I wanted to hit something. Then I wanted to cry.
“Dakota, I’m sorry. Though I’m relieved we discovered the truth before it was too late.”
I nodded, but it wasn’t because I agreed. I just didn’t know what else to do.
“I hope,” he said, “now you’ll understand why I felt it necessary to keep close tabs on Paolo.”
My heart shattered into noxious uneven chunks with sharp jagged edges as my dreams of a future with Paolo evaporated. “Sure. Whatever.”
“And now will you tell me why you rented out this office?”
“I was going to try to get Paolo back, using myself as bait,” I mumbled, staring at the floor, still in complete shock about the pictures. It just didn’t make sense.
“I see.”
I felt a small twitch of relief that he chose not to say something like, “You’re an idiot. It never would have worked.” I supposed he thought I’d had enough kicks to the gut for the day.
Instead, he said, “We’ve got to go now. If I could find this place, then so can Paolo.” He gestured toward the door. “Or his people.”
“Paolo would never hurt me. At least physically.” Because he’d had every chance in the world, but hadn’t.
“You so sure about that?” he asked.
I looked up at my father, a man who induced so many mixed emotions that I felt like a living roulette wheel. I trust you. I don’t trust you. I love you. I don’t love you. I hate you. I don’t hate you. The little ball could land anywhere.
“Whe—where are we going?” I asked, the tears of heartbreak now trickling from my eyes.
“To start over, honey.”
“I don’t know if I can.” I shook my head and wiped my tears with the back of my shaking hand.
He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Just give it time. You’ll see.”
“Time.” I nodded. “Yeah…sure.”
CHAPTER THREE
Four Months Later
After the day I like to refer to as my emotional Armageddon, my father wiped the slate clean. My identity was bleached, scrubbed, homogenized, and irradiated. I was so squeaky clean that even he couldn’t spot my fake identity with a thousand man-hours of digging. “The key is simplicity, Dakota. The more detail you add to your background, the easier it is to find a flaw. You want to start over? Be from a midsized suburb of a midsized city. Grow up in one town. Go to one or two school districts.” My father hadn’t stopped at alias tips either. He began teaching me what he knew about laundering money—not for illegal purposes, but to maintain anonymity. He told me where to go for passports and credit cards in almost any country. He showed me how to ensure my forged documents were usable. And he taught me the art of disappearing. For good, if need be.
While I was grateful and knew these tricks of the trade might someday save my life, spending time with him made me realize that somewhere along the way, as a result of seeing so much corruption and danger, my father had forgotten what it meant to live. His every waking moment was spent either thinking about being attacked, and what to do about it if we were, or worrying about staying hidden, and what to do if we were caught. The man thought of little else.
As for me, I thought about trying to move on. Not happening. We now lived on St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands. My father posed as a retired military consultant from Iowa—that way people weren’t suspicious of his or our tendency for short answers—my mom was a homemaker, and I now attended the University of the Virgin Islands satellite campus, studying psychology. It was a kind gesture for my father to ensure we landed in a place where I could continue going to school, but I found it hard to sleep and eat, let alone concentrate on academics.
The nightmares didn’t help either. They were usually about a gunman from the balcony of the church shooting me down as Paolo and his new girlfriend disco danced outside. Yeah, that part was really creepy. But more than anything, I couldn’t let go of my anger. He’d stabbed me in the back and walked away.
Anyway, after months of this never-ending pity fest, I’d finally made up my mind. Enough was enough.
I sat down next to my mom at the glass table outside of our Italian-style villa overlooking Chocolate Hole—weird name for a bay, but the view of turquoise waters sprinkled with tiny sailboats and snorkelers was magazine worthy and not at all chocolaty or holey—and poured myself a bowl of cereal. Despite being the middle of October, we still got to enjoy breakfast outside almost every morning in the garden while my father was off doing whatever.
“Good morning, sweetie. Want to go for a swim after breakfast?” Mom said, skimming the paper.
“Mom, I’m leaving.”
Her big blue eyes darted up. “What?”
“I really love it here, but…” How could I say this without sounding ungrateful? “I need some alone time.”
She blinked and set the paper down. “It’s your father, isn’t it? I know he’s a bit overboard with the protection stuff, but—”
“No, Mom. It’s not that. I mean—that’s part of it. But I feel like if I’m going to have any chance of starting over, I need space.”
Her petite frame sagged, and she tightened the sash on her pink bathrobe. I was always jealous of how even in the morning, wearing pajamas, she looked fresh and spry—blonde hair in a perfect ponytail, skin glowing, and a little twinkle in her eyes. Even now as disappointment flattened her usual smile into a straight line, she looked radiant.
She cleared her throat. “Well, after everything you’ve been through, I think you’re safer here with us. Your father will make sure nothing happens to you again.”
I sighed and looked down at my Toasty O’s, which I was absentmindedly stirring in the bowl. I’d forgotten to add milk.
I set down the spoon. “I can’t stay with you guys forever, and if this is my life from now on, I need to start getting used to it. I need to find a way to just…accept that I won’t ever have a normal anything.”
I saw a look of worry in her eyes, and I wished there were something I could do.
“I know it must be hard, Dakota. Getting your heart broken like…” Her voice trailed off as she shook her head.
“I would have done anything to save him. Even hurt you.” I knew my father had told her about my inane plan to get Paolo back, because my mom later reassured me that my father would never do anything like take my fiancé “out” just because he didn’t like him. I still thought my mom was far too trusting of her husband.
Just like you were far too trusting of Paolo? I couldn’t believe what that asshole had done to me. Seriously. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t trust anyone ever again. I wanted to believe in love and that I could have a happy life someday. I just needed to figure out how, given that I would never be able to share my real name with anyone and would forever be wearing hats and sunglasses.
“I—I’m afraid of who I’ll become if I keep hanging around Dad. I need room to breathe. I need room to paste myself together again.” Otherwise, I’d never stop sulking over what could’ve been. And let’s face it; the current man in my life was not encouraging me to get back on that horse.
“I understand.” She slid her hand across the table and placed it on my resting arm. “But let me talk to your father first. He’s not going to like this.”
I shrugged. “He doesn’t have a choice.” I got up from the table.
“When are you leaving?”
“Tonight.”
“Where will you go?” she asked.
I gave her a look, and she held up her hand. “Okay. No need to tell me.” She wouldn’t be able to keep a secret from my father.
“I’m not abandoning you forever, Mom. And can you tell Dad not to track me? Just let me be. For a while, anyway.”
“But he won’t—”
“Please, Mom. Make him promise. I can’t spend the next few months looking over my shoulder, paranoid that Dad’s there spying on me. Tell him I promise I’ll go somewhere low-key and quiet.”
She nodded. “C
onsider it done.”
I leaned down and hugged her. “Thanks. I’ll send you a flare in the St. Paul PennySaver in a few months so you know where I am.”
“One-eyed cat?” she asked.
“Let’s go with a three-legged, one-eyed pit bull.”
She laughed.
“Why’s that funny?” I asked.
“It reminded me; some clown answered your one-eyed cat ad last month.”
“Seriously?” But I’d posted the ad four months ago.
“I was on the laptop and the message came up. He said he collected three-legged dogs, too. That’s what made me think of him.”
My heart did a little flip inside my chest. “Three-legged dog” was one of Paolo’s flares, a code to tell me he was all right.
But why had he sent it? I mean, by now he had to know I’d discovered the truth about him.
“Dakota? Are you all right?”
I nodded, feeling the rage building in my throat. “Yeah. I was…” I shook my head. “I’m fine. Gotta go finish packing.”
“Okay, baby,” she said worriedly. “I’ll come find you after I’ve spoken to your father.” She looked at her watch. “He’ll be back from golfing any minute.”
Golf. Yeah, right. My father was more likely combing through local police reports for suspicious activity or reviewing recent travel records of anyone coming to the island.
“Thanks, Mom. For everything.”
“Just be safe, honey. Promise me you’ll be safe.”
“Sure. Of course.” Not like I was going to go and look for trouble. That would be stupid.
Part Two
Not All Rabbit Holes
Are
Created Equal
CHAPTER FOUR
This is a bad idea. Maybe the worst one you’ve ever had. I couldn’t lie to myself about that. Not now. But during the entire time I sat in the terminal in St. John, I couldn’t stop thinking about Paolo. I wanted to wring his frigging neck. So when I saw the flight boarding for Rome, my feet inexplicably marched to the customer service counter. Before I could stop myself, I’d handed over my credit card and purchased a ticket. Yes, in lieu of going to Seville, Spain, where I’d planned to drive an hour and a half south to a small beach town to enjoy nursing my wounds with quiet walks on the beach, I was instead going to find Paolo.
He was “okay”? That’s all he had to say? Final straw, buddy! Final frigging straw! The nerve of that disgusting pig. I mean, he’d lied and used me. He’d put my parents in danger by disclosing the location of their apartment. He’d made love to me and told me the sorts of things that no man should ever say to a woman if he didn’t mean them. Words like “forever,” “children,” “when we get old,” “I’ll never love anyone else,” “I’d rather die without you,” and “your body is like hot sin on a stick, coated in caramel.” Okay. Fine. That last one was really cheesy, but he’d said those words in the most intimate of moments with all of the lovey-dovey bells and whistles—puppy-dog eyes, deep soulful voice, sweat-slicked skin from hours of hot, mind-blowing sex, and…well, let’s just say that he’d gone the extra mile to make me believe every word. And, sonofabitch, I’d given him my womanly flower. Yep.
Asshole. I want it back!
I wanted to look Paolo in the eyes and then poke one out. Okay, not really. (Maybe.) But I did want him to tell me—To. My. Face!—why he’d double-crossed me. What, exactly, had been so valuable that he had to pretend to love me? I mean, this was the part I couldn’t get over. The guy worked for my father and had for years. There was no intel, no secrets, no codes…nothing that could be gained by pretending to care about me. And being with me put him at a distance from my father—the real intel prize. Then there was the fact that Paolo had proposed. Why? To what end? If he had some angle that involved being with me, proposing marriage was damned overkill.
Maybe he just wanted you to suffer. But that didn’t seem right either.
Bottom line, I didn’t understand what was in it for him. Bottom line, I deserved an explanation, and I wouldn’t be able to move on until I got one. Bottom line…I wanted to kick him in the man parts and make him cry.
Yeah, finally getting away from the protective umbrella of my father made me see things in a different, really pissy light. I wasn’t a little lamb silently munching grass, hoping and praying that the big bad wolf would never catch her scent and gobble her up. Oh no. Dakota Dane was a woman scorned, with resources and a crapload of training from a dangerous man.
Okay. So I didn’t really know how to use weapons or anything, but that didn’t mean Paolo shouldn’t be afraid. Because my sad days were over, and my pissed-as-hell days were just kicking off.
And guess what, Paolo? Your family may be the Mafia, but no one—and I mean no one—sleeps with a girl, takes her flower, tells her he loves her, and then dumps her two minutes before the wedding. Yeah. I was damned happy I hadn’t married him, but he still deserved punishment.
I had four days, five tops, before my father figured out I’d switched identities at the airport to an alias I’d recently acquired on my own—Kathryn Spenser. And I knew damned well that even though he swore he wouldn’t spy on me, he wouldn’t be able to resist. Luckily, he’d taught me well these last few months, and he’d have to check out every passenger flying that day to figure out which person was the new me. Then, for good measure, I would switch identities again before passing through Italian immigration. Like I said, that gave me four or five days, which was all I needed to find Paolo and give him a little taste of the new Dakota.
Dakota Danger.
I grabbed my carry-on bag from the first-class overhead compartment and tripped over someone’s suitcase, landing in the aisle in front of a plane full of people.
Shit.
~~~
It didn’t take long to find Nikki Hunt. Her home, which had been featured in several issues of the Italian Architectural Digest, was constantly under the watchful eye of the paparazzi and a stop for the occasional tour bus. Located just outside of the Appian Way archaeological park, her lavish historic villa was what one might expect: a few acres of horses, a circular fountain with nude gods, a roman-style pool (obviously), and beautiful stone archways on every door and window, all nestled between lush greenery and within walking distance of the Tombs of Via Latina. Not that I got to see the tombs with my own eyes, because I was stuck in my car, living vicariously through Google Images, but the second-century structure—with its two-story construction, pitched roof, and pillars on the ground floor—seemed like a nice place to hide Paolo’s body.
Oops. Did I think that?
“No, Dakota. No murder,” I mumbled to myself.
An elderly man walking his dog barked at me—the man, not the dog—as he passed down the tree-lined street sprinkled with the occasional dilapidated two-thousand-year-old ruin that resembled pieces of gutted castles.
Not understanding a word the dog walker said, I smiled and waved politely. “Yep. I’m just another photographer parked outside of Nikki Hunt’s house. Nothin’ to see here.”
He made a rude gesture with his hands and kept on going. As for me, I returned to my task of touring Rome via smartphone, given I had only a few short days to track down Paolo and would be glued to Nikki’s every move until he showed his deceitful, smug face.
I glanced at my watch, and it was almost 6:00 p.m., with no signs of the shoe princess. I could only hope she wasn’t out of town, parading her centerfold-worthy body around the French Riviera or on one of her infamous million-dollar shopping sprees in Manhattan. I think what really got under my skin, besides the fact she was sleeping with my ex-fiancé, wasn’t that the woman flaunted her wealth and killer blonde-bombshell looks, but that she got to live her life out in the open. She didn’t care if people took her picture or knew where she lived. I, on the other hand, was relegated to a life in the shadows, like a damned cockroach. Frankly, it felt a little unfair.
Suddenly, a blond man—pinstriped suit, tall, crazy good-looking,
and in his mid-twenties—came out of the gated driveway and began approaching the ridiculously long line of parked cars filled with awaiting paparazzi. One by one, they drove away.
What was he doing? Threatening them?
The man approached, and when he knocked on the window, I smiled and rolled it down but didn’t speak.
He said something that sounded…well, very Italian, and then handed me a card.
What the…? It was Nikki’s itinerary for the night. She actually told the paparazzi where she would be and at what time. What a publicity whore. Must be nice to be free. Yeah, I was so jealous.
“Cocktails” at Nur Bar, 9:00 p.m.
“Cena” (dinner) at Glass Hostaria, 11:00 p.m.
“Danza” (dancing) at Goa Club, midnight.
“After Party” at the Palazzo Manfredi Hotel, 3:00 a.m.
“Uhhh…grazie?” I said and began to roll up the window.
“You’re American?” he asked with a thick Italian accent.
I stared up into his big green eyes, trying not to look like a deer in headlights as I debated lying to him. But those dang Europeans spoke every frigging language on the planet. I could say I was German or Spanish or Romanian and he’d probably start rattling away in those languages.
“Yep. Americana,” I said.
His brows lifted. “I went to school there. New York. Which part are you from? No. Wait. Let me guess. You are Californian?”
Okay. It was time to deploy some of my father’s good advice: Keep the lies simple. “Yeah, the O.C. I guess my accent gives it away every time.” I added, “Like, yanno?” for good measure.
He planted his hands above the window and leaned toward the car, lowering his head a bit closer. “So what brings you all the way to Rome?”