Old Wounds (Chance Assassin Book 4)

by Nicole Castle

  I had never felt more alone, never felt such a complete absence. I found myself instinctively turning to my left, reaching for him as if Frank were standing beside me where he should've been, just out of my line of sight. Not that battered, barely recognizable body in front of me.

  He looked small. Fragile. It was like witnessing death for the very first time, and he wasn't even gone yet. All the other bodies, my victims, the victims of others, none of them looked like this. None of them were this real. Death was palpable now. Breathing in the room with us.

  There were only a handful of times I'd been awake while Frank slept. I wasn't used to seeing his eyes closed. Even if he wasn't clothed in fresh gauze already spotting with blood, more of him bruised than not, it was his eyes that amplified all the pain I'd been ignoring while I caused Grace hers. Those eyes I'd once thought were black but were my favorite color green.

  He'd saved me, from Grace's bullets, from Chicago. From the very minute we met he'd been saving my life. But he couldn't save me now.

  In protecting me, giving his life for me, he'd sealed both of our fates. He'd killed me.

  A black plastic tarp was spread out on the floor by the cot. Big enough for two. The plastic crinkled as I walked across it. I wasn't afraid to die. I was only afraid to live without him.

  I opened my mouth to speak, to ask Joe to have Frank buried near his mother, dig a hole and put us in together, or excavate her and bury us all in France, but I couldn't talk. We hadn't discussed funeral arrangements. We'd only spoken of death, living or dying together, and the rest was meaningless. Everything was meaningless without him. I didn't want to last even a second past him. No bullet could be fast enough.

  Lying down beside him, his body utterly still, I couldn't cry anymore. I held his hand, cold for the first time, and I rested my head against his bandaged shoulder. His fingers tightened slightly, but only for a second. I stopped breathing, waiting for his chest to fall with that final exhale, Frank holding on just long enough for me to be with him when he went. And I knew in that moment that all our planning had been pointless. Joe wouldn't have to shoot me. I would just end when Frank did.

  His breath came out raspy, strained, and with it he grumbled, “Did you just win Assassin War without me?”

  “You bet your ass I did,” I laughed.

  He made a sort of grunting acknowledgment and then I could feel his eyes on me, the warmth of his gaze that had so often been my one sense of security. He smiled the best he could considering the state of his face. “You will never be more beautiful than you are in this moment.”

  I smiled the best I could considering the state of mine. “Until tomorrow.”

  With a miniscule shake of his head, he said, “No. You're going to look awful tomorrow. But you are my favorite assassin.”

  “I'm my favorite too.”

  He resumed his grip on my hand in a halfhearted attempt at reprimanding me, but he had little strength and he quickly eased up. “Was that Grace Alcott?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not a fan of roses?”

  “Nope.” I kissed his forehead. “Want me to tell you the story?”

  “Does it start with you killing Hans?”

  “It started when I killed Henry.”

  Frank laughed so hard he hurt himself. Miranda tried stepping forward but Joe caught her arm. “They're fine,” Joe said. “They're fine.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  We weren't fine. Frank couldn't get up. I shouldn't have gotten up. We were looking at weeks before we could even think about having sex. Well, that's what Miranda claimed anyway. Sounded like a challenge to me. Which I unfortunately could not rise to at the moment. Literally.

  I stared into Frank's sleeping face, no longer feeling the emptiness of his closed eyes. I watched him for hours on end, sleeping, awake, watching the bruises darken and knowing they'd eventually start to heal. I did look awful. He looked worse.

  Plotting the cleanup of the Alcott hit was nearly as complicated as the hit itself, but much quicker in its implementation. After Joe and Miranda came to retrieve us, Joe tossed some work to Serge and Michel and commissioned them to clean up every last scrap of Frank's car. Then Nasir drove Grace's car back to London, handed the keys over to Bella, and with a headscarf and fashionably gigantic sunglasses, Grace made a final appearance on the CCTV at her Belgravia flat. Bella took everything else of value, money, passport, clothes, hauling it down to the Jag in one of Grace's own suitcases and then driving off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

  It wasn't difficult to get Grace's fingerprints on the gun, since Joe had the foresight to take care of that before I cut them off. We left it at the scene, planted it like Yuri had planted his gun to frame Roger Foster. We had plenty of her hair to leave there too. I hadn't ripped out all of it.

  “Good thing I shot them, huh?” I said to the silent room. We were alone, and Frank wasn't answering. That hadn't stopped me from talking. “This actually turned out really well.” Lowering my voice, I continued, “Yes, Vincent, it did. It's no wonder you single-handedly won Assassin War.”

  “There's no I in team,” Frank mumbled. “That was Joe talking.”

  “There's an I in pink team, Joe,” I said.

  Frank smiled. “How long have you been at this?”

  “This time? Just a few minutes.”

  Cracking his eyes open, Frank began gently twirling his fingers in my hair. I was lying on his one good arm, cuddled up as close to him as pain would allow. Or maybe a little closer than pain would allow. Then he sighed. “I'm sorry, Vincent,” he said sincerely.

  Knitting my brow hurt, but I knew I looked super cute doing it. “For what?”

  He cocked his head, as if he had anything to apologize for. Apart from not being able to fuck me for weeks. “I didn't mean to crash the car.”

  “You were shielding me.” I shrugged. “Joe will bring us a new one.” Then I thought about it, and realized I hadn't thought about it. Not once did it even occur to me that Frank had nearly died in a car accident, that I had nearly died. The cause of death was irrelevant, even if it was the same cause I'd been traumatized by as a kid. It also hadn't occurred to me that I could've just sunk down and died with Frank in the car, that knocking Grace out and calling Joe had taken precedence over emotion in the moment. I took care of business. “Oh, that ol' thing? Totally over it.”

  Frank's fingers paused in my hair and he blinked up at the ceiling. “I finally understand how Bertrand and Maggie could be afraid of you.”

  “Because I'm a psychopath?”

  “Yes, baby.” He resumed his twirling. “And you really are Joe's best assassin.”

  In an attempt at humility, I waited a few seconds before saying, “I know.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  It was the recent brush with death more than the clearing of the storm that left Frank looking out over the English countryside with a feeling somewhere close to tranquility. They'd taken their convalescence at another one of Alan's properties once they were mobile enough to leave the old warehouse, and now that they were looking like their old selves again, and Frank's old self was not in the newspapers, they were free to return home.

  Letting the lace curtain fall over the window, Frank turned back to the bed and a far more breathtaking sight. Vincent was still asleep, his hair shining in the warm morning light. He'd rolled onto Frank's side of the bed, his arm splayed across the mattress and his legs stretched out to take up every possible inch of space. And that was the moment Frank knew that the time had come where V no longer needed him.

  He didn't look innocent as he slept. Not anymore. He looked lethal. And beautiful. But as his eyes cracked open, Frank also knew that Vincent would always need him. The same way that Frank would always need Vincent. Perhaps things would change. The loose screws, as Joe put it, would tighten. Perhaps not. It didn't matter. If V was his legacy, the crowning achievement of his career, any mistakes he made were negligible.

  “Good morning
,” Vincent said with a smile, scooting over and raising the blanket.

  This had been their morning routine ever since Frank regained the ability to stand. Vincent didn't stay asleep for long once Frank was out of bed, and Frank didn't stay out of bed for long once Vincent woke to summon him. Couldn't stay at first, and was perfectly content to let V's laziness be responsible for Frank's weakness.

  It would be some time before his previous level of physicality returned, but he was on the mend and most importantly, able to make Vincent breakfast again. As soon as they actually got up.

  Frank crawled back into bed and Vincent snuggled up against him, draping his arm across Frank's chest and circling his fingers over the new scar on his shoulder. Vincent wouldn't touch the other scar, the more serious injury that had cost Frank part of his liver. Miranda had offered the organ to Vincent, who reluctantly but tactfully declined.

  “What time is our flight?” V asked.

  “Four. We should get going.” They had enough time to make it back to London, enough time for Frank to say goodbye forever to the city that raised him. To say goodbye to the woman that raised him.

  Vincent skeptically reached for Frank's hand, for his watch, and then reached under the blanket. “You know, this is our last chance to fuck in Alan's house.”

  Frank would've doubted he was up for it if Vincent wasn't already stroking evidence to the contrary. But willing and able were two very different things when it came to the standard of fucking of which they were accustomed.

  As Vincent pulled back the blanket, he seemed to come to the same realization. “I'm gonna have to do all the work, aren't I?”

  “Most of the work.”

  He sneered. “What if we agree to be gentle?”

  “It's been weeks.”

  “Right.” Vincent tapped his fingers against Frank's pubic bone. “What about—”

  “Shut your mouth and hop on.”

  “Oooh.” Vincent's face lit up in a way that the prospect of manual labor had never accomplished. “You're so hot when you're bossy.” For lube he grabbed antibiotic cream from the first aid kit they'd decimated and was about to take his instructions with painful literalism when Frank stopped him.

  “Carefully hop on.”

  With a smirk, Vincent jumped onto the bed with Frank between his legs and slowly lowered down to hover over him. “Want another pillow?”

  “That would be nice, thank you.”

  'Another pillow' was a bit of misnomer since both of the pillows had previously been under Vincent's head, and Frank was currently without. V grabbed the pillows and shoved one in his face before tenderly putting the other behind his head.

  Frank took the second pillow from his face and propped himself up higher. “You may proceed.”

  “Oh may I?” Vincent was being lippy purely for show; he was already proceeding, sliding down fully, both of them gasping at the feel of each other. “Fuck it's been too long.”

  “You forgot the 'shut your mouth' part.” He nearly kept a straight face while saying it until Vincent obnoxiously opened his mouth wide. Then Frank had to choke him back into compliance, which left them grinning at each other like fools.

  Vincent leaned over to kiss him as he began to softly sway his hips, being far more gentle than Frank would've been even considering his current state. V still had Frank's hand around his throat as he asked, “Is this okay?”

  “Okay because you're worried about hurting me or okay because you don't want to overexert yourself?”

  “Yes,” Vincent said with a smile, then he bounced like he was checking the lack of quality on a shitty hotel mattress. “You did say I wouldn't have to do all of the work.”

  Wrapping his arms around him, Frank pulled him closer and pushed him back down, not doing it quite hard enough to get winded or leave Vincent satisfied. It didn't take long for frustration to yield effort and Vincent started getting into it, adding more force to Frank's movements and not only forgetting that he was trying to be lazy but completely forgetting why he was forced into action in the first place. Vincent braced himself with his hands on Frank's shoulders until Frank moaned for an altogether different reason.

  It hurt less than it would've if he hadn't been so gloriously deep inside his husband but it was enough to fall back against the pillows and wince.

  “I'm sorry I'm sorry,” Vincent whimpered, nearly rising off of him before Frank grabbed his hips and slammed him back down.

  “Do. Not. Stop,” Frank demanded. He shifted them further up the bed and nodded to the headboard. Then he slapped V's ass so hard his hand hurt worse than his shoulder. “Proceed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Placing his hands on the headboard as instructed, Vincent once again started to gently ride him, knowing fully well that it wasn't acceptable.

  Frank sighed. “Hurting me or overexertion?”

  Vincent looked up like he was thinking about it, his nose crinkling adorably as he admitted, “Mostly exertion.”

  Taking a moment to think about it himself, Frank rubbed Vincent's thighs and said, “This is Alan's house. Alan's bed. Is that really the best you could do?”

  Vincent scoffed, his mouth wide open in indignation rather than obnoxiousness. His previous attempt at being on top to cheer Frank up in London had been unsuccessful, but spiting Alan was far better motivation than bringing happiness, and Vincent set out to break Alan's bed.

  Frank's numerous injuries were starting to regret saying anything but Frank himself was entranced watching Vincent bob up and down, his skin damp with sweat, every sound out of his mouth one of pleasure. V increased his speed even more, and Frank was close enough to ignore the pain that was rising to the surface. Vincent cried out just as Frank did, his hands almost slipping off the headboard, his body exquisitely tightening as he rocked his hips one final time.

  Flopping down beside him, Vincent panted, “Take that, you old queen.” He rolled over and beamed at Frank, positively glowing from his win.

  “I think Miranda may have had a point about recovery time.”

  Vincent's face fell. “I should've taken your liver.”

  Raising his eyebrows, it was Frank's turn to scoff. “And do what with it?”

  “Eat it?”

  “You want breakfast,” Frank stated.

  “I worked up an appetite!”

  “That is true.”

  “Did I hurt you?” Vincent finally got around to asking.

  “Not much.” Frank stroked his face. “It's late. We're going to miss our flight.”

  Vincent promptly rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head. “Five more minutes.”

  Tucking the blanket around his shoulders, Frank leaned to kiss his head and limped to the kitchen. Vincent followed no more than a minute later as Frank knew he would, hugging him from behind while Frank started the coffee. They were inseparable, a single room too great a distance between them.

  Vincent ate the last of the gift basket Alan had sent, along with every other scrap of food left in the cottage. Housekeepers would be by later but they didn't leave much for them to clean, wiping away their existence like this was any other hotel. Any other job.

  The weather held as they made it to the city, a pleasant day to buy flowers and visit a cemetery, although neither of them were feeling particularly fond of roses. Frank had only been there once, over twenty years ago, but everything looked the same as he remembered, only brighter now, the sun actually shining. It wasn't until they stood right in front of her grave that Frank registered anything being out of place. Her headstone read Julie Herbault, an alias she'd been using at the time of her death, a character from The Count of Monte Cristo. The headstone beside hers had an engraving of Voltaire's profile. The date of death only a short time ago. The name, A. Faria.

  “What?” Vincent asked.

  Frank traced his finger over the engraving. “Do you know who that is?”

  With only minor sarcasm, Vincent replied, “A. Faria?”

  “It's Voltaire.”r />
  “I don't get it. Isn't Voltaire buried in Paris?”

  Frank smiled. “The image is Voltaire. A. Faria, Abbé Faria, held the map to buried treasure on the island of Monte Cristo.”

  Looking between the graves, Vincent scoffed and asked, “Is this more Silva fuckery?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “We gonna do some grave digging?”

  Frank glanced down at the sling on his arm and cleared his throat.

  “Am I gonna do some grave digging?”

  “You are better at it.”

  “If you think you're going to make me sorry for being Joe's best assassin you are mistaken, sir,” Vincent said, and continued saying as they went and bought a shovel, and called Joe for new travel arrangements, and did not have dinner in Paris as planned. But finally when he was about three feet deep, Vincent did acknowledge that being the best did have its downside, just like being beautiful. By five feet deep, he was nearly ready to relinquish his crown. And then he reached the treasure chest.

  It was a small box sealed in plastic which Vincent gave a shake like a Christmas present before handing it up.

  Frank waited until Vincent had dusted himself off and was sitting beside him to remove the plastic, their feet dangling into the empty grave. There was an envelope on top, Frank's name in Silva's handwriting. He carefully lifted the flap and removed the note, a vivid memory coming to him of the old man writing behind his desk, the scent of the cologne he wore likely in Frank's mind rather than still on the paper.

  Dear Frank,

  If you are reading this, I imagine that you have learned the truth about your father. It pains me greatly to think of the betrayal you must be feeling, of which I am truly sorry. I hope that the final contract between us has eased some of the resentment you feel towards me, and any remaining resentment towards yourself for completing the job.

  I know you believe that things happen for a reason. Please be assured that whatever truths I have kept from you, my love for you was genuine.