by Mara McQueen
"How about a truce?" she called out, loud enough for everyone to hear.
See? The Brotherhood was making an effort to be nice. They didn't have to slash and poison their way to peace. At least not always.
Enzo turned back to her, brows raised. "Go on."
"We're both forced into this marriage, we might as well both equally suffer for it." She rolled her shoulders back, feeling all of today's fatigue and tension in her muscles. She was exhausted. "We each take half a year. We live six months where you want and six months where I want. Deal?"
Even saying the words made her gag, but she'd survived so far by making the best out of any situation, especially the really shitty ones.
Whether she liked it or not, she'd have to live with Enzo. Might as well find a way to not butt heads all the time so she could focus on the important things—finding out who'd been behind the wedding massacre. She could do that anywhere—hopefully—as long as she had time and peace on her side.
It wasn't like Enzo seemed in a hurry to find out who killed his uncle.
Enzo tilted his head to the side, as if considering her offer. But a smile had begun to bloom on his face ever since Patrice had opened her mouth.
She frowned. Why did she suddenly feel like Enzo had wanted her to suggest this truce? Had actually been waiting for it?
Maybe she was tired. Maybe she was paranoid. Maybe her soon-to-be husband hid some dreadful schemes behind that beautiful face of his.
He'd been right. Patrice needed to be careful around him, because she had no idea who she was dealing with.
"Deal," he said after a few torturous seconds. He sounded triumphant. "But I get first pick."
Patrice rolled her eyes. "Fine. I already have everything packed, might as well."
All she really wanted right now was a hot shower and a clean bed. She could deal with this mess in the morning.
"Lovely. Our first marital compromise." Enzo turned again, looking at her over his shoulder with a devilish glint in his eyes. "Don't bother unpacking, though. We're leaving tomorrow."
Patrice was definitely poisoning his coffee in the morning. "Excuse me? Where?"
"Paris, of course." His grin grew dangerous edges. "The city of romance and lovers."
Chapter Four
ENZO
Everything was going according to plan, yet, somehow, Enzo wasn't all that thrilled about it.
He'd promised himself to find the person responsible for the massacre that had almost torn his Clan apart and had taken his cousins and twin sister away from him. They were all forced into marriages with the enemies they'd despised from afar all their lives.
He'd woken up the day after the wedding groggy, pissed-off, with his left eyebrow slashed open. His body had hurt like never before.
Then his twin, Antonia "Toni" Caputo had tearfully told him that Victor had been killed.
Enzo hadn't cried. After his parents had died on his and Toni's eleventh birthday, out of their own stupidity, he'd sworn himself three things—to never shed a tear again, to make a life for himself on his own terms so that he never had to depend on anyone, ever, and to never drink a drop of alcohol, the thing that had ultimately led to his parents' deaths. Alcohol and them deciding to drive after a night-long drinking binge. In a snowstorm. They'd lost control of the car, veered into another vehicle, and took another nameless family to the grave with them.
After that, Victor and Zio Rossi had stepped up and raised Enzo and Toni. Hell, Victor had had a hand in raising almost all of Enzo's cousins. He'd supported, protected, and loved them like his own kids. For that alone he should have died on his own terms, not murdered in a parking lot.
Hearing about Victor dying almost undid Enzo. He hadn't cried, but he'd poured himself the first glass of wine in his life. Then another. And another.
And now, as his private plane flew above Switzerland, he had a glass of whisky in his hand and his eyes trained on Patrice.
He had to find Victor's killer. Enzo couldn't get on with his life until he found the person who'd taken his uncle away from him. But that didn't mean he had to drag Patrice into it.
Come to think of it, he definitely shouldn't have.
She was dangerous. Her name struck fear in the hearts of greedy men for no reason and Enzo would be stupid to trust her. But he had no choice.
Right now, she was his best cover—and had played the part beautifully last night, even if she hadn't known it. Or maybe she had.
Those big blue eyes of hers unnerved him. They seemed to see too much of him and Enzo hadn't spent his entire life creating an elaborate facade for himself. The Viper couldn't uncover it in a few glances—could she?
Luckily, Patrice wasn't staring at him now. She was too busy pacing in the back of the plane, scowling and pressing her phone tighter into her ear.
"Raiden, you're killing me," she said, voice barely above a whisper, to keep Enzo from hearing. But he'd learned to read lips in the seventh grade, among other skills he kept hidden from everyone, including most of his own Clan. "You need to give this whole Phantom idea a rest. No, Your Highness, you're wrong—for fuck's sake, why would a spy care about the fucking Caputo wedding? Or Clan? Oh my God, you need to give me a break. Do all of us a favor and get laid before that vein on your head pops, because I'm ninety-eight percent certain it's pulsing right now."
Enzo almost snorted into his drink. Instead, he downed it in one gulp. Patrice had a bit of spitfire in her, didn't she? She would've fit right into the Syndicate if the Brotherhood hadn't recruited her first.
He set his glass down on the tray and relaxed into his cream leather chair, eyes taking in his future wife.
Enzo knew he should dislike her—she was Brotherhood Elite, had tackled him at the wedding, then knocked him out with that dreadful sleeping draught of hers that had felt like liquefied death—but whenever he tried to muster up an ounce of hatred, he only ended up respecting her even more.
She was good at her job; Enzo couldn't begrudge her that. The problem was her job usually entailed getting in the way of Syndicate business. Until now, when she had to marry a member of the Syndicate First Family. Lovely.
Patrice was stunning. Enzo would never admit it out loud—he barely allowed himself to acknowledge it in his own mind—but the woman was bloody gorgeous. Petite and curvy and those dagger heels of hers did wonderful, wonderful things to her legs; they'd look even better wrapped around him. Maybe while he was running his hands through that long, golden hair of hers. Maybe he'd pull on it with enough force to drive her wild, if she was into that sort of thing. Enzo had a feeling she might be.
He'd seen the way she'd flushed last night at the party. How her gaze had lingered longingly on the handcuffs in his room, even as she'd tried her hand at looking appalled.
Enzo had seen through her mask and he'd liked the peek he'd gotten.
Yes, he and Patrice could definitely have some fun—if she wanted to. After last night, she might very well hate his guts and he couldn't blame her. But he'd had to play his part for all his guests to see. It wasn't like he'd been dying to throw another debauched party. But he'd needed witnesses, an excuse to get Darryl drunk, and a reason for Patrice to be absolutely livid with that house.
Mission accomplished. Had some small part of him hoped he and Patrice would have officially met under different circumstances? Sure. But the kind of life he led didn't allow such trivial things as hope.
As if sensing Enzo's impure thoughts, the cat stirred awake in his carry-on, tucked on the seat opposite Charles, who had dozed off as soon as they'd taken off.
Patrice had insisted they bring the tabby beast along with them and had refused to let the creature anywhere near Enzo.
But the poor cat was pawing at his cage as if he wanted to gouge an eye or two out. Might as well give it the opportunity.
Patrice was still on her call with that louse of a Brotherhood Prince. They still had an hour left before landing and if Enzo had to learn to live with a cat, he could
start now.
He carefully opened the carry-on's door. "Hello, hellion."
The cat blinked its yellow eyes up at him. He jumped out as if it was the noblest of royals and sauntered to Enzo's seat. It sniffed his pants and shoes for the longest time, but instead of shredding them with its mighty claws, the hellion jumped straight into Enzo's lap.
"Someone wants cuddles." Enzo petted the cat's head and got rewarded with a loud purr. "Shh, or your mistress is going to have both our hides."
"Raiden, listen to me. I can't do shit without the toxicology report and in case you hadn't heard, I have to jet off across Europe because my fucking fiancé—" Patrice glanced Enzo's way. As soon as she saw the cat snuggling in his lap, her mouth fell open. "Oscar, no! We hate snooty, conceited men, remember?"
"I should be offended," Enzo said. "But I won't, since your cat adores me."
Patrice narrowed his eyes at him. The cat purred louder.
Patrice rolled her eyes. "Oh, sure. You tear Logan's pants after he gives you treats, but this devil you like."
"That just means you have good taste in men," Enzo whispered down at the cat before he caught himself. Hmm. Maybe that whiskey Ella had sent his way was stronger than he'd realized.
"Send me the report, I'll deal with the rest," Patrice said over her call. She grimaced after a few seconds. "Yes, if I find out anything about him—or her, by the way—during my new jet setting ways, I'll let you know. How should I know if we can use him—or her—as an asset? Would be nice, though, I agree. Love you, too. Take care and remember to be nice to your fiancée."
Hmm. Toni had said the same thing to Enzo when she'd heard Patrice was coming. His sister was just dying to meet the Viper.
Patrice ripped the phone from her ear and sat down in the chair opposite Enzo's.
She grimaced at the cat. "Traitor."
"Jealous he likes me better?" Enzo asked.
Patrice grabbed a handful of wasabi-coated peanuts and munched on them hard. "It's cool. You can feed and change his litter from now on."
"I think I can pay someone a great deal of money to do that for me." Enzo didn't lead the life he'd created for himself out of thin air just for shits and giggles. He'd had his plans, sure. But he'd also gained a fortune while accomplishing them. Win-win.
"How can you, though?" Patrice gave him one of those looks again; like she wanted to read his mind and was very close to doing it. Enzo suddenly felt exposed. "How can you afford all these things? The fancy house, the fancy clothes, the private jet? Your Clan's finances are shaky at best."
Sadly, they were. Not even Ella had managed to make sense of the Syndicate's drafty bank accounts yet. But Enzo didn't depend on his Clan's money.
"I've made friends with the right people."
Patrice snorted. "You run in some very interesting circles, then. None of my friends have ever lent me their private planes. Well, Raiden has, but just for Clan business."
"Make better friends then," he said, knowing he shouldn't. But it sounded like she was criticizing him and Enzo didn't like that. Not one bit.
He didn't know why, though. Hadn't he carefully crafted this image of the reprobate party boy precisely so nobody would look too closely at what he actually did? Why did he suddenly care that Patrice believed he was, in fact, a superficial rich boy with expensive tastes?
"My friends don't spend their money on planes." She munched on another peanut; she liked them. Her nose wiggled in delight with each one.
Enzo made a mental note to tell Charles to buy more of these wasabi peanuts when they landed. For now, he'd let him sleep. Charles had an important job to do in Paris.
"Yes, because your friends are all so saintly," he drawled. "They spend their days volunteering at soup kitchens and donating the clothes off their backs, not murdering CEOs and overturning governments left and right."
"Hey, someone's got to murder to keep the world order. It even rhymes." Patrice shrugged, then narrowed her eyes at him. "Since you seem to know so many people—"
A corner of his lips ticked up. If only she knew just how many people Enzo knew—and how much information he had on all of them.
"—ever met someone who's actually seen or talked to the Phantom?"
"The supposed spy?" Enzo asked evenly while petting the cat until its spine arched.
Patrice sighed. "So you don't believe he exists either."
"Or she. Or they." Enzo grinned. "It's doubtful that one person can accomplish everything people say the Phantom has done."
Patrice slumped in her chair. "I know. Raiden's got it in his head that maybe we can use the Phantom to find some scrap of information about the wedding massacre. The sooner we find out who did it, the sooner the Underworld will stop thinking it was the Brotherhood."
"I doubt even your Clan can afford the Phantom's services. If the rumors are to be believed, of course."
And there were a lot of rumors. The Phantom had been credited as the greatest spy of their generation. For the right price, he could get his hands on anything. Information, the occasional priceless painting, maps, corporate intel. Anything.
They said he didn't have loyalty toward anyone. He ghosted through the civilian world and the Underworld, unseen and unheard.
Nobody knew who he was and nobody knew how to reach him, which infuriated the Clans. Everyone wanted the Phantom on their side.
"Maybe it's not one person. It's an organization that's messing with all of us," Patrice said. "That can become real dangerous real fast."
"Or we can focus on finding the person who almost killed all of us." Who'd killed Victor in that useless, senseless act of viciousness. "Instead of chasing figments of imagination."
Patrice raised her brows. "You want to find Victor's killer?"
"We both want that."
"We?" Patrice's top lip curled. "I need to set up my lab, get my tox report, and find out what that poison was. It almost killed my friend. That shit show you called a wedding has smeared the name of the Brotherhood. I plan on fixing that. But I can't do that at thousands of feet in the air."
Enzo frowned. Was he bothered that she'd rejected that casual we so quickly? Yes. Yes, he was. They were stuck in this sham of a marriage together.
"You will have a room in Paris you can explode to your heart's desire."
She tilted her chin at him. "What about you? How do you plan on finding the mastermind behind all of this while you're flitting from party to party?"
Enzo's grin grew. If only Patrice knew just how many devious missions could be done at a party. "You'll be flitting right alongside me, starting tonight. We're invited to a very unusual event and we can't refuse."
Patrice blanched. "I'm not going to any party."
"You want to clear the Brotherhood's name? What better way to accomplish that—fast—than us enemies being seen out and about, so very happy together?"
She snorted a laugh. "You're serious."
He was, though his motivation wasn't all that pure. He wasn't going to leave Patrice alone in his Parisian house; he had more than one secret stashed away there. He also needed her at that party, as a cover.
Did the idea of going to an event with her excite him a bit? Yes. But he wasn't about to let those big blue eyes of hers distract him from his true mission.
"I am serious. You might like it. Plenty of interesting people will attend the event," he said. "Ones which might have heard rumors about who was behind the wedding massacre. Very easy to get information from them once they've had a glass or two. Or seven."
Patrice licked her teeth, small tongue darting out across her bottom lip. Enzo gnashed his teeth. She was tempting him without even trying.
"Fine. But I'll be spending my time questioning anyone who looks even slightly familiar," Patrice said. She was precious, trying to negotiate with herself like this. "No dancing, no drinking."
That's all she thought Enzo's life was about, didn't she? One drunken night after another. She'd heard the rumors he'd worked so hard to s
tart. They hadn't bothered him until now.
He was supposed to spend the rest of his life with this beautiful, smart woman. He didn't know if he could keep up the lie that long, not when she was looking at him like she wanted to uncover every single one of his secrets.
But he had to.
"You don't have to dance or drink, but it's a pretty enjoyable—"
"I don't dance."
"Not even when you're alone in your tundra cabin?"
"Who has the time?"
An idea popped into Enzo's mind and didn't let go. "We have time now."
Before Patrice could say anything, he pressed a dial on the screen beside his chair. Music trickled through the plane's speakers. A song he'd danced to in a small Italian village years ago; it had mesmerized him then, it could hopefully relax Patrice now.
Enzo set the cat down onto the floor, much to its dismay, got up and extended his arm toward Patrice. Her cheeks had gone a delightfully shade of pink.
"We'll wake Charles up," she said, but didn't sound all that convincing.
Enzo saw the way her eyes darted toward his hand. How her breathing got a bit shallow. How her body turned toward him, ready to get up.
"I have it on good authority Charles slept through a bombing. He'll be fine." Enzo bowed his head. "Would you do me the honor of this dance, my Lady?"
Patrice worried her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes glued to Enzo's hand.
After a few agonizing seconds, she took his hand and rose. "One dance."
"I'll make it worth it."
Throughout all these years of pretending, he'd gotten damn good at charming people. It was time he put that skill to a more honorable use—making his fiancée like him.
Even with her heels on, the top of her head only came up to his chin. Enzo snaked one hand around her waist. Through the layers upon layers she had on, he could feel her heart pulsing against his fingers.
He gently pulled her closer. He heard her gasp, no matter how much she tried to cover it with a small cough. God, she smelled good. Like a spring morning, fresh and pure.
He took her warm palm into his other hand. She fit so beautifully in his arms.