Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2)

by Nicole Castle

  Then Vincent came downstairs. Frank was aware of how he must have looked, glaring at the faucet as if it were an enemy, his sanity on the verge of shattering, but Vincent didn’t make a scene of it. He said nothing. He just fixed it. In all of fifteen seconds the horror was over, and Vincent turned on the water, asking, “What’s for breakfast, babe?”

  Frank had spent the next half hour kissing him, and they made love on the kitchen floor. He was continually in awe of his husband. When Vincent didn’t understand something, he would figure it out. When Frank didn’t understand something, he’d light it on fire. “V didn’t trust Gideon initially. I should have paid more attention to that.” He should've paid more attention to a lot of things.

  “Does he trust him now?”

  “It’s hard to say. He’s taking his side because I’m not. It’s in his nature to be difficult.”

  “Then I’m going to be difficult too.”

  He gaped at her, his cigarette falling to the bathroom floor. “You think Gideon’s innocent?”

  She shrugged, sliding off the counter and slipping back into her striped dress. Since when did Bella shrug? There was no use for a silent response when she could shout. What the hell was happening around here?

  “Why?”

  “He seems nice enough,” she said nonchalantly, picking up her lip gloss and dropping it back in her purse. “And he’s your friend. Why aren’t you on his side?”

  “I don’t even know who he is,” Frank said bitterly. If he had known she would disagree with him, he would not have bothered asking her.

  Bella laughed. “You haven’t changed one bit, Frankie. The whole world isn’t out to deceive you.”

  That was just it. Someone was deceiving him. And if not Gideon, then whom? Bella? Had she lied about the hit? Made it up as a reason to visit? No, Bella did not make excuses for her actions. She did as she pleased, when she pleased. And the hit was genuine. She had been paid for it, and paid handsomely. “Who is your handler?” he asked, though he knew the answer the moment he spoke.

  “Silva. Who else?”

  Frank smiled at the duplicity of it, even as fury flashed red in his eyes. He had been played. The old man set this up. Silva had delivered poison into his life, had damaged his opinion of a friend. For what, Frank could not say, but the fact remained. And it meant that Gideon had to be innocent. If this had been Silva’s way of warning him, if Gideon wasn’t who he said he was, his life would have ended at the gallery. Instead Silva had given Bella a timeframe. Over two months. Why? To be talked out of it? “Ask him about the men on the list. See if any of them sound familiar.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “The nicotine,” he said monotonously. “I’m not used to it.” He took another cigarette, his hands steady. It looked like they would be paying Silva a visit after all.

  Chapter Ten

  It used to be that Casey would neglect me while painting my portrait, boring me to tears, concentrating so hard on his art that he’d only remember I was there when I’d move and ruin his picture. Now I guess he’d done it so many times that he didn’t have to concentrate, and could give me the American Inquisition. I’d almost prefer the silent treatment, if I wasn’t getting so much of it from my husband for the auto repair incident.

  “Frank says she’s dating their boss…” Casey said, prompting me for information.

  I facetiously asked, “Who?”

  “Bella.” He gave me a slight upward glance from his chair and returned to his canvas. He’d better not be drawing me with pink hair again. “What’s he like?”

  “Frank?”

  “Their boss.”

  I had to give the kid credit, he didn’t sound the least bit frustrated with me. And here I was being purposefully annoying. “I’m Frank’s boss.”

  Casey smiled. It always brightened my day to see him do that. It was a dopey looking smile, but he really did light up the room. No one else had a smile like that. Even his mom, who essentially had the same features, couldn’t give that good a grin.

  “I don’t know, Case, I’ve never met him.”

  “But they’ve talked about him.”

  He was under the impression that I knew Bella a hell of a lot better than I actually did. I’d only met her in person twice, and our other communications were mostly me asking questions about what Frank was like as a teenager. I suppose I should’ve asked more about her, but I’d never been good at faking interest in other people. “Frank mentioned Silva once or twice, if that. He hated Charlie.”

  “Everyone hated Charlie except for Frank,” Casey said knowingly. He’d never met the man, but Charlie’s reputation for being repulsive preceded him. Charlie had been dead two years and I still hadn’t forgiven him for his parting gift to me, telling me about Frank’s time in juvenile prison.

  He had claimed that Frank was gay due to sexual abuse he received at the hands of the guards. Charlie knew fully well that I’d been taken advantage of by every lecherous bi-curious man in the Chicago metropolitan area, and I would immediately take his accusations to heart. But even though Frank had pretty much blacked out the time he spent incarcerated, he knew Charlie well enough to be certain that the old man never would’ve said it if it had actually happened.

  If anything made Frank gay it was his mother, stripping in front of him and using sex for survival just like I used to. He’d even grown up in a strip club, and if looking forward to a woman putting her clothes on didn’t make you queer, I didn’t know what could.

  Casey cleared his throat, drawing my attention back to his research. “Do you think Bella goes for older men?”

  If she did, he was fighting a losing battle. She’d referred to Frank as her little brother, and that’s something Casey had been to him since he was twelve. But discouraging him would take all the fun out of it. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Apparently he’s going to die soon so she’ll be free. And maybe she’ll want someone with a longer shelf-life after fucking a guy who was past his sell-by date when they met.”

  Casey got a queasy expression. “Sorry,” I said, remembering that unlike me, he’d never been the type to wish death upon his rivals. “Anyway, younger men are tres chic right now. I read an article about it in one of those magazines you bought.”

  He beamed at me. “Tres chic,” he said, nodding to himself. “Cool. Do you think I’m her type?”

  I stifled a laugh. “She’s a killer. You’re a marshmallow.”

  He frowned, or at least as close as he got to it. “I am a marshmallow. She probably goes for guys like Frank, huh?”

  Now it was my turn to frown. I’d feared their relationship from the beginning. I knew better now, of course, but thinking about it still made me insecure. Who wouldn’t go for Frank? He was completely gorgeous, intimidatingly smart, sexy as fuck, and utterly unaware of his own charms. Not to mention rich.

  “You don’t think they ever—”

  “No, they did not,” I snapped.

  “I’m sorry, Vin,” he said. Casey usually had a great sensitivity about him, a valuable skill he must’ve honed over the years dealing with Frank’s moodiness. But with Bella in the house, his primary motive was reconnaissance. I couldn’t hold it against him though. I would’ve given my less-important body parts to find information about Frank when I first met him.

  Then I thought about their relationship, the way she bossed him around and all the stories he used to tell me about their hits together, when she’d make him dress up to match her outfits. “I think she just might like marshmallows, actually.”

  “Is Silva sick or something?”

  I shrugged. “Or something. I wouldn’t bring it up to her, Casey. She’ll probably kill you.”

  “No she won’t,” Bella said, entering the room like she owned it. “You took too fucking long, I’ve changed my mind.”

  Whatever she was talking about, it struck a chord with Casey. He looked like he could cry. Then she turned on her heels and click-clacked away, giving him abou
t three seconds before whistling and snapping her fingers for him to follow.

  “Marshmallow,” I muttered, feigning a sneeze. “Go on, kid. I won’t be offended if you don’t finish my picture.”

  “I’ll get you later,” he said gratefully, grabbing every blank canvas he could carry and chasing her to the library.

  I smiled to myself, the reveal being the only exciting part of sitting for a portrait. But my smile threatened to never return again when I turned the canvas around and found Bella’s face looking back at me.

  Chapter Eleven

  She squirmed out of Frankie’s bedroom window, her puffy sapphire blue Valentino skirt nearly getting stuck as she hauled herself up onto the roof. Bella was an excellent climber. She adored heights, being up above everyone and out of their reach.

  The cold had never bothered her. She’d spent most of her childhood on the roof of their twenty-five story tower block in Glasgow, hiding under a bin bag to stay dry. She liked being up there, watching airplanes fly overhead when it wasn’t too smoggy to see the sky. She would daydream about where they were going, wishing that they would take her away with them.

  The tower block roof was the one place in that rotten city that was hers and hers alone. Access to the roof had been blocked off before Bella was even born, and only a few other kids who lived in the building knew how to get up there the back way. Not even Bella’s maniacal brothers were crazy enough to attempt the feat: climbing up the rickety lift shaft from the top floor, a twenty-five story drop if you lost your grip.

  It had been the perfect place to avoid her family. Now she was avoiding Frankie’s family so she could make a phone call in privacy.

  Bella lit a cigarette and dialed Silva’s number. Silva set the standard for all the men in her world. A true fucking gentleman. Now he was dying and she was here. She hated this hit. She hated how long it would take and she hated that it would hurt Casey once it was done. She wanted to get it over with and go home.

  Her heart beat faster with each ring. She was afraid he wouldn’t answer. Afraid that he was gone. “Bella,” he said finally.

  “What the fuck took you so long to answer?” she yelled. “You fucking scared me.”

  “I am sorry, my dear. I had someone at my desk.”

  “Who?”

  “Is that important?” he scolded.

  “Obviously, if you didn’t fucking answer my call. Who was it? Malkolm?” She hated Malkolm. She’d fucking blow him up again if it was Malkolm.

  “Be calm, Isobel. I am here now.”

  Here now. But for how much longer? She took a drag from her cigarette and smoothed down her skirt. She’d chosen that dress specifically, knowing that she would speak with him. He liked when she wore blue. She’d worn something quite similar on the explosive job with Malkolm. Silva had been angry with her, since he forbade his workers from harming each other. But he hadn’t punished her. He simply brought it to her attention that her dress was ruined from the smoke, and then he sent her on holiday so Malkolm could recover in peace.

  “How are you enjoying Paris, my girl?”

  “I’m not in Paris.” She glared at the forest. She couldn’t even see the road from there. Just trees. “You won’t fucking believe this. That lawyer is a friend of Frankie’s.”

  Silva chuckled. It was good to hear him laugh. She could pretend he wasn’t sick. “Is that so?”

  She smiled. “You knew that already, didn’t you?” Silva knew everything. Bella loved that about him. There was nothing in the world that she had to worry about when Silva was around, and she felt calmer just having him on the phone with her.

  “And how is your brother?” he asked. Silva had always considered them siblings. His children, more than Silva’s real son had ever been.

  “Grumpy,” she said.

  “As to be expected.”

  “He wants to know who ordered it.”

  “Yes, I imagined he would.”

  “He thinks I should stay here until we do,” Bella grumbled. She was positive that Silva would side with her. She should be with Silva, not hanging around in the woods with Frankie. They should both be with Silva.

  “I think that would be wise, Bella.”

  Bella reeled like she’d been slapped. She sat down on the roof and flicked her cigarette. It sparked against the shingles and she pictured Malkolm’s burning face. “Well what the fuck do you know?”

  “I know that you’ve missed Frank terribly, and I know that it does you no good to wait around the house for me to die,” he said sternly.

  “You’re not going to die,” she whispered. Tears stung her eyes and she gripped her skirt so tightly that her hand shook. Silva was wrong about her waiting for him to die. She was waiting for him to get better. If she thought about him dying everything became chaos and she couldn’t breathe or think or move.

  “I am not going to die today,” Silva said. “Please stay with Frank for the moment. I will see to it that everything is taken care of.”

  Bella ran her hands over the soft satin fabric, remembering a dress Silva had bought her years ago. That had also been sapphire blue, and also Valentino. He’d taken her dancing and then given Bella her first real assignment, and he had kissed her hand before sending her on her way to Rome. “I have a list of names if you want them,” she said.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Silva knew who the client was already. Bella could tell. And he was still making her stay. “What if I do the job early?”

  “You will not do the job early, Isobel,” he commanded. “That would be a very big mistake.”

  “Fine.” She was no longer calm. She felt trapped.

  “Bella,” he soothed.

  “If you die while I’m here I’ll never fucking forgive you. Either of you.” She ripped Gideon’s stupid fucking list into confetti. She’d kill everyone in the house. And the client, whoever the fuck they were.

  “That will not happen, princesa. I promise. There’s still life in this old man yet.”

  “There’d fucking better be,” she spat.

  “There is, I assure you. Now, what shall we tell Frank about this unfortunate situation?” he asked dryly.

  She laughed. Silva was the only person she’d ever met who was smarter than Frankie, and he was going to help her fuck with him. “That you’re too fucking busy working for a living and you’ll get around to the whims of retired people when you feel like it.”

  “Very good,” he said. “I shall see you soon, Isobel. Try to enjoy your time with your brother. I am certain that he has missed you.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have left,” she said bitterly as the call disconnected. She had always wanted Frankie to be happy. If playing house with Vincent was what made Frank happy then so fucking be it. But it wasn’t. She knew it wasn’t. They were both fucking miserable. And bloodthirsty. Frank had started stalking his friend the moment he found out about the hit. He would’ve probably killed Gideon himself if he could do it without upsetting Casey.

  She stayed on the roof most of the afternoon, smoking and watching the wind blow away pieces of Gideon’s list. It had only been a few days since she left Silva’s house, but she didn’t have a murder or a fashion show to distract her from her thoughts and her mind felt muddled.

  Bella smoked the last cigarette in her pack, dropping the end down the chimney before peering over the roof at the ground below. Climbing was easy. Getting back to the ground in six-inch heels was not.

  She swung her legs down, clinging to the roof as she reached her feet for the window she’d left open. With a crack of glass against her Christian Louboutin patent leather pump Bella remembered that she’d come up on the other side of the roof.

  It must’ve been Maggie’s room. She hadn’t heard screaming, so no one was home.

  Bella pulled herself back up, not willing to risk further damage to her shoes by breaking in the rest of the way. Her foot was bleeding. The shoe was fine. She took it off so it wouldn’t fill with blood, but left
the other shoe on. Bella hated being barefoot. She couldn’t fucking reach anything.

  She hobbled across the roof with her shoe in her hand, verifying that the window was open this time before making a move toward it. She gently tossed her shoe in first and then climbed in after it, leaving bloody toe prints on Frank’s nightstand, then on the duvet, and finally on the carpet as she hopped down.

  There was a clean but threadbare black Armani shirt in Frank’s closet. She used it to wipe enough blood off of her foot to put her shoe back on. She wouldn’t risk the possibility of being seen in the hallway and having anyone thinking that she was like those pathetic women who couldn’t walk in high heels.

  Bella stopped on her way to the bathroom to look in on Casey, and request more cigarettes. He was painting an orange moustache on one of her portraits. “Oi!” she hollered.

  Casey turned and laughed. “I was wondering where you got off to today. Come here.”

  She walked into his room, glancing around at the neutral colored decorating that was obviously done by Frank and not by Casey. Dusty and drab. Casey was wearing a painfully bright yellow shirt but a very cute pair of Levi jeans. “What the fuck are you doing to my picture?”

  “It was wrong.” He quickly swiped his brush across Bella’s mouth and jumped back with a shocked grin like he couldn’t believe he got away with it. She couldn’t believe it either, too surprised to even scream. “Now it’s perfect!” he laughed, putting his hands up defensively. “Sorry.” He began to look afraid as she glared at him. “I’m just kidding. I switched brushes. Your face is fine. Here, look…” He swiped the brush over his own face, leaving no trace of orange. “Now hold that expression,” he said, and he reached for another canvas. “Anger suits you.”

  “Murder suits me.”

  Casey laughed, paying her no mind. “That’s a great color on you. Valentino?”