Wicked Intentions(18)

Judging by the bruising on their bodies and how both men are panting and swaying on their feet, the fight has been going on for some time. Won’t be long before one of them will collect his coins and the other is dragged out by his heels and disposed of.

Losers in one of Capo’s fights don’t leave the building breathing.

The sitting area is raised on a dais, flanked by a pair of floor lamps, wide enough to hold a long leather sofa and a few club chairs on either end. Six men in suits stand discreetly in the shadows at the rear, three on either side, hands clasped at their waists, faces impassive.

Capo’s soldiers. Made men.

Assassins.

A glass coffee table in front of the sofa holds a magnum of champagne on ice and two empty crystal champagne flutes. The sofa itself holds two very young, nude girls—leashed with leather collars—and one large, dead-eyed man.

In one fist he holds the stub of a cigar. In the other he holds the girls’ leashes.

He’s thirty-five, maybe forty, wearing a tailored dark suit even more beautiful than Enzo’s. His hair is thick and midnight black. His jaw is as hard as his eyes. He’s handsome in an ugly sort of way, all the violence inside him barely contained, oozing out around the edges.

Vincent Moreno.

The most evil creature in the world, next to the Devil himself.

“Mari,” he says softly. “You’re here.”

With a savage jerk of his arm, he drags both girls off the sofa. They land at his feet in a tangle of pale limbs and pained yelps, quickly silenced by another cruel jerk on their collars. They cower on the carpet, heads down, clinging to his legs.

My back teeth are gritted so hard, I think they might shatter.

“Capo di tutti capi,” I say. Boss of all bosses. “I am.”

Those dead eyes slice straight through me. For a long moment, he simply stares at me. Then, horribly, he starts to laugh.

“Enzo! Have you ever seen such a look!” He motions to me with his cigar. A fat clump of glowing ash falls onto one of the girls, burning her leg. She pulls her lips between her teeth and whimpers.

“Ya,” drawls Enzo, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. He winks at me. “When some guy wants to kill me, he looks just like that.”

Smiling, Capo tilts his head back and looks at me from under hooded lids. “You want to kill me, Mari?”

Only every day, you worthless piece of shit. “I’m not in the murder business.”

His smile vanishes. “You’re in whatever business I say you’re in.”

I swallow. A cold bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Behind me, one of the fighters lands a vicious blow.

The crunch of bone makes the collared girls shudder.

“Yes, Capo. I meant no disrespect.”

Gazing at me thoughtfully, he draws on his cigar. The tip burns red. He exhales a plume of smoke. Then, without looking away from me, he raises the hand that holds the girls’ leashes and turns to Enzo. “Get rid of this garbage.”

Enzo leads them off like they’re a pair of dogs on choke chains. They crawl behind him on hands and knees toward a door on the far side of the room. I can’t watch, because I can’t help them, and I’m concentrating on swallowing the scream of impotent rage building in my throat.

I start counting all the places I’ve hidden weapons on my body.

Left thigh. Lower back. Right forearm. Shoe.

I’m not going to attempt anything because I’d be dead within seconds, but it calms me.

Capo motions for me to join him on the sofa. “Come. Take off your coat and have some champagne.”

The six bodyguards watch me rebel for a moment against an order from their king. Try as I might, I can’t move, and my body remains frozen.

Capo’s hand is extended toward me. His eyes glitter with malice. Very quietly, he says my name.

I drag in a breath and find the will to get my shaking fingers to untie the belt on my coat. It falls open, Capo’s eyes flare, and I freeze all over again.

Abruptly, he stands and comes to me. He cuffs my wrists in his hands and gives me a short, hard shake. I smell his cologne, sandalwood and cloves, and almost groan in terror.

“You seem reluctant.” His voice is low, his face close to mine. “Are you afraid of me, Mari?”

I could die in this room, and no one would ever know. I’d never see Reynard again. I’d never see the sun again.

And the American… Will he think of me?

I’m hyperventilating. It must be my fear that answers Capo, because I would never be so self-destructive to utter the words I say next.

“Yes. But I hate myself for it. You’re not worth the wasted breath.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes. He looks at my mouth. “I’ve killed men for less than that,” he says softly, deadly. His gaze flashes back up to mine. His grip around my wrists is viciously tight.

I think of the American again, the way he touched my body with such reverence, how he was so sweet I couldn’t bear it. It’s comical that I should be thinking of him at this moment. Or maybe it’s madness. Either way, it gives me a welcome boost of strength.

“I can’t help it if you don’t like to hear the truth.”

Capo exhales slowly. His lids droop. He moistens his lips.

With a fresh dose of horror, I realize he’s aroused by my defiance.

“Always so reckless, Mari,” he says in a lover’s tender murmur. “Always so proud. Do you know what I’d like to do with that pride of yours?”

My mouth goes dry. My stomach knots. I’m sure he can hear my knees knocking.

He leans closer, inhaling deeply against my neck, raising all the tiny hairs on my body. The tip of his nose nudges my earlobe as he breathes hotly into my ear. “I’d like to beat it out of you.”

Then he releases me abruptly. “Now sit your ass down on the fucking sofa!” he snarls.

He shoves me so hard, I stumble and fall to my knees. A hand grips my hair and yanks my head back. I look up into a handsome, unsmiling face.

Capo makes a clucking noise and chides, “Clumsy.”

He drags me to my feet by my hair. I suck in a sharp breath from the pain but don’t scream. I won’t give the bastard the satisfaction. He pushes me onto the sofa, then stands glaring down at me while I wait, heart hammering, for him to pull out a gun and shoot me in the face.

But he only runs a hand over his hair and adjusts his tie, smooths a wrinkle in his beautiful jacket.

“You always manage to disrupt my equilibrium.”

There’s an edge like a knife in his voice. He sits next to me and pours champagne into both glasses. An acrid coil of smoke wafts up from the carpet beneath the coffee table where he abandoned his cigar.

I take the champagne he offers, ashamed to see how hard my hand shakes. Unsure if it will be the last taste of champagne I’ll ever have, I swallow it in one gulp.

One of the fighters hits the other with a vicious undercut to the jaw. It sends him flying. As the soprano hits a high note, his body lands on the carpet with a dull thud. A tremor shakes the floor under my feet.

Get up. Keep fighting. Please don’t die in front of me. Please don’t die and leave me here alone with him and his soldiers and nothing else to hold their attention.

“I told you to take off your coat.”

Capo has leaned back against the sofa, and is watching me from the corner of his eye. I do as he orders, my gaze averted. When I try to drape my coat over my legs, he warns softly, “Mariana.”

I place the coat on the arm of the sofa and fold my hands in my lap. I’m sitting ramrod-straight, staring at nothing, when I feel his hand settle onto my thigh.

I flinch. He squeezes my leg. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. “So you know I finished the job.”

“Speak again without permission,” he says casually, “and you won’t walk for a week.”

“Who told you you could speak, you bad girl?”

Why, why is the American in my head? Why can’t I get him out? Why am I thinking of him as I’m sitting here with this savage of a man, my life in danger, my heart exploding in fear?

Even as I’m asking myself those questions, I know the answer.

Because the further away I get from that beautiful night, the more clearly I can see what I was given.

“Why are you smiling?” Capo asks sharply.

My eyes snap open. The fighter who was knocked out has rolled onto his side and is struggling to stand. It seems like a sign, so I decide to tell him the truth. “You remind me of the things I’m grateful for.”

My honesty surprises him. Something like amusement flashes across his expression, but of course it can’t be amusement because he doesn’t have a sense of humor—because he doesn’t have a soul.

“How interesting. That almost sounded like a compliment. If you’re not careful, I’ll start to think you’re sweet on me.” After a beat, he adds, “Although those murderous eyes tell a different story.”

We stare at each other. My fingers itch to claw into his eye sockets, to dig out his eyeballs and crush them under my feet, to feel vitreous liquid, warm and gelatinous, ooze between my bare toes.

I wonder if evil is contagious.

“May I please have permission to speak?” I ask politely.

His grin is unexpected. It’s also terrifying.

“Do you know why I like you, Mariana?”

He likes me? Dios mio. His hand, heavy and warm, still rests on my thigh.