Vincent wasn’t convinced. “I saw Pinnella try to shoot Avery point blank. She’d be dead if his gun hadn’t tapped out. The man can’t be trusted.”
“No one trusts Pinnella,” Gilroy said.
Benton nodded. “But he says he has proof,” he said. “A flash drive found in the belongings of one of The Stinger’s victims. The transcripts are here, but I haven’t gotten to them yet. Have you, Deming?”
“No.” She was peering at her phone, swiping left.
Benton nodded. “The six contract killer deaths were apparently recorded. The whole thing. The flash drive is being vetted even as we speak, and it’s supposedly some rough stuff. Probably proves who The Stinger is, and that Coppola ordered the executions. I know Pinnella’s decision to snitch is what convinced Coppola to cut a deal, but I don’t know if he knows about the audio.”
Vincent’s stomach was in knots. The mansion’s gate was almost completely open, and Avery’s idling sedan would soon be out of his reach. He had to decide, roll up shop, and see how things worked themselves out between Coppola, the Feds, and Pinnella, or run like he’d never run in his life and catch up with that infuriating woman and convince her she was being stupid.
He ran.
And ignored his team’s shouts to come back as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He ran like his life depended on it, because it felt that way. When he reached the gate, adrenaline pumping, he forced himself not to yell, to catch her attention, because he wanted to stay under the radar for as long as possible. Once detected, security would descend, and then he would no longer be her ace in the hole, he’d be screwed alongside her.
He managed to slip through the gate before it closed, but even at a full run, he wasn’t fast enough to catch up with her car. Then Avery floored the gas pedal, and sped off, making the distance between them grow even more. Still his phone vibrated. He ignored it, because his team believed Coppola’s deal with the Feds should be preserved, it would save lives, and Pinnella’s evidence would close their case. They were right, and he had no excuses for what he did now. But he had to save her.
He kept low, bobbing and weaving between shrubs and statuary when the cameras aimed in his direction over the manicured grounds. When there was no more cover, and Avery’s car had pulled up to the mansion, a guard spotted Vincent, so he stopped hiding and ran straight for her car. All hell broke loose. Security spilled from behind trees, out of the mansion, all running toward him, guns drawn, shouting.
Still running, he found himself waiting for the sound of a gun’s discharge, for the pain of a bullet ripping through his flesh. Yet, his goal remained clear. Save Avery, because at some point over the last four days, he couldn’t imagine life without her.
Chapter 20
Avery was exhausted, in pain from spending the night in the cramped sedan, and scared to death as she parked in front of the mansion. Built to impress, the stately granite façade towered over her, but Avery only saw a gorgeous prison. She dialed Vincent’s phone number again, knowing Gilroy had tackled him in time to save his life, but wanted to yell at him for not having more sense than a cow going to slaughter.
Who stood in the middle of the road as a car raced toward them? Vincent did. Had he expected her to stop? For what? Cuffs and confessions? No closer to Millie? It was impossible, because Avery was tortured by what ifs, knowing how brutal Dante could be, and those what ifs forced her foot to stay on the gas pedal. Biting her lip, listening to his line ring, Avery promised herself that if she survived her meeting with Dante, she’d send Gilroy a bouquet of flowers as a thank-you. Dammit! Why didn’t Vincent pick up his phone?
She disconnected the line, foregoing a message, because really… What could she say? Just checking in. She threw the phone on the passenger seat. Did he see it was her number, so he was ignoring it? She wanted to say I’m sorry. He probably thought she’d tried to run him over. It would have been nice to set the record straight, but—leaning forward, peering up at the mansion through the windshield—she’d run out of time.
Hands gripping the steering wheel, shaking, she wasn’t sure if her legs would support her when she stepped out of the car. Last time she saw her ex, he’d just executed six men, while she stood bleeding, clutching a bloody knife. In her nightmares, Dante was huge, and frightening. He’d terrorized her for too long to walk inside the mansion now anything but afraid. She should have killed him when she’d had a chance. Now she had no power. Not while he had Millie. He could do whatever he wanted with her. With both of them.
She got out of the car, surprising herself when her knees didn’t buckle.
“Avery!” She turned, saw Vincent running up the driveway.
“No!” The idiot. She raced around the car and waved him off. “Get out! Vincent, go!” It was too late. A security guard caught up with him and cudgeled his head with the grip of his gun. Vincent went down, face-planting on the gravel. Avery hurried to his side, then kicked the security guard in the groin. He fell back, clutching himself. “Back off!” she shouted. Another guard stepped up and sought to back hand her, but she parried it and punched him in the throat. That guard fell to his knees, bent at the waist. She disarmed him and aimed the gun at him, then at the four guards that swarmed around her and Vincent. “I said, back off!”
Hands in the air, they retreated, looking beyond her toward the mansion. Vincent groaned, and then stood, clutching the back of his head. “Well, that sucked,” he said.
The guards exchanged glances, as if coordinating an attack. She aimed the gun at one after the other, wondering who would rush her first.
“Are you insane, Vincent?” What the hell was he doing here? Where were his people? A glance back at the gate showed nothing but a great expanse of lawn and woods. No task force. He was on his own. “Shit.”
“Well, hello there, Avery.” Dante’s voice sent a chill through her. “Give that guard his weapon, please.” He stood on the stair’s landing, smiling, watching her, as trim and fit as always. She’d forgotten how tall her ex-husband was. His black hair, graying at the temples, was neat, slicked back, emphasizing his strong features, his hollowed cheeks. His brown eyes—so dark they seemed black—stared directly at her, promising familiar pain.
Everything felt familiar; being helpless, feeling hopeless and afraid.
Eyes front, Avery obeyed without hesitation, flipping the gun, holding the barrel and offering the guard the gun’s grip. She had no other choice… And Vincent had made his. He chose to save her. The idiot. Meddling in a deal between Dante and the Feds. The man would be crushed between them. The thought had her near panic, on the verge of crying.
Shut it down, Avery. Shut your thoughts, your feelings down. She’d done it before, and would do it again. She’d become what she had to be, still had to be. Hard. Cold. The Stinger.
The security guard, still holding his throat, took the gun back. She caught Vincent’s gaze, and allowed herself one word. “Why?” she said.
Vincent winked. “Can’t let you have all the fun.”
“Avery, come.” Dante turned, showcasing the perfect lines of his expensive black suit as he walked into the mansion.
She struggled not to think, or care. “Vincent—” She wanted to tell him she admired him, was grateful for him. He deserved that. “—you’re such an idiot.”
Vincent glanced past her to Dante, not hiding his worry. “Right back at you.”
She pivoted away, hurrying after her ex-husband. He waited for her inside the palatial white marble foyer. “Where is Millie?” she said.
“Upstairs in your room, waiting for you.” Dante slid his hand into his suit jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarette. “Go. See for yourself.”
Glancing up the wide, palatial stairwell, she felt torn, not wanting to leave Vincent. The security guards were already treating him rough, dragging him into the foyer behind her. She noticed they’d bound his hands at his front with
a zip tie.
“Coppola,” Vincent said, “I’m sure your deal with the Feds doesn’t cover killing an FBI Special Agent.”
“You’d think, right?” Eyes wide, Dante smiled, like it was all a big joke. He tapped a cigarette out of his pack, and then tucked the remainder in his suit jacket pocket. “Stick him in the dining room while she dresses for brunch.” Then he put the cigarette between his lips, lighting its tip as he climbed the stairs. “Come, Avery. Let’s get you out of those clothes. I want you to shower before we eat.” Still not looking at her, he continued climbing the stairs, exhaling a stream of smoke. “He’s touched you, and you smell of him.”
Ignoring Dante’s taunt, she leveled a hard glare on the guards manhandling Vincent. “Stop hurting him. Not even a bruise. Got it? Or I’ll come for you.” The private security guards looked mean, and were intimidating. There were five of them in the foyer, big, brawny, young, and they scoffed at her, as if she’d made a joke. She didn’t know how to make them obey her, because she had no power here. She was helpless.
“I’ve been remiss,” Dante said. His cultured tones echoed in the large foyer, and instantly caught the attention of everyone present. “I’m sorry, Avery. It’s been three years since you’ve lived here, and these men are relatively new hires.” He paused on the stairs, brows lifted, and tapped his cigarette ash over the railing. “Please allow me to introduce you.” He took another drag, and then released a stream of smoke. “Men, this is my wife. The Stinger.”
As one, the guards looked at Avery’s hands and blanched. These men didn’t need to be convinced, because the rings indicted her. Everyone in the syndicate knew The Stinger stole them after killing the six men. Her heart skipped a beat, and she looked at Vincent, saw his disbelief quickly turn to shock. It didn’t last long, and was soon replaced with something else.
Chapter 21
The Stinger. Avery Toner Coppola was The Stinger? Vincent couldn’t believe it, and yet she didn’t deny it. She just stood there, staring at him, looking as if her dog just died. Coppola, meanwhile, was preening it up, treating Avery as if she were the finest grade of weaponry, another threat to hold over the guards’ heads. And still, Vincent couldn’t process the truth. Shaking with rage, trussed up with zip ties, he felt…betrayed.
“Isn’t she wonderful? My creation.” Coppola descended the stairwell, moving swiftly toward his ex-wife, kissing her cheek, and then turned to their audience as he took a deep drag off his cigarette. It was hard to believe he was the same man that ordered Avery’s family murdered, gave his wife to killers to play with, and then divorced her, and put a hit out on her. Vincent began to wonder if he’d been fed a bunch of lies.
And Avery… Where was the victim, the older sister doing her best to be strong and courageous? The one who’d made him love her. He didn’t recognize The Stinger.
How was she not Coppola’s accomplice? Familiar feelings of betrayal roiled in his belly as he reinterpreted the last week through the lens of her being The Stinger; all her deflections, her determination to leave him behind, escape the task force’s protections. Like a blurry kaleidoscope coalescing into clarity, facts jumped out at him. She was trained by contract killers, and then killed her teachers, solidifying Coppola’s leadership in the syndicate. During her interrogation, Avery insisted Dante had saved her when she’d needed him. The team had assumed Avery lied, that she feared Coppola, but now he knew she’d just moved on, used her ex and then discarded him. Like Madeline, Vincent’s ex-wife. That made Avery smart, but didn’t absolve her of one damn sin.
He loved her. And it broke his heart. Shaking, teeth bared, he lunged at her, his zip tied wrists extended, fingers clawed, reaching. A guard kicked his leg out from the side, and down he fell to the foyer’s marble floor, a gun pressed to his head. His rage was such he didn’t feel the pain. It protected him, filled his lungs, his head, and had him teetering on the edge of risking a bullet to punish her, no matter the cost. To break her as she’d broken him.
Avery’s eyes flashed, and then he saw her reach behind her. “I said not even a bruise.”
She moved so fast, he didn’t know what happened until he heard the scream. The guard who’d kicked his knee out was pinned to the floor by a knife embedded in his boot. Then Avery turned her back, and walked up the stairs like she was the grand mistress of the mansion. This angle revealed her back, her leather jacket tucked up, and her now empty knife sheath.
How had Benton lived in this world for a year, and missed that Avery and Coppola were a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde? Obviously, they had some sick thing going on, or why this show of unity?
Coppola flicked his cigarette toward the dining room, signaling with a tilt of his head that two guards should drag Vincent there. They did, and then propped him against a pristine wall covered with silver threaded paper. A guard stayed with him, holding him at gunpoint as a chair was brought, and then sat him down, and tied his ankles to the legs. They left his wrists zip tied as they were, so his upper body remained relatively free, and that’s where he sat for a half hour, stewing, scheming, thinking up ways to ruin Avery and Coppola’s day.
It didn’t take him long to decide Coppola wouldn’t kill him. No upside. And if Coppola could have gotten away with it, Vincent would already be dead. So, him being tied to the chair was probably theatrics. He knew Benton and the team were working some plan outside, doing what they could to get him out. That meant Vincent needed to do his part by biding his time, not making any waves. He’d come here to save someone that didn’t need saving, so he’d settle for leaving and then count himself lucky. Let the Coppola Syndicate feed on itself without Vincent’s help. He was done.
Servants brought in tray after tray of brunch offerings. Muffins of all sorts, croissants, platters of scrambled eggs, poached eggs, fried eggs, omelets, toast of all varieties, pastries, bacon, sausage, and three different empty glass goblets next to fine china and flatware. When they’d finished, there was enough food on the table to feed an army, and Vincent’s damn stomach was growling.
He’d spent the last half hour demanding his release to servants who’d acted as if he were invisible, and his head throbbed from the pistol whipping. He’d moved in time to deflect most of the impact, but he had a headache, and was pissed, not enjoying this Saddle River “living” at all; a little brutality, a little brunch.
Fifteen minutes later, the staff stationed themselves against the wall, looking all starched and pressed, eyes front, expressions clear. Vincent got the impression something was about to happen. Soon, Avery, and a young blond, who had to be Millie, walked down the grand, white marble stairwell, their hair intricately pinned atop their heads. He got a good look at them as they passed, seeking their places at the expensively adorned, food-ladened dining table.
He’d never seen Avery like this. Not even in pictures. Pale, controlled, makeup expertly applied, she was stunningly beautiful in a pale blue dress that was cowled in the back to her ass, and hung from her shoulders with thin straps. Little more than a slip of silk, the dress glided over her skin, cut sharply at the décolletage, and under her arm, to revealed ample side breast as well as cleavage. It hung on her, revealing her legs to her hip as the skirt’s slit widened and narrowed with every step. If she wore her signature knives, he had no idea where she’d hidden them.
Did Coppola have a hand in choosing this dress? Seeking to disarm her?
Her boots were replaced with strappy heels, delicate and high, and she wore large diamond bracelets, earrings and rings that sparkled under the chandelier’s soft glow, completing the impression of Avery as ornament; a Stepford wife. Even her bruised jaw and knee had been cosmetically painted over. She wasn’t Patty, the waitress, or Avery, the victim. Vincent only saw The Stinger, and that her beautiful perfection was a disguise to hide that she was a killer.
He hated that she took his breath away.
How had he not seen the killer inside her? The e
vidence had been staring at him the whole time. Avery ran away with Millie three years ago. The Stinger disappeared three years ago. Avery wore the rings of the men who’d killed her family, their fucking initials were inscribed on them. That alone was a circumstantial evidence bonanza. A good detective would have pushed off from there. He’d been blinded, couldn’t see past her gorgeous eyes, her vulnerability, her love for her sister. But now he saw the killer. Now, after she’d descended the stairwell like an ice queen, and entered the dining room as if she were parting the Red Sea, he saw her…and hated that he still desired her, that she was now forever out of his reach.
He told himself she wasn’t his to mourn, but it didn’t hurt less to have lost her, and dammit—that dress, her perfection—he was aroused. If she’d straddled him now, he’d go along for the ride, hating her all the way, and enjoying the hell out of his agony. She had to know this. If she’d looked at him, she’d know, but she didn’t. To Avery, he might as well have been furniture, a cog in her wheel of deceit.
Coppola stood next to Avery behind the table, pulling her chair out for her, and then Millie, before taking his own seat to Avery’s right. Vincent wondered if Coppola realized how diminished he appeared next to Avery. A mere mortal.
Millie saw it, and unabashedly wore her adoration of her sister like a crown, clutching Avery’s hand, happy, if a bit nervous. Vincent was tied to a chair, so her nervousness was understandable, but he did wonder if that was all Millie feared, if Avery’s dire warnings of her sister in trouble had been lies. What was going on here? Was it simply just…Sunday brunch?
If Avery lifted her eyes, she’d see Vincent seated across the room, facing her, but she didn’t. She kept her eyes on the fluted champagne glasses the staff filled for her and Millie. When Millie reached for it, Avery stopped her with a gentle hand on her wrist—a hand devoid of the incriminating rings, and instead adorned with diamonds. A wedding ring. Millie didn’t complain or negotiate with Avery’s decision, but rather kept her eyes on her lap and waited. For what? Vincent was dying to know.
Caught by You Page 22