Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2)

by Nicole Castle

  Then I caught sight of something that made me feel even worse, and my face flushed in utter humiliation. Either he had a gun in his pocket or he was very happy to stab me. I’d never turned away from an erection that fast in my life. Not that I turned away from many erections to begin with.

  Joe let out a groan of disgust and I realized he must’ve seen it too, which only embarrassed me further. It was bad enough Karl got to me, without having a stranger witness my pathetic reaction. “We’ve got it under control, gentlemen,” Joe said, addressing Malkolm specifically since Karl was anything but. Even Malkolm seemed a little creeped out by Karl when he noticed, screwing up what was left of his face in a sneer.

  “Let’s go,” Malkolm spat. He headed back up the stairs after a quick glare in my direction, as if I had anything to do with the explosion. Karl waved coquettishly at me and followed Malkolm. So the beast had a master. That bothered me more than if Karl had stayed put.

  Joe waited until they were obviously not coming back before heading to the box of keys, silencing any alarms that he could. It left the entire row of Bella’s cars plus a couple sedans with missing keys. He came and sat on the hood of a blaring Bentley next to my Ferrari, asking, “Are you okay?”

  I kept my eyes cast down, staring at the cement floor and wishing yet again that I’d obeyed Frank’s orders. “Do you know what he said?” I sounded like a scared little boy, but I would rather know the horrors Karl had in mind for me than imagine something potentially worse. If there could actually be anything worse than what I was imagining.

  “No, and I don’t think I want to.” He sighed and glanced distrustfully toward the door.

  “Thanks for, uh—” I set my jaw, mercifully preventing myself from adding not letting Karl rape me with my husband’s knife. “You know, you’re not allowed to kill him. It’s a rule.”

  Joe chuckled. “Doesn’t apply to handlers.”

  I gaped at him, smiling despite myself since I’d just found a loophole and someone protective enough of my obvious innocence to exploit it. “Really?” I asked in my sweetest I'm-an-angel-please-protect-me voice.

  “Well as much as I would’ve enjoyed killing Karl, I’m sure Frank wouldn’t appreciate me denying him the pleasure. I will get Karl an assignment though. Something boring, and as far away as possible.”

  “That works.” I made a mental note not to mention any of this to Frank until Karl was out of the country. Maybe even the continent. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Bella burst into the garage like she owned the place, which she basically did. She gave a curtsy once she had our full attention, then she shouted over the alarms, “How’s that for a girly bomb?”

  “Loud,” Frank said from the doorway.

  I smiled uneasily at him, knowing that approaching loud noises wasn’t one of Frank’s favorite past times. He would’ve only come down if he sensed danger, and that made the threat of Karl and his menacing member feel even more genuine than it had been when he was standing in front of me.

  “Of course it’s fucking loud, Frankie! That’s the best part!” She lit a cigarette. “Were you worried that I hurt little Vincent’s ears?”

  I gave her a dirty look. I’d be in more trouble than she would if Frank found out she’d left me alone, but that didn’t mean she could get away with it. “The alarms are giving me a headache,” I said, waiting for him to reproach her. Instead he took out his gun and shot several hundred thousand dollars worth of transportation before Joe exclaimed, “I’ll take care of it! Just…go back upstairs.”

  Frank reluctantly put his gun away and held out his hand for me to join him. I nodded to Joe and took my place at Frank’s side. I hadn’t known Joe for very long, but as far as I was concerned he was already a better handler than Charlie. Then again, so was Kiki.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Walking into Frank’s apartment was like passing through the security checkpoint for an international flight. There were codes and locks and even a camera, only to get inside and see that it was just an apartment. But now that Bella had been in the vicinity it resembled the pre-boarding area, full of duty-free fashion that had been strewn about in bags around the living room. The clothes she’d purchased and brought to Frank’s house were hardly a fraction of what she’d left here. Casey was glad for it. She’d need clothes when she came home, and he had a feeling she wouldn’t like the road-kill chic look he’d given to the rest of her wardrobe. But she might like the yellow parasol he bought for her on the Avenue Montaigne, along with the matching Dior handbag that maxed out his credit card.

  Then he saw the familiar brown paper, wrapped around a twenty-four by thirty-six inch framed canvas. Alan had said she bought one of his paintings. He’d been too distraught to ask which one.

  He picked it up and set it on the marble countertop, carefully lifting the tape and peeling back the paper. Casey had met the woman who originally bought it. Rachel Fields. She had murdered her married lover and then killed herself. It was the only thing Casey could think of when he looked at the painting now. Why would Bella buy it? Why wouldn’t she mention that she’d bought it?

  Casey wrapped it back up, leaving it on the counter and taking Bella’s purchases downstairs to Frank’s car. He had originally planned to drive to the art gallery to drop off Alan’s portrait, since carrying a nude painting of a seventy-year-old man through the streets of Paris was absurd even for Casey. But there was no way the painting would fit along with all of Bella’s clothes.

  The gallery was just a few blocks from Frank’s apartment, and he left Frank’s car parked on the street near the fashion houses. Casey had keys to the place, bestowed by Alan in the hopes that he’d walk in on him doing something sordid.

  He hung his coat behind the counter at the coat-check and set his messenger bag on the floor, taking a number although there was no one else there. The place was equally empty of art, sad, bare walls with tiny holes from canvases being mounted. Casey would almost rather Marcel be featured than have the gallery stripped that way, and he set about to make it right.

  Alan kept a small office near the bathrooms, in which Casey hoped to find materials to mount the man’s portrait. What Casey found had more to do with the man being mounted: condoms every color of the rainbow, individual servings of ecstasy and poppers, and more lubrication than could be used in the remainder of Vincent’s lifetime, much less Alan’s.

  He also found Viagra, which reminded him of Alan’s story and strangely made him miss Frank more than being in his apartment had. Casey knew how Frank was. He seemed to be made of stone, but he internalized everything. Something would bother him and he’d keep it inside for years, letting it eat him up. He didn’t forget and he never forgave. Casey had lied to him about Bella. Frank would see it as a betrayal. And it was, really. Not only that, Casey had been angry with him. The first person he’d felt real anger toward, and it had to be Frank. He wasn’t even sure why he’d been angry with Frank. It wasn’t as if Frank were the only one trying to keep Bella away from him. And it was for his own good, he knew that now.

  Casey left the painting propped up against the wall, taking a quick peek under Alan’s desk for curiosity’s sake. There were more wads of chewing gum underneath than there were condoms in the drawer. He shook his head and turned toward the door, gasping in shock to find himself face to face with a man who definitely had not been there a second ago.

  The man was perfectly nondescript, wearing drab clothing in neutral colors and dark tinted eyeglasses. He was old enough to be harmless, but it wasn’t just the surprise of seeing him that was making Casey’s heart pound.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here,” Casey said, wishing that he’d steadied himself before speaking. He sounded scared. And the man probably didn’t even understand English. Casey repeated himself in French, and added that the gallery was closed.

  The man stared at him, his eyes barely visible behind his glasses. Then he turned and walked away with his hands in h
is pockets. Casey hesitantly followed after a few minutes, seeing no sign of him. He locked the door—why hadn’t he thought to lock it before?—and grabbed his cell phone from his messenger bag. He ignored the two missed calls and dialed Alan’s number. There was a simple explanation for the man’s presence, of course. It was someone Alan knew, a friend passing through the neighborhood.

  “Darling, it’s a very, very bad time—”

  “There was someone in the gallery.”

  “Darling, it’s a very, very—”

  “Alan, please? Someone was in here.”

  “Well, damn,” Alan sighed. “Was he cute?”

  “No!”

  “Casey, you sound flustered.”

  No kidding, Alan, he thought. “He scared the hell out of me.”

  “He’s probably just an artist. You know how strange they can be.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” That man was definitely not an artist.

  “I’ll take care of it when I get back.”

  “Back? Where are you?”

  “London, my dear. Working. There’s no rest for the wicked.” Alan had non-stop issues with his relatives. They were always dying, or suing someone, or being sued, and somehow Alan constantly managed to come away from it with a large inheritance or some new antique furniture. It was a life stranger than even Casey could imagine, and he’d hitched a ride with quite possibly the only French band of punk rock bagpipers.

  “We’ll talk later.” He checked his missed calls as soon as he got Alan off the line. A mother’s intuition was never wrong, but it had been Frank’s number that came through first. Casey had been right. That man was a threat, otherwise Frank wouldn’t have called.

  He sent his mom a quick text message to say he was on his way home, then called Frank. It wouldn’t matter if his voice was quavering. He needed to talk to him.

  “Hey, Case.” Vincent. Shit. That meant Frank was giving him the silent treatment.

  “Hey,” he said, trying not to sound unhappy about his punishment. He never imagined Frank giving him the silent treatment. “Is Frank around?”

  Vincent unsurely said, “No?” Casey knew Frank was there. He wouldn’t have called and then walked away from his phone. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.” He wasn’t about to mention the creepy old man to Vincent. The kid was sweet and everything, but he had a bad habit of relaying messages in the worst way possible. He’d tell Frank something that would spook him more than necessary, and right now it was more important for them to find out who put the hit on Gideon. “Have him call me later, huh?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks.” Casey was tempted to ask for Bella, just to get Vincent in trouble for hanging up on him. But maybe Frank wouldn’t care if he got hung up on. He said goodbye and put his phone back in his bag. Something seemed different, out of place, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He grabbed his coat and headed to the car, for the first time in his life keeping his head out of the clouds and watching his back. He did not want to be followed.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  They observed each other in silence, Frank sitting perfectly still across from Silva’s desk, leaning slightly forward with his chin resting on his hands. He and Silva had sat this way numerous times within the past few days, having little else to say and being content to merely enjoy each other’s company.

  Silva was the first to break their silence, clearing his throat and asking, “Is everything all right with Mr. Evans?”

  “Yes,” Frank lied. The sense of danger centered on his wayward sibling had passed, and although there remained an inkling of something amiss, Frank had made a conscious decision not to return Casey’s calls. It was enough to confirm with Maggie that her son was in one piece. Frank would see Casey soon, would reunite him and Bella, and he did not want to reconcile with the kid over the phone only to have her come between them for a second time the moment he arrived home.

  Frank’s obligation to Silva was nearly fulfilled. He had spent a great deal of time assisting the old man with trifling matters, errands Frank felt honored to complete: sorting out keys for safe deposit boxes, mailing letters—steamed open and read before being sent, or picking up clothing from the dry-cleaners. All that remained was finishing the job, and delivering Bella to safety.

  Bella had kept Vincent with her as instructed, thankfully not blowing up anything else. The two of them seemed to get along well enough, making ridiculous wagers with each other that usually ended with V pouting and doing something he would not enjoy. What Vincent did enjoy was racing different cars around the perimeter of the yard, safely fenced in with crash-resistant gates. The gates had been reinforced in the first place after Frank demolished them, and now Vincent was finally allowed back behind the wheel, amazingly without incident.

  They must have driven every car in that garage, and when Frank walked out onto the lawn he was accosted with the smell of petrol exhaust. He and Silva sometimes watched from the window, the old man laughing and saying, “Look at them go!” like he was at the horse races. Had it been a genuine derby, they could be assured that Bella would be wearing a ridiculous hat.

  Frank recalled the ridiculous hat Bella wore on her first stroll with Casey, covering damage Frank had not actually done to her hair. That must have been when it started between them. Casey had been lying in the mud when she threw her knife at his head. He had given her his room after chasing her outside.

  “You and Bella never were in a relationship, were you?” Frank asked.

  Silva looked up from his journal. “No, Frank. At least, not in the sense that I believe you are referring. Bella has always been very dear to me. I have a weakness for young women, I suppose. I was nearly grown when my sister was born. The moment I saw her, I was mesmerized. Beautiful girls have such a way about them. Perhaps you have experienced this, only with men?”

  Frank nodded, feeling heat rise in his cheeks at the thought of Vincent’s beauty. They had been together for nearly four years and Frank could still stare at him for hours, utterly captivated.

  “I spoiled her. My Madalena. If there was anything she desired she would have it, she needed only to ask. When she grew up, it was my best friend whom she wanted. They were desperately in love. I arranged it so they could be together.”

  “Arranged it?”

  “He was destined for a different life. This life. It was in his blood. His family had run this organization for generations. But it was Madalena he cared for, and nothing else. The two of them loved each other so much. How could I deny them?”

  “You killed his father,” Frank said. Bella had told him this; the reason a Portuguese was the head of a Czech crime family.

  “I challenged him to a duel.” Silva laughed. “How arrogant I was. But I proved myself, there is no one who can say otherwise. And I did it for love, of my dear sister and my friend.”

  “Were they happy?”

  “Oh, yes. They had many wonderful years together. They were not blessed with children, unfortunately. They did not receive the children they wanted, and I could not love the child I had. I always wanted a daughter. A little girl to cherish, like Madalena.” Silva smiled warmly. “And a son of whom I could be proud. Now I have both.”

  Frank turned away. He had never known a nobler man, and he had to be the one to murder him. He should have at least given Silva a discount.

  “Bella is quite heartbroken over your friend.”

  He flinched. Forget the discount. “She’s heartbroken? If she felt anything for him she never would have hurt him like that.”

  “Do you remember how Bella responded when you had to go away?”

  They had been in Paris when Silva called her. He ordered Bella to bring Frank straight back, told her to forbid him from reading any newspapers. The entire journey she was short with Frank, with no explanation why. Then Silva told him: Frank’s father was dead. He was to be a wealthy man. Frank could accept his new life, a life filled with notoriety and wealth even C
harlie could never fathom, or he could choose banishment.

  There would have been just enough time to say goodbye to Bella before being taken to the airport, to spend the rest of his career and possibly his life away from everything he knew. She was nowhere to be found.

  Not even Charlie accompanied him that evening. Silva said Charlie could not be trusted while his fortune was so near, and he was right. Charlie may not have been able to convince Frank to return to England and claim his inheritance, but he would think of something, anything, to collect that money.

  Frank had wept for the first time in years, alone in the stall of a men’s room. He had not loved his father, and in that moment truly hated him, but he did not want him dead. And he did not want to leave. Then he heard the click-clack on the tiles and smelled her perfume, and suddenly everything was right again. She may not have apologized, but she made amends.

  Looking toward the blank space on Silva’s wall where the Degas used to be, it occurred to Frank that Casey was not the only one who had formed an attachment. He had never considered that Bella had lashed out against Casey because she would miss him, instead of hurting him to hurt Frank. “She does not like saying goodbye.”

  “Not many people do, Frank.”

  “Does she love him?”

  “Yes,” Silva said, “as unexpected as that may be.”

  Unexpected did not even begin to cover it. But then, Frank had also grown to love Casey quite easily, and to admire him more for the traits that they did not share: his genial, impartial nature, and for his ability to laugh; rather than what little they had in common. “You mean Bella falling in love with him wasn’t part of your plan?” Frank asked facetiously.

  Silva gave a knowing smile and turned back to his book.