Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2)

by Nicole Castle

  “Very,” Frank said. “We’re only here for one thing.”

  Oh, yeah, Gideon! “Bella was sent to kill our friend and we need to find out who ordered it so I can kill him.”

  Silva bemusedly raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

  Frank smiled. “Something like that. Any ideas?”

  “Not at present,” Silva said. “But it is delightful to have you home, Frank. And to meet Vincent, of course. Now, I am sure you are very tired from your journey. I will have a room prepared. I do apologize, I was not aware that you were on your way.”

  “It was a surprise,” Bella said through gritted teeth.

  Frank said, “Bella’s room is fine.”

  “If you insist.” Silva gestured for the door. “Do stay for a moment, my girl. I would very much like a word with you.”

  Bella tossed her coat to Frank and helped herself to a glass of whisky from the liquor cart in the corner. Then she sat on Silva’s desk, her legs crossed at the ankles like a lady. She had an expression on her face like she was going to enjoy getting him in trouble with Daddy.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “I smell like piss.”

  “I was not going to mention it,” Silva said, taking her hand and leading her off his desk and onto a chair. It wasn’t enough for her to be ladylike, she had to sit on furniture meant to be sat on.

  “How are you feeling?” She wanted him to say better. And he would even though he looked worse than ever. He wouldn’t last another fucking winter. He wouldn’t last until spring.

  “Better every day, but do not concern yourself with the health of an old man. Tell me my dear, how have you been? I have heard very little of you since you began your stay with your brother.”

  “It was fucking horrible! He was keeping me hostage out in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

  “And yet, being home has not made you happy.”

  She put her sunglasses on. “I met someone.”

  He smiled, his whole face brightening with pleasure. “Someone special?” She nodded, wishing Silva had a reason to be happy for her. “That is wonderful, Bella! Who is this man?”

  Bella scoffed. “Man. I wouldn’t say that. He’s more of a boy.”

  “Ah, you have taken after Frank.”

  “Not like that. Fuck. Vincent’s a wee bairn. Casey’s—”

  “Casey Evans?” he asked in surprise. “I thought he, like Frank, enjoyed the company of other men.”

  “He did.” She remembered talking to Silva about him like Casey was nothing. Just one of Frankie's pets. They'd refer to him as “le garçon.” It was one of the only French words she knew that had nothing to do with clothes. They used to call Frankie that as well, when he was first starting out. Then she'd watched him cut a man in two and figured that made him an adult.

  “And does Mr. Evans share your feelings?”

  “Well not any fucking more.” She couldn’t get his expression out of her head. He hadn’t cried. That would’ve been better. It would’ve been better if she’d left him alone to begin with.

  “Bella, what have you done?”

  She lit a cigarette. She wasn’t supposed to smoke in there, to smoke around him when he was ill. “I hurt him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t want him to fucking miss me!” she screeched. “I didn’t want to say goodbye. It’s Frank’s fault.”

  Silva sighed. He knew she didn’t like goodbyes. “Do you love him?”

  “Aye. If you can fucking believe it.” Bella couldn't believe it. She always fell for the wrong men, at the wrong fucking time. Silva knew all about Deaglan. He thought he was a fucking mistake. But he didn't seem to mind this. She straightened her dress, a somber gray Versace number that went nearly to mid-thigh. If there was a dress in existence that could be suited ideally for going home to Daddy and breaking the heart of your young artist lover, Versace would have designed it.

  “Would you like my advice?” Silva's advice always worked when she actually followed it.

  “Aye.”

  “Apologies, when sincere, go a very long way. And if that does not work, try gifts.”

  Apologies, sincere or not, weren’t her style. “I promised him your ballerina painting.”

  “I will have it prepared for shipment immediately.”

  Bella was used to Silva dropping everything to abide by her whims, and barely heard his response. Where would Casey be now? Sobbing to Alan Barker? In bed with Alan Barker? She stood and stubbed her cigarette out under the ballerina’s slipper. Being in love was fucking shite. “It’s his stepfather I’m supposed to kill.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I ain’t gonna fucking do it.”

  “Very well.”

  “I’d have killed his real father. The fuck. Do you suppose Gideon’s done something terrible?”

  “I am certain that it is a gross misunderstanding.”

  She nodded. Silva was plotting and she usually didn’t understand his schemes but she always felt better knowing he was up to his old tricks. He’d fix everything. Gideon would be safe. Casey would be happy again. “What did you think of Vincent?”

  Silva laughed. “He is extremely young.”

  “You’ll never get to meet Casey.” She pouted, though in a way she was comforted by it. She loved Silva as her father, her true father, but she’d kill him if he went near Casey.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “You would’ve liked him.”

  “It is my understanding that everyone likes Casey Evans.”

  Bella had never been with anyone likeable. It made her feel proud. Considering that the boy didn’t even know how to fight, she’d take pride where she could get it. “I have to go burn this dress.” She’d worn it while hurting Casey. Throwing it in the trash just wouldn’t do.

  She kissed him goodnight on the cheek. His face was cold like a corpse. “Send in your brother,” Silva said. “I would like a word with him.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  His hands ached as he stepped back, weeks worth of painting done in thirteen short hours without so much as a cigarette break. It gave him chills to look at it. Bella, sheer red dress and hair whipping wildly around in a wind tunnel, her wide, open-mouthed screams heard by no one. He imagined that was what it was like inside her head, a cyclone that never settled, the volume on mute still too loud to think. And he knew that he did love her, and would probably still love her if she killed his dad, though he’d hate her for it too.

  His mother was going to flip.

  “Casey, darling, are you still—” Alan stopped mid-yawn. He’d come to check on him after filling the silence for the last several hours with subtle snoring that could only be described as polite. Now he stood mesmerized in fuzzy slippers and a slinky bathrobe with half the young artists in Paris knowing what was underneath. “If this is what heartbreak looks like, I ought to give her a commission.”

  “You can’t have it.”

  “Why ever not?” Alan whined.

  “I’m giving it to Bella.”

  “And if she doesn’t come back?”

  “Then I’ll go find her,” he said, and he stepped forward to proudly sign his name.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Frank gripped the collar of Bella’s coat, plunging it repeatedly into the warm soapy water. He visualized her face, lips turning a fashionable shade of blue as he held her head just below the surface. He typically found the idea of drowning to be horrific, but somehow it was far more soothing to think of her watery death than simply do laundry.

  The coat was a passive aggressive peace offering. By no means had Frank forgiven her, which was made quite clear by the Dry Clean Only tag on the water damaged garment. But as Vincent ran his mouth off about the house being full of “the most unattractive killers” he had ever met, Frank was reminded that peace with Bella was a necessity. Not to mention that he didn’t want to forever associate his assassination of Silva with the smell of strangers’ and Bella’s urin
e.

  He hung Bella’s freshly destroyed coat above the claw-footed bathtub, where Vincent sat immersed in perfumed water with bubbles so tall he was barely visible beneath them. “Don’t get my slippers wet, babe,” V said. Although initially worthy of complaint, the house slippers had been found comfortable and quickly become an official part of his “redundant assassin uniform,” which therefore entitled them to respect.

  Frank sighed and moved the slippers where they would not get dripped on. If having Vincent become further pampered and spoiled was the only negative side to this trip, Frank would thank God until he could no longer speak.

  “Is Bella gonna sleep in Silva’s room?”

  The thought that Vincent would be highly opposed to sharing a bed with Bella hadn’t even occurred to him. It was perfectly natural for Frank, and always had been. When Frank had first come to Silva’s home he was given this room, since Bella was away on a two-year holiday in Ibiza. It was Silva’s way of apologizing for forcing her to work with Malkolm, and thereby forcing her to blow up his face. An incident like that would have meant certain death to one of the men. Even Frank would have been reprimanded, although not severely. Bella was seemingly rewarded, which had not helped the men’s animosity toward her.

  After Bella had returned, she made no attempt to force Frank from her bedroom. She climbed right into bed with him on the very night they met, accepting him on Silva’s word and expecting him to do the same. With slight trepidation, he had. “She’s sleeping with us.”

  Vincent opened his mouth to complain, or perhaps to simply gawp in indignation. Frank quickly turned his attention to his cell phone, knowing that Vincent would keep quiet rather than upset him further while he was thinking of Casey. Like each time Frank had checked his phone since early that morning, there were no calls. Maggie had promised to notify them as soon as she heard from her son, though Frank could not help but think that Casey was gone forever. Bella had torn out his heart; that heart so unlike any other, pure and good and undeserving of such ill-treatment. And Frank had let it happen in his own home.

  It had taken Frank a great deal of deliberation to even tell Bella about the kid, back when Casey was first accepted to university overseas. Frank had trusted her with his life on numerous occasions, and still he’d hesitated to trust her with Casey’s. He was aware of how it would appear to her: not that he had lost his mind by caring for these people but that he had betrayed her by caring for someone else, having a family that she was not part of.

  Seeing Casey that morning, his face full of emotions he had never previously experienced: anger, humiliation, fear; Frank knew his hesitation had been warranted. And now he would be forced to leave Vincent’s safety in her hands.

  The doorknob turned and Frank aimed his gun, slowly lowering it when he saw that it was only Bella. She angrily stomped to him, her eyes hidden behind her oversized sunglasses. She twirled around and insistently tapped the back of her neck. It was a trick that Frank had taught her when he grew weary of her loudly demanding to be unzipped, usually while he was trying to read. Bella had gone along with it, because like dressing to the nines to clean her guns, she considered it fancy.

  Bella was not naturally elegant, nor even remotely ladylike despite her best attempts. It was under Silva’s guidance, and later Frank’s that she was able to be convincing from afar; the grime left from her youth in Glasgow polished away and suppressed under perfume and satin. Frank loved to see the cracks in her façade, to hear filthy language come from her perfectly painted lips or witness her ruining her stilettos by kicking out a man’s teeth. That part of her was what made Frank adore Bella, so long as it was not one of his friends having their teeth kicked out.

  Resisting the urge to justifiability stab her in the back, he unzipped her dress and Bella let it fall to her feet. Frank heard a slight splash as Vincent dunked his head. Vincent liked to pretend that viewing the nude female form would somehow cause him immense harm. If he had only taken a moment to look, he would see that from the waist up, as well as from behind, Bella had the body of a boy.

  She left the dress on the floor and walked to her closet, easily as large as the room itself. She pushed aside the immense wardrobe that hid the entrance to her collection of haute couture, her reverence for fashion giving her the strength to move a piece of furniture five times her weight. Frank had slept in that room for nearly a week without ever knowing what was there. It was only after Bella returned and effortlessly pushed it aside while wearing six-inch heels that he learned of its existence.

  That type of inattention to his surroundings was extremely uncharacteristic, especially in such a new place. But at the time he was barely capable of getting out of bed, much less moving heavy furniture to check for hidden passages. And a passage it was. Behind layers of colorful couture lay a door straight to Silva’s office, and to his bedroom.

  The rooms had been connected after Silva’s son was born. Frank could imagine Silva attending to his child, watching Augustin while he’d slept even as his disappointment with the boy grew. The younger Silva was nothing like his father. He was arrogant and sadistic, and from what Frank experienced, vainer than Vincent could be on his most narcissistic days. It had been an honor to end his life.

  Bella emerged wearing a demure white sleeveless silk blouse and matching white elbow gloves, with a violet skirt so tight that a thigh-high slit was the only way she could take proper strides. She picked up her soiled dress, holding it away from herself. “Silva wants to see you.”

  “Later,” he said. She was obviously on her way out, and he was absolutely not leaving Vincent by himself.

  “Now.” Had her hands not been filled, they would most certainly be on her hips.

  “Stay with Vincent.” Frank felt a disgruntled splash of hot water against the back of his pants. He would punish him for it later. “Please?”

  Bella tilted her head toward the hanging coat, then back to him. It was difficult to tell what she was thinking when he couldn’t see her eyes. “Do you have my lighter?”

  He handed it to her and offered a cigarette, which she didn’t take.

  “Wait,” she said irritably and left the room with her dress.

  He turned around slowly, allowing the threat of violence to simmer. Vincent may have been angry at being treated like a novice, but he was now smiling meekly, as far back in the bathtub as space allowed. Frank grabbed him by his thin upper arm and hauled him out of the tub. Vincent loved being treated like a rag-doll. He was good at it, too. And he wore bruises exceptionally well. “You will be with Bella or me at all times. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He roughly dried him off and then held him close, taking a moment to appreciate simply having him in his arms before he spanked him hard across the ass. While Frank may not have much opportunity to punish him in the foreseeable future, Vincent would undoubtedly find opportunity to deserve it. “Please behave yourself. I do not want to have to kill someone because you were asking for trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get dressed,” Frank said. Vincent was not to be out of sight when he was naked, for more than aesthetic reasons. It made Frank nervous to think of the vulnerability associated with nudity, even though Vincent had always been excessively confident without his clothes. And whether or not any of the men had homosexual tendencies, the fact that Vincent looked the way he did gave plenty of cause for concern.

  Frank made sure V was away from the window and peered out. He had deliberately parked in front of the house instead of in the garage down below. That garage was full of European luxury and sports cars, and the longer he could keep his husband away from it, the better.

  “You okay?”

  “No.” He could see Bella’s figure fishing around the front seat; it couldn’t be anyone else, there were no other women in the house. She walked away from the car, carrying more bags. She hadn’t put on a coat, but it was difficult to tell whether she still wore gloves. From that distance, and even while
she stood right in front of him, her pale skin was nearly indistinguishable from her white clothing.

  For a moment there was nothing left to see, but Frank continued to watch, something telling him there was a reason to stare into the darkness. Then the car was on fire. He let the curtain drop back in front of the window and sighed.

  “What?” Vincent bounced a little while he sat nude on Bella’s bed, having once again refused to do as he was told and put some clothes on.

  “Car’s on fire.”

  Vincent gaped at him, rendered momentarily speechless at the defilement of a vehicle that he would have taken as a wife had the law, or Frank, allowed it.

  After several minutes Bella came back into the room, smelling faintly of petrol. She had Casey’s CD in her hand, and several more shopping bags. She’d finally lost the sunglasses, and her gloves, and she shoved past Frank to put her purchases away in her gigantic walk-in closet. “Silva wants to see you,” she reminded him.

  “Stay with him, please,” Frank said again.

  She reached into Frank’s front pocket, helping herself to the cigarettes she’d previously declined and grazing him intimately with her fingertips, making him blush and avert his eyes. She blew smoke in Vincent’s direction the moment her cigarette was lit, as if the revelation from that morning hadn’t already proven her to be an irresponsible guardian. “They wouldn’t dare touch him.” Her words were true, but it was the way Bella said it, as a threat, that assured him Vincent would be well guarded.

  Frank leaned over to kiss Vincent on the cheek, whispering to him in French so Bella wouldn’t understand, “Get dressed, or she will try to fuck you and I will let her.” With his naughty husband finally rushing to be compliant, Frank headed to Silva’s office.

  Boris had abandoned his post at Silva’s door, likely to gossip with Malkolm about the excitement of the evening’s events: Frank’s return and essential outing, Bella’s car burning on the lawn, and Vincent, who could only prove himself more of an outsider had Frank permitted him to speak his mind. With Silva’s condition deteriorating, the already mundane lives of the men residing in Silva’s home must have become intolerably dull.