Submerged (Bound Together #1) Read online

  The bay opens just as I’m slipping my phone back in my pocket. Styx and Gage pull in, driving a newer Jaguar. They hop out, quietly discussing something that I don’t really give a shit about so I continue to tune them out. I don’t really know what my problem is with Gage other than he’s just a fuckwad with a capital F. He hasn’t really done anything to me. He just always seems to rub me the wrong way. Maybe it’s the way he’s so casual and clueless all at the same time. Whether we’re fixing cars or boosting them, it’s like his head isn’t quite wrapping around the task at hand. Throw in the fact that he brags constantly about all the girls he bags, and you’ve got one hell of a cocky bastard. I’m surprised he’s able to lug around that ego as well as he does. And I’m not quite sure how he bags half the chicks he’s always bragging about cause the guy stinks like diesel fuel and pot half the damn time. Must be some high-class ladies he’s hooking up with.

  Styx throws me the keys before they slip into the back of the driver’s car and head off into the night for the next boost. I get to work and removing the documentation from the vehicle. As if on autopilot, I roll through the motions of stripping the car and getting it ready for what’s next. For this one, it’s a fresh coat of paint before she’s off to Mexico on the next cargo container at McCarran. As I’m making sure all of the personal effects are removed, I come across a bright pink car seat in the backseat.

  What the hell?

  I know this car. It was in the shop recently for repairs, and I delivered it to the owner only two days ago. I stand there, really taking in the car for the first time since it arrived a handful of minutes ago. My gut churns and rolls as the realization settles in. We’ve swiped the car of the woman with the baby that I met on Friday. No, not that woman. Her daughter’s. C. Mathewson. The paperwork never did say what her first name was, but uneasiness races through me.

  This was supposed to be a calm night. Simple smash and grabs. Easy money.

  So why the hell do I feel like Hell is about to be brought down on us?

  Chapter Nine – You’ve Got To Be

  Shittin’ Me!

  Carly

  There’s something in the unwritten Mother’s Handbook that says Monday mornings are going to suck, no matter what. It’s virtually impossible to get out the door on time on Monday mornings. Why? If I knew, I wouldn’t be late anymore on Mondays!

  “Sorry, I’m late. Traffic was horrible at the school,” Mom says as she takes my daughter from my outstretched arms.

  “She still needs to eat breakfast,” I say as I slip on my lightweight navy blue trench coat. My heel already caught the shin of my pantyhose so after a quick change¸ I’m finally dressed and ready to head out the door.

  “Usual time?” Mom asks as she sticks Natalia in her highchair.

  “Yep,” I holler before throwing a quick kiss on Natalia’s chubby cheek before racing out the door.

  The elevator must know I’m late because it practically crawls up to the top floor and then back down to the lobby. I throw polite smiles at my neighbors as I pass them, trying to hurry out to my car without actually running. I’m not exactly the most graceful person on the planet so the last thing I need is to try to run, trip, and fall flat on my face. Besides, I’m wearing my last pair of pantyhose.

  When I get outside, I’m stopped dead in my tracks as I realize I’m about to open the driver’s door of a gray Lincoln. Where’s my car? I quickly look around the other cars in the parking lot, thinking I must have been a little more tired than I originally thought last night when I came home from the grocery store. But, I couldn’t have been that tired. To forget where I parked my car? No. I remember it perfectly. I was lucky to grab this spot close to the front door to unload the groceries with a baby in tow.

  Scanning the parking lot, panic starts to settle in. It doesn’t take me long to realize that my car isn’t in the parking lot at all. I scan up and down the street, both sides, looking for any sign of my Jaguar. This neighborhood is fairly safe. I’ve never heard neighbors complaining about missing items, especially something as big as a car. Realizing that it’s not here, I lethargically takeoff back up the stairs towards my apartment.

  When I reach my door, I don’t even use the key that is still in my hand. I knock. I have no idea why, but my brain is completely gone right now. Mom opens the door with a questioning look on her face, but she doesn’t say anything. I walk right over to the cordless phone on the wall and dial the number next to the phone.

  “Las Vegas Police Department. How can I direct your call?”

  “Yeah, my car has been stolen.”

  * * *

  “And you’re sure you parked your car in this parking spot?” the young female officer asks as her partner checks out the security feeds for the lot and building.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I confirm. Reality has finally set in and I’m now squatting on the front steps of my apartment building in my business dress, trying not to hyperventilate. Mom and Nat are sitting next to me, Mom trying to keep me calm while Nat tries to pull my hair.

  “The cameras in the lot were turned off during a fifteen minute window late last night,” the male officer says as he rejoins us.

  “Turned off?” Mom asks, seeking confirmation.

  “Sounds like someone knew exactly what they were doing,” the female says casually as she writes notes in her little leather notebook.

  “Third one reported this morning,” the male cop says before returning his attention to me. “We’ll write up a complete report and will have it filed by the end of the day. You can stop by the precinct and grab a copy for your insurance. We’ll put out an APB on the missing vehicle, but with an eight-hour head start, the chances of finding your vehicle are slim.”

  “The third one today?” Mom mimics the officer’s statement. The stunned look on her face is almost comical.

  “Great,” I mumble not even caring that I sound a little on the whiny side. The last thing I want to deal with is more insurance forms. Hell, I’ve barely had possession of the car for forty-eight hours since the last insurance claim I filed. I’m sure this will do wonders for my premium.

  The officers take all my necessary information before turning and leaving me alone with my thoughts, which in turn are about the fact that I no longer have a vehicle. Apparently, there was a small string of robberies last night, right? Other vehicles were stolen here in Vegas. It could be the work of petty thieves, not necessarily pros, but that would mean my car probably didn’t fair too well. Petty thieves usually don’t steal with the finesse and expertise that those pros do. At least that’s the way it looks on the cop shows on television.

  Can this day get any worse?

  * * *

  “Honey, I have to tell you something,” Mom says on Wednesday evening.

  Reid was kind enough to give me Monday off to deal with the insurance and police reports of my stolen vehicle. Of course, in true Reid fashion, one of his SUVs arrived later that afternoon for my use until we get the mess sorted out. Tuesday and Wednesday, I forced myself to go through the motions of work, but my mind was elsewhere. Today was a long day with back-to-back meetings and cranky client phone calls. All I want to do now is rock my daughter to sleep and then drown myself in a large glass of wine, and maybe a bubble bath.

  “What’s up, Mom?’

  Mom appears at my side while Nat plays with toys on the living room floor, distracted by the cartoons on the television. Mom keeps wringing her hands, as she tends to do when she’s nervous which instantly raises my antenna. “Have you talked to your uncle yet about your stolen car?” she asks, eyes full of concern.

  “My uncle? No, why?” I ask, standing up so that we’re eye level.

  “Well, since he purchased that car for you, I thought maybe you should let him know that it was stolen.”

  “I guess,” I reply, not really wanting to call the man I see so infrequently. “I can let him know, but I’m not doing it so that he replaces the car. My insurance agent says that I should
be able to get a fair market price to put towards something else.”

  “I know, but there’s…there’s just…things…that I think you need to speak with him about. About your car. About all of the cars.”

  “Okay, Mom, you’re starting to scare me,” I tell her. The look on her face says she’s troubled about something. Something she clearly doesn’t want to say to me. “Just say it.”

  “Honey, it’s about your father.”

  * * *

  I held off until Saturday afternoon. It was as long as I could. I honestly have no idea how I made it as long as I did, but Mom was right. I needed time to listen to what she had to say and wrap my head around it, but that was three days ago. Now? All bets are off.

  I pull up to my uncle’s house. It’s a large Tudor home in a fancy gated community with more security than the White House. The ornate pond is flowing beautifully over decorative rocks, adorning half-naked stone cherubs. Palm trees line the driveway on both sides giving it a beautiful appearance with a hint of privacy. I’ve only ever been here one other time and that was with my mom when I was much younger. My uncle always comes to me.

  Security allows me to pass through as soon as I gave my name, which, considering it’s been well over a decade since I’ve been here, surprises me a little. There’s no way my uncle could have been expecting me, right?

  I pull my borrowed SUV into the circular driveway and stop right in front of the double front doors. Large, white pillars extend from the concrete porch all the way to the roof of the second story. To say I’m nervous to be here would be an understatement. I’m scared to death to make this visit.

  After listening to my mother tell me all about my father, I went through three major emotions–almost all at the same time. First, anger. I was angry with her for keeping this part of my life, my family history, from me. Three days later, I can see things a little more clearly and through calmer eyes, so while I may not completely agree with it, I do understand her decisions a little better. The second emotion was confusion. Why is this all coming out now? After twenty-two years, why is it okay for me to know my family secrets now? And the third emotion was anger again. Okay, so maybe only two emotions.

  I take several calming breaths before making my way up the steps and approach the front door. Before I can ring the bell or knock with the fancy brass knocker, the front door dramatically opens. A gentleman dressed in a suit opens the door widely and indicates for me to step inside. Either the front gate announced my arrival, or this man knows who I am as well. That thought makes me shiver.

  Before I can even ask to speak with my uncle, I hear his loud accent as he descends the stairs in front of me. The staircase curves around the outside wall and he looks like royalty as he makes his way down in his expensive suit that screams Armani. I take a quick look at my father’s aging brother. He’s tall with dark hair and darker eyes, the same dark hair and eyes that I have.

  “There’s my favorite senorita,” he says in his thick Spanish accent. He attempts to pass off his smile as caring, but hidden underneath is something different. Something I’m not used to or prepared for.

  “Hi, I need to speak with you for a moment,” I tell him, my heart rate nearing an alarming speed right now. I knew I was coming over here to talk to him about the car being stolen and maybe find out whatever else I could find out about what happened twenty-two years ago.

  “What is it?” he asks, face full of concern.

  “My car was stolen last Sunday night,” I start. He tries to keep a neutral face, but I can see the flash of anger in his eyes for a few moments before he quickly chases it away and replaces it with casual.

  “Tell me more.”

  “The police believe it was part of a string of thefts that occurred that evening. They say that the chances of me getting my car back are slim to none. I went ahead and filed the report with the insurance and I’ve already talked to them about replacing my vehicle. I’ve already scouted around and have something picked out.”

  “Good, good. The police don’t have leads?” he asks, searching my face with those dark eyes.

  “No leads that I’m aware of.” I wait while he processes the information I passed along. “I was hoping you could tell me something else while I’m here.” Now or never, right? I didn’t come this far to turn away now before I finally have some answers.

  “Oh?”

  “Tell me about my father,” I ask him boldly as a statement, not a question, while looking him square in the eye. Several things cross his face in that moment. Shock. Fear. Sadness.

  “Your father?” he says, stumbling slightly on the words as if they stung.

  “Yes, my father. I know part of the story, but now I want the rest of it. Mom and I had a very interesting conversation Wednesday evening about why we came to be where we are in Las Vegas. I know he was involved in some less than legal doings. She said that it was time that I knew the truth.”

  “Your father. Well, that’s not really my story to tell, nena.”

  “That doesn’t give me the answers I’m looking for,” I tell him, starting to feel defeated. I know there’s more to the story, but how am I supposed to get it if not from my uncle?

  “Are you sure?” he asks, searching my face one more time as if waiting for and maybe expecting me to back down and run out the front door. Not happening.

  “Positive,” I tell him, standing my ground.

  “Come with me,” he says as he leads me back towards his office. This is one room I recall when I was here years ago. Mom and I met with him in this very office.

  When he approaches the door, he knocks which I find a little odd. But for as odd as I think his actions are, nothing surprises me more than when a voice grants access from the inside. With slightly shaking legs, I follow as we step through the large, wooden door. There on the other side of that door is the mirror image of myself. The man that I haven’t seen in twenty-two years. The man I was lead to believe was dead. In flesh and blood with a small smile on his aged face.

  My father.

  Chapter Ten – Memories

  Blake

  We get to Roman’s house and head towards the back office. Styx is in front of me because he’s always in front of me. It’s one of the ways he likes to show me my place in the company. There isn’t too much to do this weekend since we’ll hold off a while before completing any more boosts. The last thing we want to do is give the cops more ammunition to bring heat down on the operation. Besides, the next job is a damn big one. The big one.

  When we approach the door, voices are easily detected, even with the door closed. Roman and Mattias are in heavy debate, and at first, I think they’re alone. Then I hear a third voice, and it’s one I wasn’t expecting. The third voice is a woman. And she sounds pissed as hell.

  Styx and I take a few moments to listen before he knocks on the door. Both men are expecting our arrival for our meeting this afternoon so the person they’re speaking with could possibly be directly linked. I guess the only way to find out is to go inside.

  “Come in,” Mattias says tersely.

  I follow Styx into the room and head towards my seat across from the desk. The woman that Roman is speaking with has her back towards me. You can feel the tension so thick in the room that you practically need a knife to cut through it. The woman’s hands are placed firmly on her hips as she demonstrates a defiant stance. I try not to look, but my eyes are glued to the woman’s ass. Curvy hips with a beautifully enticing flare hidden beneath tight denim. My fucking dick actually starts to get hard. From an ass!

  “Boys, we may have to continue this meeting another time,” Mattias says as he watches the standoff before him. His head bounces back and forth as he watches their apparent impasse like a slow-motion Ping-Pong match.

  “No,” Roman says from his chair behind his desk without taking his eyes off the woman in front of him. “We will start our meeting as planned,” he adds, raising his manicured eyebrow upward as if daring her to say something.
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br />   I wait for someone to speak. The collective sounds of everyone breathing are the only noise in the room as we wait. And when the wait is finally over, there’s no way I could be anywhere close to being prepared for what comes out of his mouth. “Señores, this is my daughter, Carlina.”

  The name means nothing, but the face that turns around means everything. The face I’ve seen in my sleep every night for two years. The woman I left sleeping in her bed while I slipped out in the early, pre-dawn light. The woman I picture every time I’m with another girl. The woman I haven’t been able to forget.

  Carly.

  Chapter Eleven – Can’t Be!

  Carly

  After the shock wore off of seeing my father for the first time in over two decades, I was too upset to listen, and I mean really listen, to what he was saying. Something about business and protecting me, yada, yada, yada. Uncle Mattias didn’t even speak up. He just let my father try to fill in a few of the blanks that I have in my memory. Okay, a lot of blanks. Twenty years of blanks to be exact.

  When the door opens behind me, I don’t pay any attention to it. I can’t. My father–who is alive and well, by the way–just told me that his “business” is less than honorable in the eyes of the law, therefore to protect me and my mother after some bad business deals went down, he sent us away. New names, new life. A life that no longer included him.

  I have so many questions, and it completely pisses me off that he’s practically dismissing me to have some stupid work meeting. After twenty years, don’t you think spending a few extra minutes with your daughter is a higher priority than a meeting? I know damn good and well that it is more important to me!

  “Señores, this is my daughter, Carlina.” When he doesn’t return his eyes to me right away, I slowly turn around to see who had entered the room. The man on the left is short, but built well. He has tattoos that peek out from under his shirt collar as well as his sleeves. Ability and purpose radiates off him like a furnace. But the look in his eyes makes me do a double take. I can’t describe the look he’s giving me, but it makes me feel uncomfortable all the same.