Wicked Intentions(17)

Yes, I do know. But I’m still childishly wounded by Reynard’s betrayal. I look down, swallowing back tears.

When I stare at the ground a little too long, Reynard takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look up.

“I need to keep him thinking I’m loyal, Mariana.”

I jerk my chin from his hand. “He knows you’re not loyal. Which is why we’re in this situation in the first place.”

I unhook the clasp on the necklace with a practiced flick of my fingers. It slithers down my chest. I capture it in my hands, thrusting it at Reynard because I’m suddenly filled with disgust for it.

At least he has the manners to look ashamed when he takes it from me. “I’m sorry, my darling—”

“Don’t be. I knew what I was doing when I took the oath. And it was worth it, to keep you alive after everything you did for me. I’m just tired.”

I find the nearest chair and sink into it, dragging my hands through my hair. He watches me silently, examining my face.

Again I’m reminded of the American. He and Reynard have that same hard speculation in their gazes, the way of making you feel utterly exposed in spite of all your careful disguises.

Stop thinking about him, Mari. Don’t waste time on foolish dreams. Exhaling heavily, I pass a hand over my eyes.

Still holding the ruby necklace, Reynard speaks sharply. “What’s going on? You’re different tonight. What’s happened?”

I lift my eyes and I lie again, because I have to, because the notion of honor among thieves exists in the same place as Tinker Bell.

Neverland, where children never age, and all it takes to keep you alive is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie dust.

“Nothing,” I say, keeping my face as blank as my voice. “Now why don’t you tell me where I’m supposed to meet that son of a bitch so I can get it over with.”

Reynard opens a drawer in the Louis XVI cabinet and removes a black velvet bag. Into it he carefully deposits the necklace. Then he draws the bag closed, puts it back into the cabinet, and lifts his gaze to mine.

“He’s staying at the Palace. And please, Mariana. Be careful. He’s in a strange mood.”

“When isn’t he?” I mutter.

“You’ll need these.” Reynard opens a different drawer. Another black velvet bag appears, this one much smaller than the first. From inside comes the soft chink of metal sliding against metal as he carries it over to me and places it in my outstretched hand.

I open the bag and peer inside, then look at Reynard with my brows pulled together. “I only need one to get past the doorman.”

Reynard’s pause could mean anything. It’s short but weighty, and tells me he’s carefully considering his words. “You never know what you’re going to need when you’re in the Palace, my darling. Better safe than sorry.”

Those words echo in my ears long after I’ve had my tea and left.



* * *

From the outside, the Palace looks like a dump. It’s an abandoned, decaying textile mill in a dodgy part of town, near the docks, a block or two away from a large homeless encampment. Tourists don’t come around here. Neither do the police, who are paid handsomely to turn a blind eye.

The cabbie thinks I’ve given him the wrong address.

“Nuttin’ here but trouble, miss,” he says in a thick Cockney accent, peering through his window at the ten-story building outside.

It looks deserted. All the windows are blacked out. Old newspapers and the odd bit of trash decorate the sidewalk. A skinny orange tabby cat slinks around a corner, catches sight of the cab idling at the curb, and darts back out of sight.

“No, this is it. Thank you.” I hand him a fifty-pound note through the opening in the plastic screen that divides us and get out of the cab.

He doesn’t even offer me change before he drives off, tires squealing.

“Sissy,” I mutter, flipping up the collar of my coat to ward off the chill of the evening.

It doesn’t help.

I walk down a dark alley on the side of the building until I reach an unmarked door. The reek of the Dumpsters nearby is overwhelming. I rap my knuckles on the cold metal to the tune of “Shave and a Haircut,” shivering as an icy wind whips around my bare ankles.

A small window in the center of the door slides open with a clack. An eyeball peers out at me. Then a deep male voice grunts, “Piss off.”

“New England clam chowder,” I say.

The eyeball gives me a searing once-over.

From my pocket I remove a silver coin and hold it up so the eyeball can see it. “Open sesame, amigo. It’s freezing out here.”

The eyeball disappears as the window slams shut. The quiet of the alley is broken by the scrape of the door opening and the doorman’s greeting, friendlier now that he’s heard the password and seen the coin.

“Evenin’.”

He holds out his hand. It’s the size of a dinner plate. Into his palm I set the piece of stamped silver. He nods and steps back, allowing me to pass.

I walk down a short corridor lit by a single bare bulb hanging from a wire on the ceiling. A freight elevator awaits at the end, its doors gaping open. I step inside and press a button marked “Limbo.”

After a short ride, the doors open again to what appears to be the lobby of a posh hotel.

The Palace is a posh hotel. And bar, nightclub, neutral meeting space—even safe house if needed—all designed for a particular clientele.

A spectacularly beautiful redhead in a tailored ivory suit smiles at me from behind a marble counter to my left. Her fiery hair is gathered into a low chignon. Her skin is milk white. A gold placard on the counter reads “Concierge.”

When I approach her counter, she smiles wider. “Dragonfly. How wonderful to see you again.”

“Hello, Genevieve.”

She notices I’m not carrying luggage. “I take it you’re not staying with us long?”

“No. Do you have any messages for me?”

“One moment, please.”

Her fingers move quickly over a keyboard as she glances at the computer screen tucked below the counter. “Yes. Mr. Moreno requests you join him on the seventh floor when you arrive.”

Our gazes meet. Genevieve’s pleasant smile doesn’t waver. If she feels any pity at all for me at being summoned to the seventh floor by the head of the European crime syndicate, she doesn’t reveal it.

“Thank you, Genevieve.”

“You’re welcome. Please let me know if I may be of any service during your stay.”

Translation: If you require unregistered weapons, forged identity papers, armed escorts, or emergency disposal of dead bodies, I’m your girl.

We nod at each other in farewell. I quickly cross the lobby, noting several familiar faces. People are checking in and out, relaxing on sofas and reading newspapers, strolling around with drinks in their hands. Exactly like people do in a normal hotel lobby.

But this is no normal hotel, which I’m irrefutably reminded of as I enter the main elevators and look at the row of buttons on the panel on the wall. The floors aren’t numbered. Inspired by Dante’s Inferno, each of the nine floors in the Palace is named after one of the circles of hell.

I hit the button marked “Violence” and shiver as the elevator doors slide silently shut.





Eleven





Mariana




The elevator dings. The doors slide open. I’m greeted by the sight of two men, naked from the waist up, beating each other bloody with bare fists in the middle of an open ring, with boundaries marked by a square of silver coins on the burgundy carpet.

Burgundy. Good for concealing bloodstains.

I steel myself against the revulsion that twists my stomach.

A barrel-chested man with no neck, a crooked nose, and a mouthful of disheveled teeth stands to the right of the doors. The only thing remotely attractive about him is his suit, a bespoke pinstripe Brioni with a midnight-blue tie and matching silk pocket square.

“Dragonfly.” His voice is a rocky rumble, heavy with the mark of southern Italy.

“Enzo. You’re looking well.”

He chuckles. Somehow it sounds just as Sicilian as his accent. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, bambolina. It’s no good for your health.”

His gaze drifts over my figure, lingering on the hint of cleavage the collar of my coat doesn’t manage to conceal. I curse myself for leaving my scarf at Reynard’s.

Enzo murmurs something lewd in Italian, licking his lips.

Aggravated, I respond in Italian that his mother would smack him to hear him talking like that.

“Ya,” he says, nodding. “But she’s dead, so she don’t hear nothing no more except the munching of worms. Capo’s waiting on you.”

So much for the pleasant chitchat.

Enzo turns, expecting me to follow because he knows I always do. I walk behind him as he leads me around the fighting men to a sitting area on the other side of the room.

The walls are painted black. The room is dim, smoky, and smells like sweat. Incongruent to everything, the gorgeous resonance of a pure, perfect soprano singing an aria from Puccini’s Madama Butterfly plays on invisible speakers.

Trying to ignore the grunts of pain that punctuate the opera as blows are landed, I keep my gaze averted from the pair of bloody fighters and focus on the irregular mole on the back of Enzo’s bald head.

But I’ve already seen enough.