Page 38 of Salvatore

Such simplicity.

I fold back the first page to find details of the life I’ve lived for over ten years. The car I drive. My employment history.

It’s what’s stated on the third page that makes my eyes heat and vision blur.

Name: Isabella Rosa Rodriguez.

I drag in a breath, my past swallowing me whole.

Mother: Valentina Rodriguez (nee Valentina Morales).

Father: Gabriel Rodriguez (current leader of the Baltimore faction of the Mexican cartel).

My stomach bottoms.

My father got a promotion. I guess congratulations are in order. Gabriel had only been atenientes—a lieutenant—when I walked away from my family as a teen. Now his satanic hold on the world is far worse.

Education: Attended Bryn Mawr until grade ten. No further education records available.

Legal actions: Emancipation at age sixteen.

I stare at the words, the person I once was coming back to haunt me.

I risked everything to start fresh. To be normal. To live free. But I knew this day would come. That my family had too manyenemies for me to remain under the radar. That’s why I like to think I grabbed life with both hands and shook as much joy out of it as I could.

I’ve partied. I’ve indulged in men. I’ve forged the strongest of friendships with two exceptionally wonderful women.

Now some smirking, egotistical, half-baked-focaccia, balsamic blowhard is threatening to take it away from me.

Fuck that. Fuck him.

I shove the pages from his desk, the flutter of black on white falling to the floor in a disheveled heap.

If Salvatore wants to play games, fine. I’ll give him a dose of the skills I learned while living in an emotional war zone.

10

SALVATORE

“So what doyou plan on doing with me?” Ivy walks into my kitchen, eyeing her surrounds as if she’s a property inspector—chin high, eyebrows raised. She’s not fearful of being in the enemy’s lair, or if she is, she’s doing a good job of hiding it.

I fill two glasses with water from the fridge dispenser, then slide one across the island counter to her. “Obviously we need to talk.”

“Do we though?” She continues her nonchalant visual inspection, scrutinizing the black stools lining her side of the kitchen island, then the large glass dining table to the right of the open living space, and finally the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the building giving a view of the harbor. “I could go the rest of my life without looking at you, let alone talking.”

“Is that right?” I’m not convinced she isn’t enjoying this as much as I am.

“I know I should feel honored that I’m your latest obsession but I grew tired of boys’ games when I was a teen. Just tell me what you want.”

Despite her indifferent expression I know I’m under her skin. I can feel it. Can fucking taste it. And her instability is the sweetest salve.

I could spar with her for hours. For fucking days. But as tired as she is of boys’ games, I’m tired in general. Utterly goddamn exhausted. “I’m interested to learn why someone from the cartel is working at a funeral home.”

Her chin raises the slightest smidge. “I know emancipation is a big word you’re probably having trouble wrapping your head around, but it means that the family you referenced is no family of mine. I severed ties when I was sixteen.”

I take a gulp of water, wishing it was alcohol. I need something to dull the buzz. To soften my impatience. “And how does anyone, let alone a teenager, achieve something like that against a man as nefarious as your father?”

She lowers her gaze, finding great interest in the marble countertop, dragging her finger absentmindedly along the edge for one second, then two…

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