacket over a white button-down, expensive jeans, and dark leather shoes. How the corners of his mouth turned up and the way his eyes seemed to dilate when he saw me.

  "I'm Luca. It's my first day. I'm covering crime. You?"

  "I'm a features writer." My heart had fluttered—something it never did with men. "Maybe we can get coffee soon."

  By the end of the week, we were at the reporters' favorite bar down the street from the paper. I was two years older, but he had a calm confidence unlike most guys in their early twenties. Three drinks later, we moved to his car where he pulled me onto his lap—where I gave him head for the first time. The love I'd felt for him even then seemed like it could engulf me.

  It engulfed me.

  A car horn jolted me out of my memory. Annoyed, I swiped and tapped my phone, reading about Palmira. The island was filled with people and shells and wide, sugar-sand beaches. Four hours from Miami. I looked at a map, then shuddered at the name of the road I needed to take to get there.

  Alligator Alley. I hated reptiles.

  Chapter Ten

  Dawn

  LUCA

  I woke at dawn, and for a brief moment, didn't know where I was.

  The rooming house in Buenos Aires? The beach hut in Thailand? The yoga ashram in India? I hadn't sta
yed long in any one place since leaving Italy. Now that I was on Palmira, my mind hadn't caught up with my body.

  The pre-dawn light cast a gray glow through the windows in the bedroom, bathing the dark pine furniture and white sheets in a magic hue. My eyes absorbed the light, trying to remember what I'd been dreaming about. It was a sexy dream, and the reporter girl had been in it. I was awake now, rock-hard with longing.

  Taking a deep breath and ignoring my cock, I climbed out of bed and went onto the terrace wearing only my boxers. The sun was starting to rise, frosting a few clouds with a pink tint against the pale blue sky. The water of the Gulf of Mexico reflected the colors, making everything look like a dreamy painting.

  This was my daily slice of happiness, the serenity and beauty of dawn. It gave me hope. Every day since I'd arrived on Palmira, I stood on the terrace and soaked in the salty morning air.

  Usually the beach was empty, save for a few lone shell-seekers in the morning mist. Today, there was a group of people facing the water away from me. It was some sort of exercise class.

  They were on the public beach near the gate Skylar Shaw had slipped through after the plane crash. I had a good view of the group, and when I spotted mats and towels, I realized it was a yoga class.

  I yawned and stretched. Scratched my bare chest.

  "Let's go into downward dog."

  The small, blonde teacher's voice wafted up to the terrace. There were about a dozen people in the class, all bending in unison. I watched as the students twisted and turned as if in slow motion. From my vantage point, I could spy on the group with ease, but I guessed they weren't able to spot me from the ground.