He grins, revealing several gold teeth. "I don't know."
Camilla rolls her head to the side and meets my gaze. "Sweetie, I'm going to need your tie."
I loosen my tie, slip it over my head, and hand it to her. I'm finding it so hard to contain myself, to not "meddle".
"Hold this." Without warning she tosses the gun at me and I catch it. Using the tie, she binds Pedro's wrists to the arms of the chair. Once he's bound, she walks over to me with a smile. "You wanted blood?" she breathes as she drops her hand to my pocket, fishing out my knife before she turns to face Pedro.
He swallows as she approaches him, a fine sheen of sweat forming on his brow. "Left or right?" she asks, running her fingertip along the edge of the blade. He doesn't answer so she shrugs a shoulder. "I happen to know you're right handed." Shifting to the side, she slams the blade into his right hand. A bloodcurdling scream pierces my ears and I can't help but smile. She grabs the towel from his lap and crams the end in his mouth. "Oh, man up."
"Give me a number between one and five," she says to me with a gleeful smile.
"Three."
"Well," she says to Pedro, "your insult game is going to be considerably weakened." Camilla yanks the blade from the back of his hand before lining it up and forcing it down over his middle finger. Pedro lets out a muffled cry, thrashing in the chair as the finger falls to the floor with a soft thud.
She waits for him to stop screaming and pulls the towel from his mouth. "Now?" she asks. He clenches his jaw and I swear her grin widens. He doesn't say anything and so off the other two fingers come.
Camilla slaps his cheek. "No passing out." She yanks the towel from his mouth and crosses the small room, picking up the canister of gasoline at my feet. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I quickly dismiss it as I watch the blood creep across the carpet. There's a part of me that wants to snatch the blade away from Camilla and dice away like a master chef, but I force that desire away.
"Last chance before the truly irreparable damage happens," she says, but Pedro remains silent. "Okay then." She opens the canister and douses the towel resting in his lap. Next, she pulls the fire extinguisher off the wall by the door and takes her lighter from her pocket. "I can put this out at any time. Remember that." She flicks the flint, watching the fire dance before she touches it to the towel. Flames consume the material in seconds, licking up Pedro's torso. And the screams, oh the screams are much like the soothing sound of a quartet. Smooth. Steady. Magnificent.
"Stop!" he finally shouts. "Stop. Stop. Stop!"
Camilla stands in front of him like an angel of fury. The flames reflect in her turquoise eyes, bathing her in a warm glow. "Give me a fucking name!" she shouts, completely without mercy.
"Mario Luca," he cries.
"Thank you." She depresses the fire extinguisher, covering the flames with white foam. Pedro sags into the seat, a relieved sigh slipping through his lips as Camilla pats his cheek.
"Please make it quick," he whispers.
"I'm nothing if not true to my word. I won't kill you." She turns, walking toward me but pausing before she passes. "Although...I do so hate it when people die badly." Camilla's eyes lock with mine. "And you were sent here to destroy the home of Ronan Cole, such things have dire consequences."
My muscles tense. Adrenaline fires through my veins, and I slowly turn to look at Pedro. His eyes widen and he swallows as he wriggles in his seat. Camilla drops the knife to my lap before crossing the room, giving me space. I should not stoop to killing a man in a filthy motel room. The finesse will be lost, however–I glance around, my blood simmering white hot below the surface–there is a certain raw beauty to such a cliché setting. Laughing, I grip the blade and rise to my feet, my gaze locked on Pedro.
"I had art from the Ming Dynasty, Renoir, Monet in that home," I say as I crouch next to him, trailing the pointed tip of the blade over his arm. "But you wouldn't understand the worth of art, would you?" I smirk. "I can teach you, Pedro." I lift the knife to his still smoldering chest, picking at the pieces of towel burnt into the flesh. "I can teach you art."
I draw a large square over his stomach. The noise of his screams and heavy pants creating a morbid symphony. "You see, Monet took great care in each," I draw another line, "tiny," and another, "stroke." The man writhes beneath me, making it all the more difficult to paint the perfect replication of the Charning House Bridge he sent up in flames.
By the time I'm finished, blood coats my hands, my dress shirt and slacks. I wipe at the sweat trickling down my brow, the metallic twinge in the air causing my heart to beat faster. Taking a step back, I admire my work. "You see, each detail is important, Pedro. Art is an expression of love, of anger, of rage." My nostrils flare and I glance over at Camilla.
She pushes off the wall and moves in front of me. "Who knew you were so talented," she says, gliding a hand around the back of my neck and pressing her lips to mine. "I love watching you lose control," she whispers against my lips.
With the knife still clutched in my hand, I fist her hair, backing her across the room. I can't catch a good breath, there's this growing need bubbling inside me like a volcano. Building. Building. Building until—I slip the bloodied knife under Camilla's shirt and cut it, tearing it away from her body.
In a frenzy we shred each other's clothes off, all the while Pedro's dying beside us. The moment she's naked, I slam into her, gripping and grabbing as though I can't possibly get close enough to her. And I can't. Camilla is a life essence in and of herself, something I need to survive, to feel human. Her nails rake across my shoulder blades, slicing into my skin before I bite her neck.
"Ronan," she moans my name, her back bowing from the wall while her hips roll against mine like something possessed.
"Ride me, little kitty," I whisper before yanking her away from the wall and tossing her down on the bed. I lay back before I grab her and drag her on top of me. She takes my hands, sliding them over her body in a bloody trail. The way her lips part for each seductive moan, the way her breasts bounce in rhythm with Pedro's final breaths... it's the most perfect form of art I've experienced. Her cheeks flush pink and she stills on top of me, panting fuck over and over. On cue, my muscles tense and a wave of heat washes over me like an angry tide. I grab her hips, holding her down on me as I come.
When she collapses on top of me, I see Pedro with his head thrown back, lifeless in the chair. And so it seems as she and I reached our pinnacle of pleasure he reached the end of his life. This must be an overture that would make Beethoven proud.
26
Camilla
I settle into the back seat of the car, pulling Ronan’s jacket closed to keep my bare breasts from showing. Ronan climbs in, his dress shirt splattered with blood like a cannibal, yet somehow he still looks completely refined. Ronan stares straight ahead and the car instantly fills with a crackling tension. I know I'm in for it.
Boris pulls away from the dirty hotel, leaving Pedro's body for the local law enforcement and, in turn, The Horseman to discover.
Ronan tenses beside me, a low groan rumbling from his throat. He's staring at his phone, the muscles in his jaw set. When he lifts his eyes to look at me, there's that all too familiar fire raging within them. "You kept information from me," he says through gritted teeth.
"I simply withheld it until the opportune moment,” I say. There's a slight tic to his lips. "I thought, seeing as it was information brought to me by my brother of the lowly cartel, you weren't interested." I inspect my nails, picking at the dried blood by my cuticles.
"Mario Luca..."
"What about him?"
A disbelieving laugh slips through his lips. "His bank has just received a payment..." He types something over the screen, anger radiating from him like a nuclear device. "For missiles. Missiles I did not sell." His gaze swings over to me, pinning me to the spot. "Missiles you supplied information to my enemy for!"
Oh, he can go fuck himself. "You know, the more time I spend with you, the less I re
gret that," I snap.
A fog falls over him, almost like he's somewhere else. He leans back against the seat and crosses one leg over his knee. His chest rises and falls unevenly as he scrubs a hand over his stubble. I expect at any moment, he's going to snap. The car winds through the city, motorists whizzing by the windows unaware of the pending apocalypse inside this car. Without warning, he has me pinned against the seat by my throat. "You gave them ten years of work!" He's panting, struggling to form words. I feel the tip of a knife dig underneath my chin as he presses my head further back, exposing my throat for him to bleed. "I cannot trust you."
The blade bites into my skin and I grit my teeth. "Because you think I betrayed you? No, Ronan. I made a move against my enemy at the time." I lift my hand, cupping his jaw and forcing him to look at me, to see through his blind rage. "You'd have done the same thing."
"This is not about me.” His nostrils flare. “It's about you."
I huff a small laugh. "Ah, it's always about you, Ronan. I didn't love you then.”
His eyes close and the knife cuts deeper into my skin a slither of fear causing my heart to beat just a little harder. "I'm losing," he says so quietly I'm barely certain of what he said. "I should have killed you when I took you."
"We are not losing."
The knife drops to my lap and he grabs my face, sweeping his thumbs along my jaw. "You make me weak, and a man with a heart never wins the war."
"Only if you fall in love with a weak woman. You promised me the world would burn at our feet. Let me help you," I whisper.
"Don't give me another reason not to trust you."
"Don't shut me out and I won't keep things from you. We can do this together or separately, Ronan, but I'm in this every bit as much as you. I'm more than capable of fighting a war on my own." I lift a brow. "But I'd rather stand beside the devil while I do it."
His phone rings and he settles back in the seat, speaking in Russian. I glance through the window, lifting my fingers to the fine line of blood at my neck.
A low, droning sound starts up outside the car, a haunting echo that seems to permeate everything.
"What the fuck is that?" I ask, turning to face Ronan.
"Air raid siren," he says as though it's nothing at all to be concerned with.
I stare at him for a beat longer. "Oh, is that all?" I wave a hand through the air and he turns his attention back to his phone. I slap his thigh. "Ronan!"
"Boris," Ronan says, still staring at his phone. "Please do pull over on Fifth and Seventeenth."
The high-pitched whining continues and people run down the street like rats running from a flood. "This is just a drill, right?"
"I don't believe so." He grins. He grins!!
My phone pings. I pull it from my pocket, glancing at the screen. A text pops up all the writing in Russian. "What does this say?" I shove the phone in his face.
He holds his finger up. "The same thing the siren is saying." He sighs. "Boris, we have about fifteen minutes. Fifth and Seventeenth."
"Oh my god." I want to put my head between my knees or get a paper bag or something. I'm too young to die like this. "Is this one of yours?"
"Hard to say." He shoves his phone inside his breast pocket and smirks.
"You're an asshole."
The car screeches to a halt and Ronan throws open the door, the sound of the siren deafening. He grabs my hand and yanks me out. People are running in every direction. Cars have been abandoned in the street. Panic saturates the air in a choking fog. And in the center of it all, stands Ronan, a cigar between his lips as though it were any other day on any other street—aside from his blood covered shirt that is. He really is the devil. He has to be. I cross myself and start mumbling a Latin prayer that my madre used to say under my breath. I'll return to Jesus right now if I have to.
He strolls along amidst the chaos before stopping to look over his shoulder. "Do you prefer to stay out here?"
"Look, your satanic ass might be impervious to fire and nuclear fallout, but I am not." I glance around. "Shouldn't we be inside?"
He sighs, shaking his head and grabbing my hand. "Come on, Boris."
A crowd of people hurry toward a subway station and Ronan weaves between the hysterical masses, blowing his cigar smoke through the air.
The packed subway is filled with crying children, panicked women and men. Ronan shoves his way through the crowd and we reach the edge of the platform. He hops onto the tracks and turns around, holding out his hand. I drop to the edge and his hands land on my waist, lowering me to the ground.
Boris hops onto the tracks beside me, and Ronan stalks away. I jog to catch up with him, winding my fingers through his. Very little scares me, but right now, I'm terrified. I know all about his weapons of mass destruction and how easily his clients can buy them. Not to mention The Horseman apparently has the means to make the same weapons. This is not some bullshit news piece about the possibilities of nuclear attack in some country far away. This is very fucking real.
We walk down the tracks for a while before Ronan stops outside a service door. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocks it. The hinges squeal in protest as he pushes it open to reveal the darkness beyond. He flips a switch and an overhead light blinks to life. The low electrical hum buzzes over the distant sound of the air raid sirens as I stare down the concrete stairwell with cobwebs clinging to the walls.
Ronan lets go of my hand and descends the steps before unlocking another door at the bottom. I follow him into the dark room, only a strip of tiled floor illuminated from the stairway. When he turns the lights on, I still.
"What the fuck, Ronan?" It's a sleek apartment, everything pristine and white. There's a kitchen to one side of the room and a large lounge in front of me. To the side there are a couple of doorways, a bed visible through one of them.
"A smart man is always prepared."
"You have an apartment… in the subway?" I walk into the kitchen and open one of the cupboards finding it stocked to capacity with tinned food. "What are you preparing for? The apocalypse?"
"One would be foolish not to."
"Oh, sure. Of course." I glance at Boris, hoping he's half as freaked out as I am. He does look kind of pale, but then he's always pale. "So now what?"
He shrugs, his eyes lighting up. "We wait. It is exciting, isn't it?"
"A motorbike is exciting.” I point a finger at him, narrowing my eyes. “This is...I don't even know."
"Oh, come now. We're living through history, little kitty." He grins. "Who knows, we may very well be one of the few people left in mere moments."
"Why do I think you'd like that," I mumble to myself. "I need a shower." I slide Ronan's jacket from my shoulders and toss it over a chair. Boris literally looks at the ceiling. "Oh, suck it up, princess. We might be stuck in here a while. Get used to it," I snap.
"Do not look at her."
Boris continues to look at the ceiling. "Yes, sir."
I raise a brow and unbutton my jeans, slowly lowering the zip. "You can't kill him. Where would you put the body? It would smell terrible after a few days." I reach behind me and release my bra. Ronan's jaw clenches as I allow the straps to fall from my shoulders. Dried blood flakes from my skin, dusting the bright white tile at my feet. Boris now has his eyes screwed shut and I fight a smile. I have to get my kicks somewhere.
Ronan crosses the room, grabbing my shoulders and backing me through one of the bedrooms and into the bathroom before he slams the door in my face. "Ah, sweetie, don't you want to help me get the blood off? It's everywhere," I say to the closed door, fighting a laugh.
After I’ve showered, I wrap myself in a towel and step into the bedroom. Ronan is sitting on the edge of bed, furiously typing something out on his phone.
"Any news?" I ask. His eyes drift up the length of my body before settling on my face.
"It's fine, we're well away from the fall out range." He types away on his phone. "We're going to New York."
"So there is a
n actual missile? Somewhere in the vicinity of Moscow?"
"There was."
"Okay." I pace in front of him, nodding my head. "New York. That's safe, right? No one would bomb New York." I small laugh slips from my lips as the hysteria starts to rise again.
"Would you stop pacing!"
I whirl around to face him. "I'm fucking nervous!" I drag a hand through my hair. "Why are we going to New York?"
He groans. "Mario Luca is in New York."
"Okay. Good." I focus on the task at hand rather than whatever carnage Ronan is undoubtedly responsible for outside. "So, we go to New York and end The Horseman." This I can deal with.
"We go to New York to find out who The Horseman is."
I tilt my head to the side. "You don't think it's Mario?"
"No."
I sigh and walk over to the set of wardrobes against the wall. When I open the doors, I find a rack full of dresses, shoes tucked neatly beneath, lingerie—all brand new. "Do you bring all your girlfriends into your bomb shelter?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder as I pluck a dress from the rack.
"No."
"Well, now I feel special." I smirk, dropping the towel and sliding a pair of white lace panties up my legs. His eyes drop to my naked body before moving back to my face. "When do we leave?" I step into a black dress and shimmy it over my hips before walking over to him. "Zip me."
"In two hours." He pulls my zip up.
"Don't you have to wait until there's not a possibility of being shot out of the sky before you fly anywhere?"
"Oh, I'm certain the airports do." He smirks.
"Of course." I turn around and press my lips to his. "You're Ronan Cole."
That garnishes a smile and his arm bands across the small of my back. "You need to shower. Blood is nowhere near as fun once it's dry." I say, kissing him again.
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