Lies You Tell Page 3

  She looked down to see Becca’s picture dancing across her screen. With a shaky thumb, she swiped the green button to the right and placed the phone to her ear.

  “Is everything okay, Becca?”

  “Everything is fine. I was just calling to make certain you didn’t have any ideas about interrupting my alone time with my godson today.”

  Sanai remained quiet. No sense in lying about her intentions. “He’s my son and he’s sick, Becca.”

  Sanai heard a loud huff of air from Becca’s side of the line. “Sanai, you worked all night last night. You cannot go into this battle exhausted. Stick to the plan. Go home; get a few hours’ sleep. Naz is fine here with me. I mean, who’s he gonna be safer with? I’m his pediatrician, for God’s sake. Go get some rest. Come back to my house tonight. We’ll make it a pizza party for three and watch all the silly animated movies the kid wants.”

  “Becca?”

  “Sanai,” she whispered. “Trust me. You’re going to need your strength. This isn’t going to be easy on either of you.”

  She grudgingly agreed and quickly pulled herself together when she saw several of her colleagues headed in her direction, moving quickly toward the exit. She put on a smile and proceeded to walk out with them. Becca was right. No need in being miserable now. Misery would be here soon enough.

  * * * *

  Eight days.

  He’d watched every entrance and exit he could find in that hospital for eight days and still nothing. Maybe this Sanai look-alike was just a figment of his imagination. He was sitting in his car in back of the PEDs ER near the employee parking lot. He figured she’d have to come here to get home if she was driving.

  His phone rang, and he saw an incoming video call coming through. “Morning, Don Mancini.” Dante greeted the older man with a smile. He was surprised to see the old man using the video chat technology, but knowing the don, he probably had someone next to him setting the call up.

  The DeLucas and the Mancinis were allies. Even after the DeLucas gave up their stakes in the New York mob to take over Florida, Dante’s father and Don Mancini remained on good terms.

  The old man nodded and greeted Dante with a smile. “Don DeLuca, it is always a pleasure. I believe my men have found someone you’d like to speak to regarding your godson’s accident. My men found witnesses who placed a person of interest in several locations your godson and his friends found themselves that night. I just sent you a picture and the list of places in a text. Shall I have them hold him until you arrive?”

  If Mancini was holding someone in connection with Anthony Jr.’s crash, Dante was certain this accident wasn’t all that accidental. Don Mancini had managed to stay alive as don without one attempt on his life for nearly forty years now. His claim to fame was being methodical and deadly. He didn’t make rash decisions based on emotion.

  Dante opened the waiting text, cataloguing its contents quickly. “Don Mancini,” Dante began. “I am still needed at the hospital. May I speak with this person through video chat now?”

  The elder don nodded his head. He gave Dante a number and told him to call immediately. Dante did as instructed. He soon was face-to-face with a white male bound to a chair. He was probably near Dante’s age, somewhere in his early thirties. His hair was blond, falling into his eyes. Dante took a moment to note the various red, purple, and blue marks across the man’s face. Obvious signs of an attempt to persuade the man into talking. Hopefully it worked.

  “Do you know who I am?” Dante asked. The man took a brief moment to look at the screen and nodded his answer. “Then you know who that boy is you ran off the road and how much he means to me. The police think it was just an accident caused by a novice driver. But my friends there with you found several witnesses that place you in the same spots those boys visited that night. The arcade, the movies, even the run-down skate park. You were there at the exact same time they were. Why?”

  The man shook his head. “They’ll kill my family if I talk. I didn’t want to do it.”

  “I don’t care about your family. I don’t care about you. The only thing I care about is who sent you after my godson and his friends that night and why.”

  The man was visibly shaken, the vibrations leaving noticeable shivers that shook everything from his hair to feet. There was real fear there. Whoever it was that had commissioned his services was obviously someone to be afraid of. Too bad Dante was as well.

  “If you will not talk, I cannot help you.” Dante saw a gloved hand press a gun to the man’s head. He wasn’t surprised by the cloak-and-dagger routine. The less he knew about the murder, the less likely he could be connected to it. “Thank you for your assistance. You may proceed,” he muttered in a casual voice. A second later, a loud pop filled the air, and the man’s head sagged limply to one side as the other half of his head shattered into pieces.

  His business was ugly and messy, but sometimes ugly and messy were called for when you were protecting what was yours.

  Dante ended the call and looked down to pick up his coffee from the cup holder. When he pulled his gaze up again, he saw a group of five people dressed in scrubs, chatting as they walked toward the parking lot. Two of them separated from the ranks, leaving three women to walk in the opposite direction. After a few more words, two of the ladies split off, and the remaining woman headed toward a small red sedan.

  There was no mistaking that face; this was the woman he’d been looking for. He watched as she maneuvered the car out of the parking lot. When her car was a comfortable distance away, Dante slowly pulled out of his spot to follow. He tracked her vehicle cautiously. There were always two to three cars between them at any given time. When she went through the electronic tag-holder lane to get to the Whitestone Bridge, he aimed his car at the cash lane.

  He kept eyes on her all the way to Brooklyn, all the way to a familiar block. He’d been to Crescent Street several times over throughout his life. His right-hand man in Florida had a grandmother who lived on this block.

  “It can’t be,” he whispered. “It’s just a coincidence.”

  He watched her step out of her car and walk toward a house he could remember standing inside. When she reached the inside of the gate, he slipped inside behind her.

  “Excuse me.”

  She stumbled at the sound of his voice. Her head snapped around, her gaze clashing with Dante’s. That was when he felt it: That sizzle, that spark of electricity they’d always shared. That fire that was constantly present when they were this close. This wasn’t a coincidence.

  “My God, it’s you,” slipped from his lips just before he pulled her into his arms and sealed her lips with his. There was that perfect mix of fire, heat, and vanilla that was always there whenever he’d kissed her in the past. Familiar lips moved under his with a matched urgency. A routine so familiar neither of them had to think about it. Even after six years, their bodies still remembered.

  He pulled away from the kiss only to take in the air his burning lungs were demanding. He looked down into the hickory-brown gaze staring back at him and saw the spark of fear there.

  “Six years, Sanai. Six fucking years I thought you were dead. Care to explain to me how I managed to get that wrong?”

  She tried to step away from him, but he placed a firm hand on her forearm to keep her where she stood.

  “Why are you here, Dante? You shouldn’t be here.”

  “No.” He shook his finger at her. “The question isn’t why am I here, but how the hell are you here? I saw them bring your body out of that burning building. The cops had to fucking cuff me to keep me from running in there to try to save you. How did we all get that wrong, Sanai? There was a body with your necklace on it. How the hell could you let me think you’d died in that damn fire?”

  Chapter Three

  Sanai stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of her en-suite bathroom door. She smoothed lotion over still shower-damp skin. First her toned thighs, then over her flat stomach and continued the p
assage of her hands down over the deep curve of her hips. She rubbed her skin lovingly as she continued up her arms, over the firm swell of her breasts, onto her strong shoulders, and eventually her face. She was diligent in keeping her movements steady, forcing her limbs to work despite the shaking she felt so deep within her core. She lifted her hand to the tightly coiled Bantu knots on her head and brushed imaginary loose strands back into place.

  “What the hell am I doing?”

  Less than ten minutes ago Dante was demanding answers from her. That was almost comical considering his actions were directly responsible for the crazy shit that had taken place in her life. If anyone was owed an explanation, it was her. Too bad the bossy Italian waiting in her living room didn’t see it that way.

  He wasn’t going to drop this. Neither was she. The only difference—she was going to fight smart. Standing in the middle of her living room arguing with him wasn’t going to win this for her.

  In the middle of Dante’s rant she’d held up a hand and told him, “I’m dirty and tired, and I’m not about to do this until I get clean. If you want answers, you’re going to have to wait fifteen minutes.” He hadn’t liked it, but he’d stepped away and given her the space she needed to exit the room.

  She’d believed the few minutes locked away in her bathroom would give her time to get her shit together. Too bad the joke was on her, because standing her alone in this room knowing Dante was waiting for her to explain herself was wreaking havoc on her nerves.

  She gave herself a mental reprimand for standing there preening, for stalling. It was Dante, the man who’d nearly cost her everything, including her life. Why the hell should she care what he thought of her after all these years?

  She pushed a long sigh out of her lungs and into the air. Who was she fooling? This wasn’t about making sure she looked good in front of company. Well, not entirely, anyway. Yeah, she didn’t want to look like “poor relation” in front of Dante—especially since the last six years had done nothing but enhanced the fine that man wore naturally. But her primping in the mirror had more to do with avoidance than anything else.

  “Sanai, you either come out here, or I’m coming in there, but either way, we’re having this conversation now.”

  The strong rumble of his voice seemed to vibrate through the wood of the door and into her body. She tensed her muscles, trying to ward against the tremble that sound was igniting.

  I am not afraid of him. I did what I had to. I am not afraid of him.

  “Sanai!”

  Wait, is he inside my room?

  She grabbed the knee-length bathrobe hanging on the wall, pulled it on, and tied the sash quickly around her waist. Her suspicions were confirmed when she pulled the door open and saw him sitting comfortably on her bed.

  The nerves she’d been battling inside the bathroom gave way to fiery anger, boiling quickly.

  “‘Fuck are you doing in here? I left you in the living room,” she barked.

  “Forgive me if I didn’t trust you not to disappear through the bathroom window,” he countered quietly.

  She walked until she stood directly in front of him, chest heaving, head pounding with the sound of her heart banging against her ribs. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  He stood up, his frame reaching just shy of six feet, solid, with thick muscles straining his shirt, forcing her to take a step back as she looked up at him.

  “I’m the fucking man that loved you more than my own life!” he bellowed as he stepped forward, forcing her to backpedal with each step he took. “The man who thought he would die when he found a dead woman burned beyond recognition holding the locket I gave you, the locket you wore every day. I’m the fool that stood over a hole in the ground and cried like a baby at his mother’s tit while a casket holding what I thought were your remains was lowered into it!”

  Her back crashed against the hard wall, but she couldn’t stop to worry about the zing of pain spreading against her shoulders and the back of her skull. Unsure of what he’d do, she needed to keep her eyes on him.

  The Dante she’d known had never been a violent man—intense with a temper to be wary of, yes, but never violent.

  Can you be certain of that six years later?

  When she was flat against the wall, he cornered her, both arms caging her as his palms rested on either side of her head. He leaned down closer to her, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “I’m the man who came back to that lonely grave every day for six fucking months, lying curled up on it because it was the only place I could be physically close to you.”

  The image of Dante lying in a dark cemetery aching for her tore something in Sanai. He might have been indirectly involved with why she’d left Florida the way she had, but no human being deserved that kind of mental and emotional torture. That was exactly what it was; the rage filling his fixed onyx stare was telling enough. There was so much anger there, anger that only came when you’d lost something irreplaceable.

  His pupils were blown, his breathing ragged, large swells of air pushing in and out of his lungs. He wasn’t speaking. She didn’t even think he was capable of speaking any longer, rage vibrating off his trembling frame.

  She took a shaky hand and touched the small patch of olive skin on his wrist exposed by his rolled-up sleeves.

  “Dante, I…” She swallowed, attempting to think of what to say next. She’d had cause to be angry all these years, much of it focused on him. But she’d never entertained the idea that he’d suffered the way his outburst suggested.

  She couldn’t find the words, so she stroked that area of skin with slow, soft movements. She continued her circular strokes until his breathing calmed, until he began to blink away some of the rage clouding his soulful eyes. Until she believed he was seeing her and not his anger at her.

  “Dear God… You’re alive,” he whispered. His eyes watered, and tears began to make a slow trek down the sharp angles of his face, joining into a huge drop at the bottom of his squared chin. “I prayed so many times just to be able to touch you again, feel your touch…hear your voice.”

  Tentative fingers danced over the edges of her jaw, across her cheeks and forehead, down the wide bridge of her nose. It was such a familiar pattern. Something she should’ve forgotten by now, something that should be deemed insignificant after all this time. It was how he would outline her face in the darkness of her bedroom after they’d made love or when he was waking her up in the morning to make love to her again.

  This path was always the same. No matter how many times he’d done it, it was always the same. And then his fingers landed on their final destination—her lips. He traced each of them with a slow, sacred pace, until her entire body was dancing with anticipation.

  When her lips opened for him, as they had so many times before, he pushed his thumb inside. His eyes locked with hers, and instinct took over. At least that was what she told herself as she closed her eyes and lips and sucked on the lone digit, tongue swirling around it, laving at it until she heard the tiny but familiar pull of breath he took into his lungs.

  As soon as tongue touched skin, she felt the lips of her pussy swell with sensitivity, her desire beginning to pulse, her muscles pulling in an open-and-close motion. How could she be so fucking thirsty for someone she’d claimed to hate all this time?

  He pulled his thumb from her mouth and placed it at the junction of her clavicles, allowing it to slide down the darkened line that traveled between her breasts and down her abdomen. He kept sliding that thumb down until it separated the loosely tied belt of her robe and allowed the two satin halves to fall away to her sides. He kept that thumb moving until it dipped inside her belly button, forcing her to draw in a breath to still herself.

  She forced her eyes open, hoping to find some glimpse of the sanity she knew she was losing in his eyes, but the only thing that stared back was fire—fire she’d experienced, and God help her, fire she wanted to experience again.

  His thumb continued its journey until it
split her slick folds. It traveled down until it touched the pooling stream at her opening and traveled just a short way up again as it searched for treasure. The moment it made contact with her clit, her entire body shuddered. He must’ve taken that as permission, and if she were truly being honest, that was exactly what it was.

  He grabbed her to him, hoisting her legs around his waist before taking her down to the floor. He climbed atop her, his thumb now replaced by the middle and ring fingers of his left hand, circling around her clit. Her traitorous body sought his touch as she curled up against those fucking fingers, begging him to touch her, satisfy her.

  Should you really be doing this, allowing this to happen?

  There it was, the rational side of her brain. She’d figured it would show up sooner or later. It was just about to make her close her legs and push Dante off her when rough lips pressed against hers, bruising the skin there, forcing her to respond to that divine pressure. She made the mistake of trying to pull air into her lungs; the small opening of her lips was enough space for him to dip into her mouth with his tongue. Once he found entry, any notion she’d had of putting the brakes on this impromptu romp ended. She fell into the forceful motion his tongue was stroking out against hers.

  She heard the fumbling of fabric and something metallic. The next thing she knew, she felt him, really felt him, his hard, curved cock pressing against her entrance. A streak of panic sliced through the fog of desire until Sanai felt the latex barrier between them. At least he’d had sense to protect them both, something she’d make sure to reprimand herself about later, but right now—right now she was going to enjoy every hard and fast second of this.

  And it would be hard…and fast. Dante had that look of determination carved into his features, the one that’d always told her when he was too hungry to make love to her nicely. This was about to be brutal, and she was so grateful.

  Six years since she’d walked away, only moments after he’d found her, and they were back to this again, back to this insane connection she’d thought would one day rob her of her ability to breathe. And now, all these years later she was still thinking the exact same thing.