He turns his back to me, taking a seat at the table once again.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For finding him."
"We have a ball to attend this evening. Be ready by eight." He grabs the newspaper and pops it open, shielding his face from me. His cold reaction throws me for a second, so I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.
I'm not sure I'll ever understand him.
12
Ronan
Ah, masquerade balls. The room is crowded with men in tuxedos and women in sparkling gowns. Intricate masks hide the sordid individual underneath. And the sordid individual at my side is quite the vision in a black satin dress that clings to every curve. The rhinestones of the silver mask delicately tied around Camilla's face catch in the light of the chandeliers.
"They don't seem like the usual crowd." Camilla eyes a man as he passes us.
"Why do you say that?"
"There's far less bullshit being exchanged. No fake smiles." She turns to face me. "They aren't politicians."
"Very observant." I motion toward the bar at the back of the room. "I'm assuming you'll be having your vodka?"
"I've grown quite fond of your Russian vodka." We stop at the bar and she glances over the array of bottles. "Gabriel would be horrified."
I order a whiskey and vodka, which the barkeep quickly pours. I toss a hundred rubles on the counter and hand Camilla her drink. She immediately downs it, slamming the glass onto the bar top. "Another," she says.
The bartender's brow wrinkles as he glances at me, waiting for me to interpret, I assume. She raises the glass and taps on the side. "Vodka."
"He doesn't speak English."
Rolling her eyes, she reaches across the counter and snags the bottle. "He'll pay for it." She smiles before ripping the metal pour spout out and tossing it on the bar. The man behind the bar looks horrified.
I drag my hand down my face before grabbing her arm. "Civilized, Camilla. Civilized!"
Her eyes flicker in a tease as her teeth scrape over her bottom lip. "Oh, Ronan, it's a party." Her fingers trail around the back of my neck before she presses her lips to my jaw. "Dance with me." She nips at my skin before she pulls away, flashing a blinding smile as she takes my hand and backs us toward the center of the room.
I yank her to me, her gracious curves a welcomed heat against my skin. Her hips sway and roll in an exotic dance that is not at all in agreement with the music. She truly is the embodiment of lust, desire, forbidden things. With a grin, she lifts the bottle and takes a heavy swig before she kisses me. "Every woman here wants to be me right now," she whispers against my ear, hanging the bottle over my shoulder.
"And every man wants to be me." I smirk.
Laughing, she spins away. Camilla is uninhibited. Uncontrolled. People around us watch her, curious, I'm sure, about the beautiful Latino woman with the angry Russian.
There's a tap on my shoulder. "Ronan." I recognize Ivan's voice before I turn around.
"Yes?" I say, Camilla's hand still clutched in mine.
His dark eyes shift toward Camilla as he subtly nods in the direction of the hallway. "I need a word."
"I'm listening..."
He uneasily shoves his hands in his pant pockets and sighs. Hesitating. I know he doesn't want to speak in front of a woman—a foreign woman at that. I clear my throat and cock a single brow. "Viktor is dead," he says.
"Ah," I spin Camilla around and shrug, "'tis the way of the world." Camilla smirks and Ivan stares blankly through me.
"But... the Italians put a hit on him..."
"Yes, and?"
"We should retaliate." There's a fire in his eyes. Revenge. Such a petty waste of time.
"No."
Pressing against me, Camilla slides her hand around the back of my neck. "Did we like Viktor?" she whispers, her question laced with curiosity.
"I don't really like anyone."
She pats my chest. "So true."
Ivan clears his throat and my attention swings back to him. "Send my condolences to his wife," I say.
"Here... have a drink." Camilla thrusts the bottle of vodka against Ivan's chest and he takes it, glaring at her. "I'll go get some more." She disappears among the crowded ballroom and I turn my attention to Ivan.
"We are above such things as retaliating."
His jaw clenches. "We will look weak." His voice wavers under false courage.
"Viktor was weak."
Ivan wants to argue, I can see it in his eyes, but he knows better. Instead he nods his head, placing the bottle of vodka on a nearby table as he retreats.
A man whose name I can't recall moves in front of me and shakes my hand, droning on and on about the death of Derivichi. I glance over his shoulder at Camilla standing at the bar and I can't help but notice that the man next to her is too close. There's an air of unease to him, and my senses bristle. Without a word, I turn away from the man still rambling and shoulder my way to the bar. The man at the bar moves his arm suddenly and Camilla's body stiffens before she hunches over. Her fingers clutch his forearm as she stumbles back a step. Everyone around them freezes. My gaze drops to the blood spreading across the front of her dress. Heat consumes my body as a rage sets in. My jaw tenses and I throw my hand into the air, snapping my fingers. Before I can reach them, two of my guards seize the man and escort him out of the room. I will deal with him later. The gentleman next to Camilla grabs ahold of her as her legs threaten to give way. In most places, a random stabbing would cause mass chaos, but not here. This is not out of the ordinary among the seedy criminals of the Russian underworld, but what is uncommon is that someone would dare touch what is mine.
Camilla moves her bloodied hand away from her stomach, glancing down and wincing before she places it back over the wound.
The second I reach her; I wrap my arm around her waist pulling her away from the man in the tuxedo. She falls against me, her skin cold and damp with sweat. I help Camilla to a chair and kneel in front of her, gently moving her hand away. Blood wells from the stab wound. When I press my palm over her stomach, the warm blood sends a wave of arousal through me and I fight back a groan. "Igor," I shout, "get the car!"
Camilla fights to keep her eyes open, her head keeps lulling to the side. The golden hue of her skin has washed white. "Stay awake for me, little kitty," I whisper before standing and sweeping her off her feet and carrying her to the car.
Someone else made her bleed. Someone else took what was mine. The thought plays over and over on the ride home, flaming the anger seething within me. She is mine. Her blood is mine. And I do not share what belongs to me. Ever.
13
Ronan
The fire crackles in the hearth, casting shadows over Camilla lying so peacefully in my bed. The doctor checks her pulse once more before grabbing the remaining items from the bedside table and placing them in his bag. "She needs plenty of rest and fluids. I'll come around and check on her tomorrow."
I nod, thanking him as he leaves. Donovan goes to follow him out and I stop him. "You stay with her," I say, walking from the room. Igor stands watch outside the door and I motion for him to follow me on my way down the corridor. "I'll need the rats," I say, adjusting my cufflinks.
"Yes, boss." He falls behind me, disappearing down one of the hallways.
Tension coils around my muscles, sending a jolt of pain up my neck and along my temple. My list of enemies is extensive, however, the list of men willing to face my fury is small, and I thought I'd blotted out those men long ago. Perhaps a new player has decided to join the game? Pity for him.
Humming, I descend the stairs past the main level and down into the basement. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to this. The hinges to the door groan in protest when I push it open. A long table sits in the middle of the room, and to it is chained the man who stabbed Camilla.
I step toward the table, smirking when my shadow falls over his face. There's not one ounce of emotion. No fear. No worries. How very stoic of him. I study him,
assessing what it would be that would provoke the greatest fear. For some it's simply the idea of death but that, I've found, comes with age, and this one—his skin is still smooth, his beard not yet full... He must be twenty-two, twenty-three, perhaps? And to the young, death seems like a fleeting fantasy. Intense pain it shall be!
"Ah," I say, my voice booming around the small, concrete room, "so it's your youth that I can blame for your stupidity?"
He doesn't speak, and I take great pleasure in knowing this silence will be short-lived. Still humming, I walk to the metal cabinet at the side of the room and remove the small, glass Nippon cage. It looks like a small aquarium, but it's so much more. A thrill darts through me like an electric eel. Torture is one of the many barbaric things I've come to rather enjoy. That is why I limit it—to enhance the enjoyment.
"It's been a long while since I've had a guest in this room," I say, gliding my fingers along the smooth edge of the glass. "So, while I am quite upset at your blatant disrespect, I am also thrilled. Welcome." I smile.
The door creaks open and closed. When I turn around, Igor is crossing the room with a cardboard box tucked under his arm. The tiny squeaks and scratches from the rats inside can be heard from here.
"The rat's got his tongue, Igor," I laugh. Igor grins as he approaches the table. I place the glass box over the man's stomach with a smile. "What's your name?"
He spits at me and I lift a brow as I open the tiny door to the glass cage. I nod at Igor and he opens the cardboard box, shooing the rats inside. "I am sorry about this," I whisper to the rats.
I watch them run around inside the glass confines. The man's stomach muscles tense as their tiny feet pitter-patter over his skin. "What I want is very simple, the name of whomever sent you." I shrug. "One name, and I'll ensure your death is humane."
"Fuck you, Russian," he says. Oh, how my curiosity is piqued at his thick, Spanish accent.
"What a delight," I say, clapping my hands. "You must be from one of those dusty cartels. How amusing." The question is, why would one of the cartels believe they could topple me? Surely, this is a personal vendetta against Camilla. No man of sound mind would be so blatantly disrespectful.
Igor grabs the blowtorch from underneath the table and fires it up. The flame hisses, glowing such a perfect hue of blue and orange as I tap over the glass. "Pinky and the Brain don't appreciate the heat," I say. The man's eyes widen just a touch. I notice him swallow. "Would you like to know what's about to happen to you, or would you rather be surprised?" I smile. "I do love a surprise."
I snap my fingers and Igor steps forward, holding the blowtorch to the top of the cage. Within seconds, the rats grow frantic, scratching and clawing at the glass for several moments before they begin to dig at the man's soft flesh. He grunts against the pain.
"Tell me his name, and I'll simply have Igor decapitate you."
The longer the heat is held against the shatterproof glass, the hotter the creatures become and the direr their survival instincts grow. I watch, simply fascinated, as they tear through his skin, attempting to escape through his body. Their white fur becomes tainted with blood and I smile. "Tell me his name..." I sing next to the screaming man's ear.
"You have no idea what you're dealing with," he manages. What stamina! By now Pinky's head is mostly buried inside the man's stomach. The pain of being eaten alive by an animal attempting to save its own life must be excruciating.
When one of the rats disappears inside him, the agony in his groans are almost harmonious. It's a symphony. The hiss of the flame, the squeaking and scratching, the screams. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I take the knife from my pocket, flipping open the blade as I walk to the head of the table.
Tears stream down the man's cheek, sweat glistens on his forehead, and his face twists in grotesque pain. I press the blade against his throat. "Just think how long it will take for the rats to kill you...and you will die, I promise you that, if for no other reason than you made her bleed," I whisper. "Now, tell me his name and I can end it within a second."
His lips press together in a hard line as though he's willing himself not to speak. "The Horseman."
At the mention of his name, the noise of the blowtorch ceases. The Horseman is not real... surely... I snap my fingers at Igor and he starts the torch back up. "Don't patronize me."
"I'm not. I'm not. The Horseman." Another loud scream echoes around the room, and suddenly, fear blankets his face. "Please, please just make it stop—" Another scream.
I glance at Igor, and hold my hand up, signaling for him to lay off the blow torch. "Where does this Horseman live?"
"I don't know." The man takes a staggered breath then swallows. "I don't know... The money I was paid came from a wire transfer in New York."
"Go on..."
"I never spoke with him," he grimaces, "I was only told he was the one who put the hit out. Your name was never even mentioned, I didn't know—"
"Thank you, my friend," I whisper before slicing open his throat. I watch the blood cascade over the edge of the table in a glorious ruby waterfall. My pulse thrums in my ears. "Feed him to the dogs," I say to Igor before walking off.
My mind is a jumbled heap of conspiracy. The Horseman? The mythical sasquatch of the criminal world blamed for the ruin of so many organizations through the years. A man without a face, a name; could he possibly be after me? A smile dashes across my lips, what an honor it would be.
I'm nearly to the main level when I hear the door from a floor above open. Footsteps clang down the stairwell, followed by voices. "...and that's the problem. The boss is losing his touch."
"Well," another man responds, "she's enough to make any man lose his touch a little. I've imagined bending her over a time or two."
A low growl rumbles from my chest just as they round the stairwell. Both men stumble back, surprised by my presence. My muscles tighten, begging for release. I pull the knife from my pocket and jab one man in the jugular, a grand satisfaction rolling through me at the sight of his blood spurting against the wall when I remove the blade. The other man takes off, running up the stairs, but it's only a few moments before I catch him by the shoulder and throw him to the ground. He tumbles down the steps and I follow, smiling as I wipe the blood from the knife. "Disrespect is not tolerated," I say.
He opens his mouth to speak and I grab his tongue, aptly slicing it off. Screaming, he falls back against the wall, his hands covering his mouth, blood pouring between his fingers and down his arm. I draw my arm back, ready to cut his throat, but I stop. My chest heaves as I stare him down. I'd love nothing more than to slaughter him, but control—I must regain my control.
I thumb over my jaw and inhale before I chuck his severed tongue at him. "I should make you eat that," I say with a snarl before I open the door to the hall. My hand is covered with blood and I simply wipe it over my suit jacket before retiring to my room.
She's making me crazy. And what a feat that is.
14
Camilla
I can hear people speaking in hushed tones around me. Russian, I think, because I can't understand a word. My head feels heavy, as though it's detached from my body. I'm drenched in a cold sweat. My body aches.
The mattress dips and warm fingers trace over arm. "Krasivaya," Ronan says quietly. When I finally manage to drag my eyes open, I flinch against the light pouring through the windows behind him. I go to sit up and a sharp pain rips through my torso, forcing me to fall back onto the bed. He holds out his palm. "Take these."
I grab the pills from his hand, toss them in my mouth, and swallow them. "Where am I?" My voice sounds raspy and broken.
"My house, where you belong."
I don't remember coming here. My memory is patchy. I remember the man at the bar, the knife, and then... Nothing. "I'm alive. That's good."
"You are. Yes," Ronan says in a clipped tone. His entire body seems tense. He looks like he's somewhere between wanting to kiss me and kill me, and as thrilling as that eternally
dangerous ground is, I'm not capable of dealing with moody Ronan right now.
I narrow my eyes at him. "What now?"
A slight smirk plays on his lips and he leans over, gently kissing my cheek before he pushes up from the bed.
The slightest hint of panic grips me. "Ronan, where are you going?"
He doesn't answer me, of course, just leaves the room. I never know what he's thinking or what he's going to do next. It's the most aggravating thing. My eyes grow heavy, my head swims from the painkillers, and close my eyes allowing them to take hold and pull me under.
It's dark outside when I wake. A fire crackles in the fire place and I manage to sit up in bed despite the pain in my stomach. I slowly move my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up, fighting the head rush as I glance down at the pajama bottoms and tank top that I'm wearing. I didn't think Ronan had it in him to purchase something so casual.
When I open the bedroom door, Donovan turns to face me. "Really? He has you guarding the door...in his own house?" He gives me his standard scowl and turns away. When I slip past him, he falls into step behind me, and I whirl around, pointing at him. "Definitely not."
"I have orders from Mr. Cole."
Just great. Of course, he couldn't possibly defy holy Mr. Cole. I make my way downstairs, wincing with every step until I find Ronan in his office. I step in and slam the door in Donovan's face. Ronan's gaze instantly crashes with mine, his eyes surveying every inch of my body before lingering on my stomach. Glancing down, I see a fresh bloodstain seeping through the white material of my shirt.
"You shouldn't be out of bed," he says, his gaze still locked on the blood.
"Well, I might not be if I didn't have to find you." I lift a brow at him.
"Do you need something?"
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