“Mateus paid his debt a long time ago. This is something else. This is personal. I just figured with something this important, I could get him to finally admit we were square. Then he had to go and up the ante.”
“Does he realize who they really are? These are crazy rich and dangerous people.”
“Mateus is crazy rich, and I wouldn’t mess with him either. He may not be old money, but he’s got something they want. If anyone can do this, it’s him.” He pauses, and something shadows his gaze. “There’s something else.”
The knot of anxiety that’s been growing inside me all night tightens a little more.
“What is it?”
“He gave them a name.”
TRISTAN
It’s two in the morning when the elevator dings and Mateus’s figure appears looking only slightly worn down, like maybe he just spent the past five hours attending a fabulous party hosted by vultures masked as socialites.
“Bom dia.” He goes to the bar and pours himself a strong drink before sinking into the accent chair directly across from me.
“Morning. Glad to see you got back in one piece.”
“I didn’t end up at the bottom of the ocean, so I suppose I should consider myself lucky.” He takes a substantial swallow of his drink and sighs audibly. “Isabel is sleeping?”
I nod. After I got her calmed down and cleaned up, I treated her wounds from the encounter with Boswell. Even as she began drifting off to sleep, I couldn’t keep from touching her, kissing her gently, as if somehow I could erase what she went through tonight. Every time I think of his body crushed against hers, I’m grateful I killed him, even if she had to see it. He’ll never hurt her again. He’ll never take what he wanted from her.
“How is she?”
His question pulls me from my murderous thoughts. For all my unease over their pretend closeness, I know Mateus’s concern for her is genuine.
“He banged her up a little. She fell down the stairs, but she’s okay. A few bruises and scrapes. Could have been worse.”
He nods wordlessly.
“How did it go?”
He flips his hand. “Soloman got the answer he wanted, and for all he knows, so did I. There was little left to do but drink and watch the party. I met a few of the others, but it was loud. Everyone was distracted. More people came on at Fisher Island. A few left. It was chaos. Too much alcohol. If they had a count, I doubt it was an accurate one.”
“That’s a relief.”
“So now we watch and wait.”
I would have rather watched and waited from a place of knowing that Soloman was dead, but things are different now.
“You went off script.”
His jaw hardens. “I did what I felt was best.”
“That’s not what we discussed. The plan was to kill Soloman. To end this. Now we’re back at the beginning.”
“We’re at the beginning of something bigger. You knew killing Soloman would set something off that you couldn’t control. You know nothing of his reach. His power. His resources. Yet you wish to be free of it.”
“This wasn’t your call.”
He lifts his brow. “No? Am I only your pawn?”
“This was about a favor.”
He laughs and takes another swallow of his drink. “That favor is ancient history and you know it.”
His casual confirmation crystallizes what I ignored for too long—something I never let myself believe because the prospect of friendship and loyalty in my world felt less and less possible the deeper I fell into this life. But here we are. Bound by something more than an agreement. We’re bound by the years between us.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “There’s still time to back out.”
“Maybe I want something from it too. Has that occurred to you?”
“If it’s about Barcelos, you know I can take care of that. All you had to do was ask. Hell, you know me.”
“Let him die by the hands of monsters. You, Tristan, are no monster. I saw the heart in you before I enlisted the soldier in you. You’re brilliant and lethal, but it was your heart that brought Karina out of there alive.”
I wince and look to the side, where beaming blue lights make the pool glow. I’m not sure what to do with those words or the feelings they inspire.
“I’ve never given you a reason to think more of me,” I mutter quietly.
“You’re wrong. You sell yourself short. You always have, and here we are, fighting the monsters who made you believe this is all you were ever worth. A mindless killing machine.” He leans forward, and I meet his eyes, which are burning with something I can’t name. “I have never known someone so alone in the world as you, Tristan. But now… Now you have Isabel. Your miracle. She sees your heart and your darkness. She stays because she’s in love with you.”
“I haven’t given her much choice.”
“I don’t think she’s given you a choice either.”
I don’t answer. He has no idea how strongly we’re bound now, but he’s on the right track. I bend myself forward and slice my fingers through my hair with a groan. Like always, everything is a goddamn mess. Two steps forward, one step back.
“We’ll beat them. Trust me. I know these kinds of people. Their confidence is always what brings them down. I’m not like them.”
I look up. “But you are.”
He shakes his head. “Money is nothing. It comes and goes. Power is the same. When you come from where I come from, you take nothing for granted. They take it all for granted. Infallible.” He laughs. “That’s when I knew. They are living a delusion, Tristan. Their vulnerabilities exist like everyone else’s. And as close as I will be, I will find them.”
“What about Karina? You put her in danger getting mixed up in this. If they find out what you’re doing, she’ll be at risk.”
He spins his glass on his knee. “She’ll be safe. I’ll be sure of it.”
“And Isabel?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Jazmín? She was temporary, like most of the women there. No one will wonder why she was by my side one moment and gone the next. They’ll wonder more why I don’t have someone new every time they see me.”
“When do you see them next?”
“Soloman will contact me when Barcelos is taken care of. Then we’ll see where it goes from there.”
I have no choice but to accept the path he’s put us on. At least with Boswell gone, I have one less target to worry about. But Soloman was the prize. I want him gone with an irrational dedication now. It isn’t revenge that fuels this desire to take him out of the equation. Or is it?
If Morgan Foster bought me a first-class ticket to the front lines and Jay took the wheel on my life as an assassin, where does Soloman fall in it all? Morgan’s crime was loving his daughter too much. Stripped of her power and place in the Company, Jay is as vulnerable as any of the marks I took out.
But Soloman is the master of monsters. Monsters like me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Isabel
“Are you going to eat that?”
Tristan pushes his plate to the center of the table, and I fork the rest of his foie gras to mine. It disappears quickly, even as I try to savor each tiny mouthwatering bite. We’re at a little French restaurant in South Beach, which is just intimate enough that Tristan seems to be enjoying himself. He seems relaxed even, a smile playing at the edge of his lips as he watches me sample each course.
With Mateus gone, we’ve had the penthouse to ourselves for the week. And while I know Tristan is more than content to stay cooped up in our palace in the sky, I was happy when he insisted on taking me out tonight. Knowing our time in Miami is coming to an end, I was hoping to see more of the city before life took us elsewhere.
“You still haven’t told me where we’re going next.”
He swirls his wine glass by the base. “That’s because I don’t know. I’m waiting on Mateus, and he’s waiting on Soloman.”
“Have you heard from Townsend?”
He smirks a little. “I moved his meeting around with Crow a few times. So he’s stuck in New York for a couple of days until I let him know Crow’s gone out of town unexpectedly. My guess is he’ll go back to wherever he’s hiding Jay, and maybe she’ll talk some sense into him.”
I make a tsking sound. “If he finds out you’re meddling, he won’t be happy.”
“He’s already not happy. He needs time to get his emotions under control.”
“I can’t disagree with that.”
“I can hardly blame him. I’d be the same way if it had been you. I’d be a madman trying to make it right somehow. When Boswell had you in that hotel room in New Orleans, I thought I was going to lose my mind. When I saw him hit you…” He works his jaw. “I’d never felt like that before. It’s a miracle I didn’t kill him then. In hindsight, maybe I should have.”
The waiter comes and drops off a new course and pours more wine to pair with the meal. If he overheard the tail end of Tristan’s sentence, I hope he’s not thinking of calling the authorities on us.
“Does it bother you,” Tristan asks once we’re alone again, “what happened with Boswell? The things you saw?”
I focus on my food, investigating all the little ingredients accenting the two hunks of grilled Spanish octopus on my plate. All the while, Tristan’s question lingers between us. Does it bother me? Does the vision of him forcing the life out of someone who wanted to kill me haunt me? Does it change the way I feel about him?
“Isabel.” He says my name gently, with a hint of pleading.
I look up into his tortured gaze.
“I don’t want you to think the worst of me, but I realize you probably should.”
I put my fork down and weigh my words. Somewhere between our brushes with death, inside the slivers of time when I can breathe and think and let myself really feel everything that’s happened, I’ve started to reason some of it out. It’s been a quiet conversation with myself, one that’s not nearly over.
“I think that when you’re surviving, the rules change,” I finally say. “I don’t have the luxury of being bothered by death anymore. I can’t take for granted that keeping Boswell alive would have cost me my own life. Surviving has nothing to do with some arbitrary moral code. It has nothing to do with passing judgment on myself or anyone else for the things they do. I want to live. It’s that simple. So as long as there’s someone out there who wants me dead, I’ll do whatever I need to do to protect us. The fact that you’d do the same reinforces the instinct.”
He pauses. “I wish it weren’t this way.”
“It won’t always be. And if it is, then so be it… One life, one chance, right?”
I couldn’t have known then, when I’d inked those words onto my ribs, that this is where life would take me. That this journey with Tristan would forever change my path and mark my soul in ways far deeper than any imprint on my skin. Still, the words are a constant reminder to push past my fear. To both live and survive. To take chances I’ve been taught my whole life not to take.
We don’t talk anymore about Boswell, and when dinner ends, Tristan takes us to our next stop. A surprise. Our life is full of surprises, and not always good ones. But I have an idea of what to expect when Tristan’s trying to make up for our bad days. He knows a few things that can make me forget everything else.
“I asked the bellman, and he said this is the place to be tonight,” he says as we pull up to the valet.
Story is deceivingly plain on the outside. Set against white stucco, its simple signage is illuminated by a soft pink light and framed by palm trees. We bypass the long line, and one of the managers takes us inside, where the music is already vibrating the walls. A show of lights beam across every surface of the nightclub.
I can’t suppress the buzz of excitement that hits me as we’re led to our secluded table on a higher level, giving us a view of the action in every area of the club below while offering the privacy Tristan enjoys. Even though our bellies are full of French food and good wine, the primal energy of the club changes the mood. The DJ’s beat is infectious, a nonstop rhythm that seems to build on itself. I’m itching to dance and lose myself in the music.
By the time the cocktail waitress brings us our own bottle of Leblon and a lifetime supply of limes, the crowd is already thrumming with bodies on the dance floor. The second she leaves, I take advantage of the privacy, grasp Tristan’s face in my hands, and kiss him the way we do when we’re alone. I hold nothing back, and judging by his roaming hands, neither does he. The spinning lights glint in his eyes when we break away. Something else is there too. Heat and love and the unmistakable thrill of being here, living and feeling it all together.
TRISTAN
I hold the cachaça on my tongue and relish the slight burn as Isabel offers me the best view. Rolling out the red carpet tonight to watch her run her hands all over her body and bounce to the rhythm of the music in our little private corner of the club is possibly the best idea I’ve ever had. She’s long past holding on to her inhibitions, and I’m not far behind. At least when it comes to keeping my hands off her.
I stand, come up behind her, and place my hand low on her belly to press us close. Never missing a beat, she slides her hands into my hair and weaves her body against mine. We sway together in a slow dance designed for one thing—to drive me straight out of my mind. After watching her dance for hours, no way will I last this way.
“You ready to go back?” I ask when the song transitions.
She twirls seductively in my embrace and answers me with a kiss that quickly goes from sensual to hungry. I push her back until she’s against the railing, no longer moving to the music but responding to my touches. A slow slide up the back of her thigh. A possessive squeeze over her hip. I exhale harshly. Need her. Now.
I pull back and take in her lusty gaze. Her swollen lips. The way her cocktail dress accentuates everything I already love about her body.
She lifts a finger. “Give me one minute. I’ll be right back.”
The bouncer who’s been manning our area escorts her to the ladies room on a higher level, guiding the way with his flashlight to the area reserved for patrons of the private sections. I scan our table and grab her purse, making sure we have everything to make a hasty exit. Her phone lights up in her purse when I open it.
Somehow in the blur of filthy thoughts I’m having about her, the words on the notification cause me to do a double take.
New Email from Kolt Mirchoff: Re: Please read.
The fuck.
I swipe it open and start reading his latest reply.
Will you meet with me? I’m staying at my place in Cambridge. Or I can come to you. Just let me know when and where.
* * *
Love,
* * *
Kolt
My focus is laser-sharp now as I scroll down to read his original plea and her reply. Make me believe it. I clench my teeth to the point of pain.
My thoughts fly as I process a fast sequence of emotions: rage, jealousy, and a strong dose of suspicion that Kolt is trying to lure her to Boston to fall into another one of Boswell’s traps.
I look up. Isabel’s nowhere to be seen, so I return to the screen and type a reply.
Meet me at the Black Rose on State Street on Friday night.
I send the message and immediately delete his and mine so she won’t know anything about this exchange. I drop the phone back into her purse and look up when a dozen huge plumes of smoke eject into the air on either side of the dance floor, causing a loud uproar of celebration.
I fixate on the never-ending show to distract me from the flood of resentment and anger threatening to take over our night. She should have told me… Make me believe it. What the fuck does that mean?
When she returns, it takes all my willpower to act normal. I take her hand and we leave. The car ride is tense. I catch her eager hand on my thigh and hold it in the center space between us. I don’t need the distraction when I’m t
his dedicated to my new mood. We ride up the elevator in silence, and by the time we make it to the penthouse, I’m seconds from blowing my cover and calling her out on her exchange with Kolt.
I go to the bedroom and tear off my collared shirt. She follows behind me.
“Tristan, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
A pause. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I answer brusquely.
“I thought we were having a good time there.”
“I’m glad you had fun.” The sentiment is flat.
Of course, I am glad she had a good night up to now, but I’m a million miles away from where we were moments ago. I’m deep in a tornado of frustration. So deep that when she skims her smooth palm up my back, I react without thinking it through. I turn, catch her wrist, and haul her hard against me. I fist my fingers in her hair and ravage her mouth until I’m certain I’ve poured every ounce of feeling in me into the act. She releases a needy whimper and claws at my skin with her blunt nails, which only makes me ache to drag my teeth all over her. To mark her and make her feel me, all this need and fire. Revenge may still be a distant concept, but jealousy is solidly in my wheelhouse.
She’s breathless when we break apart. “What the hell, Tristan?”
I answer by tossing her onto the bed. She bounces, and her dangerously high heels dig into the expensive bedspread. I crawl over her, ready to bury all these feelings by burying myself in her.
I yank her dress down and hike it up in one motion. She reaches for my belt and struggles with my zipper, rushing with me now toward the climax we both need. Seconds later, still half dressed, I’m driving into her. Something between a scream and a desperate moan tears past her lips, again and again, until it feels like we’re tearing each other apart. There’s nothing sensual or romantic about it. It’s feral, and the raw nature of it feeds the animal in me who needs to make her mine. Mine and only mine.
The Red Ledger, Book 6 Page 9