I don’t bother removing my rain-slicked overcoat. I simply go to him and let him enfold me in his arms.
“She’s wet,” he muses to himself, stroking my hair. “Silly child.”
I pull back, grinning because I’m so happy to see him. “People don’t catch cold from being wet.”
“I wasn’t talking about catching cold, my darling, I was talking about your hair.” He smooths his hand over my head, clucking in disapproval. “It looks dreadful. Why aren’t you wearing a hat? Or carrying an umbrella? One doesn’t go about with no head covering in the rain when one has a tendency to frizz—”
“Be quiet, old man.”
He blinks at me, insulted. “Old? Oh dear. You haven’t eaten. You’re light-headed. Shall I make us a cup of tea?”
“That sounds wonderful, thank you.”
I kiss his cheek, smooth as a baby’s behind. Then I have to suppress a rogue memory of the American’s rough cheeks and how delicious they felt grazing the inside of my thighs.
That’s what I’ve started calling him, my first and only lovely one-night stand. The American. It’s more impersonal, therefore less painful. I’m hoping in time the dull ache will wear off his memory and I’ll be able to sigh wistfully when I think of him, but for now it’s like a jagged pill I’ve swallowed that’s stuck just beneath my breastbone, slicing tiny cuts into my insides with every breath.
My body is sore in so many places from our lovemaking. My thighs. My lower back. My behind, faintly bruised by his hand.
My heart, bruised more than faintly.
Reynard intently studies my face. “Something’s happened. Tell me.”
This time, I have to force a grin. “I’m fine. Just tired from the flight. And the trek through the jungle to get to where I hid my bug-out bag. That resort was in the middle of nowhere! I was barefoot, if you can believe it. You should see the sorry state of my feet.”
A faint smile lifts Reynard’s lips. “Hmm. What’s his name?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. What’s that expression your face is attempting? It looks rather comical.”
I must be losing my edge. “Stop harassing me about my face, or I won’t give you what I came here for.”
“You’re in a delightful mood this evening, my darling. Let me go turn the sign.”
Moving with panther-like noiseless grace, he walks to the front of the shop, locks the door, and flips over the small white sign in the window. Then he leads me through the shop to a large bookcase under a staircase at the back.
Neither of us mention that I don’t have a choice about giving him what I came here to give him, but we act as if I do.
“Ladies first,” drawls Reynard, with a flourish of his hand.
From the bookcase, I remove a slender volume bound in dark-green leather, its title stitched in gold along the spine. Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. The story of an orphan who escapes the workhouse to join a den of thieves. Our little inside joke.
The bookcase swings slowly open to reveal a stone corridor. I replace the book, and we walk inside as the case swings closed behind us.
The tunnel is damp, smells of mold and mice droppings, and is badly in need of repair. After two turns, it opens into a large anteroom which is bare of decoration except for a trio of beeswax candles burning in a tall iron candelabra beside an arched oak door so thick it could probably survive a direct hit from a cannon.
“Any trouble with your mercenary?” Reynard inquires, removing an old-fashioned skeleton key from his breast pocket.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
He flicks me an inscrutable look over his shoulder. Then he inserts the key into the lock. The door opens with a groan of rusted metal hinges to reveal a warehouse of staggering opulence.
There are so many priceless antiques, statuaries, paintings, sculptures, and artifacts from around the world stuffed into the space, it could make the Vatican turn green with envy. The first time I saw it, at ten years old, I stood gaping for a full five minutes, staring goggle-eyed like the rube I was.
Part of the complex of hidden tunnels beneath London used during air raids in the Second World War, the vast, brick-walled space has been repurposed as a drop for purloined goods in transit. A quarter mile of heavy-duty steel shelving is stacked in tall, numbered rows down the center. Wood crates and boxes of all sizes overflow with booty, glinting under the lights. The larger items are kept along the walls—or on the walls, in the case of some of the oversized paintings and tapestries.
Regardless of their size, all items are barcoded and entered into an inventory software system Reynard developed himself. Some pieces come to cool for only a few weeks before being shipped out to their new owners. Some, like the 1727 Stradivarius violin stolen from the Manhattan penthouse of a famous conductor and still too hot to sell, have been here for decades.
As with everything seen through the lens of familiarity, however, I barely notice the glittering bounty now. As Reynard once famously said, “If you’ve seen one gold-plated toilet, you’ve seen them all.”
I shrug out of my wet coat, shake the raindrops off, and drape it over the back of a velvet divan. Reynard turns on an electric kettle. The front part of the warehouse is set up as Reynard’s office. Heavy brocade drapes in bloodred cover the walls. French crystal lamps spill light in fractured prisms onto a Louis XVI desk inlaid with gold. The bare stone floor is covered by a thick Turkish rug.
It has the air of an upscale French bordello.
Reynard turns to look at me. “You’re not carrying anything.”
“Aren’t I?”
His gaze sweeps me up and down, gets snagged on my throat. He gasps. “Naughty!”
This time, my grin is sincere. “I couldn’t resist. Took it out of Khalid’s suite the same way.” From around my neck, I slowly unwind the heavy cashmere scarf I’m using to hide the ruby necklace.
“Good God. Spectacular. Come into the light, my darling.” Reynard waves me closer. He removes a pair of spectacles from a drawer in his desk and slides them onto his nose.
“Since when do you wear glasses?”
“Since I’m old, as you so charmingly pointed out. Turn left a little. There.” He examines the necklace without touching it. “Pity it’ll have to be dismantled. The craftsmanship is exquisite.”
I lift a hand and touch my finger to the center stone, a flawless twenty-carat ruby. It’s heavy and cool against my skin. It is a pity the stones will have to be removed and sold separately, the gold setting melted down for scrap, but pieces like this inevitably are. It’s simply easier to find buyers.
“Is that a love bite on your neck?” Reynard’s eyes narrow at the mark the American’s teeth left near my jugular.
“Me not bein’ sweet is gonna leave marks.”
I have to forcibly banish the memory of his face when he uttered those words. How his voice sounded, hot and rough with desire.
“I should be so lucky,” I say breezily. “It’s a bruise. Trek through the jungle, remember?”
“Hmm.”
I can’t tell if he believes me or not, but in another moment, it doesn’t matter, because he says something that makes my entire body go cold.
“Capo wants to see you. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” I repeat, my voice high. “He’s in London?” My heart slams against my breastbone, sending my pulse flying.
Reynard meets my panicked gaze. His voice is steady when he answers. “He flew in when he discovered you’d be here.”
I flush with anger. “You mean when you told him I’d be here.”
Reynard removes his glasses and places them into his coat pocket. “We all have to sing for our supper, my darling,” he says gently. “We live and die at his leisure. You know this.”
Yes, I do know. But I’m still childishly wounded by Reynard’s betrayal. I look down, swallowing back tears.
When I stare at the ground a little too long, Reynard ta
kes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look up.
“I need to keep him thinking I’m loyal, Mariana.”
I jerk my chin from his hand. “He knows you’re not loyal. Which is why we’re in this situation in the first place.”
I unhook the clasp on the necklace with a practiced flick of my fingers. It slithers down my chest. I capture it in my hands, thrusting it at Reynard because I’m suddenly filled with disgust for it.
At least he has the manners to look ashamed when he takes it from me. “I’m sorry, my darling—”
“Don’t be. I knew what I was doing when I took the oath. And it was worth it, to keep you alive after everything you did for me. I’m just tired.”
I find the nearest chair and sink into it, dragging my hands through my hair. He watches me silently, examining my face.
Again I’m reminded of the American. He and Reynard have that same hard speculation in their gazes, the way of making you feel utterly exposed in spite of all your careful disguises.
Stop thinking about him, Mari. Don’t waste time on foolish dreams. Exhaling heavily, I pass a hand over my eyes.
Still holding the ruby necklace, Reynard speaks sharply. “What’s going on? You’re different tonight. What’s happened?”
I lift my eyes and I lie again, because I have to, because the notion of honor among thieves exists in the same place as Tinker Bell.
Neverland, where children never age, and all it takes to keep you alive is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie dust.
“Nothing,” I say, keeping my face as blank as my voice. “Now why don’t you tell me where I’m supposed to meet that son of a bitch so I can get it over with.”
Reynard opens a drawer in the Louis XVI cabinet and removes a black velvet bag. Into it he carefully deposits the necklace. Then he draws the bag closed, puts it back into the cabinet, and lifts his gaze to mine.
“He’s staying at the Palace. And please, Mariana. Be careful. He’s in a strange mood.”
“When isn’t he?” I mutter.
“You’ll need these.” Reynard opens a different drawer. Another black velvet bag appears, this one much smaller than the first. From inside comes the soft chink of metal sliding against metal as he carries it over to me and places it in my outstretched hand.
I open the bag and peer inside, then look at Reynard with my brows pulled together. “I only need one to get past the doorman.”
Reynard’s pause could mean anything. It’s short but weighty, and tells me he’s carefully considering his words. “You never know what you’re going to need when you’re in the Palace, my darling. Better safe than sorry.”
Those words echo in my ears long after I’ve had my tea and left.
* * *
From the outside, the Palace looks like a dump. It’s an abandoned, decaying textile mill in a dodgy part of town, near the docks, a block or two away from a large homeless encampment. Tourists don’t come around here. Neither do the police, who are paid handsomely to turn a blind eye.
The cabbie thinks I’ve given him the wrong address.
“Nuttin’ here but trouble, miss,” he says in a thick Cockney accent, peering through his window at the ten-story building outside.
It looks deserted. All the windows are blacked out. Old newspapers and the odd bit of trash decorate the sidewalk. A skinny orange tabby cat slinks around a corner, catches sight of the cab idling at the curb, and darts back out of sight.
“No, this is it. Thank you.” I hand him a fifty-pound note through the opening in the plastic screen that divides us and get out of the cab.
He doesn’t even offer me change before he drives off, tires squealing.
“Sissy,” I mutter, flipping up the collar of my coat to ward off the chill of the evening.
It doesn’t help.
I walk down a dark alley on the side of the building until I reach an unmarked door. The reek of the Dumpsters nearby is overwhelming. I rap my knuckles on the cold metal to the tune of “Shave and a Haircut,” shivering as an icy wind whips around my bare ankles.
A small window in the center of the door slides open with a clack. An eyeball peers out at me. Then a deep male voice grunts, “Piss off.”
“New England clam chowder,” I say.
The eyeball gives me a searing once-over.
From my pocket I remove a silver coin and hold it up so the eyeball can see it. “Open sesame, amigo. It’s freezing out here.”
The eyeball disappears as the window slams shut. The quiet of the alley is broken by the scrape of the door opening and the doorman’s greeting, friendlier now that he’s heard the password and seen the coin.
“Evenin’.”
He holds out his hand. It’s the size of a dinner plate. Into his palm I set the piece of stamped silver. He nods and steps back, allowing me to pass.
I walk down a short corridor lit by a single bare bulb hanging from a wire on the ceiling. A freight elevator awaits at the end, its doors gaping open. I step inside and press a button marked “Limbo.”
After a short ride, the doors open again to what appears to be the lobby of a posh hotel.
The Palace is a posh hotel. And bar, nightclub, neutral meeting space—even safe house if needed—all designed for a particular clientele.
A spectacularly beautiful redhead in a tailored ivory suit smiles at me from behind a marble counter to my left. Her fiery hair is gathered into a low chignon. Her skin is milk white. A gold placard on the counter reads “Concierge.”
When I approach her counter, she smiles wider. “Dragonfly. How wonderful to see you again.”
“Hello, Genevieve.”
She notices I’m not carrying luggage. “I take it you’re not staying with us long?”
“No. Do you have any messages for me?”
“One moment, please.”
Her fingers move quickly over a keyboard as she glances at the computer screen tucked below the counter. “Yes. Mr. Moreno requests you join him on the seventh floor when you arrive.”
Our gazes meet. Genevieve’s pleasant smile doesn’t waver. If she feels any pity at all for me at being summoned to the seventh floor by the head of the European crime syndicate, she doesn’t reveal it.
“Thank you, Genevieve.”
“You’re welcome. Please let me know if I may be of any service during your stay.”
Translation: If you require unregistered weapons, forged identity papers, armed escorts, or emergency disposal of dead bodies, I’m your girl.
We nod at each other in farewell. I quickly cross the lobby, noting several familiar faces. People are checking in and out, relaxing on sofas and reading newspapers, strolling around with drinks in their hands. Exactly like people do in a normal hotel lobby.
But this is no normal hotel, which I’m irrefutably reminded of as I enter the main elevators and look at the row of buttons on the panel on the wall. The floors aren’t numbered. Inspired by Dante’s Inferno, each of the nine floors in the Palace is named after one of the circles of hell.
I hit the button marked “Violence” and shiver as the elevator doors slide silently shut.
Eleven
Mariana
The elevator dings. The doors slide open. I’m greeted by the sight of two men, naked from the waist up, beating each other bloody with bare fists in the middle of an open ring, with boundaries marked by a square of silver coins on the burgundy carpet.
Burgundy. Good for concealing bloodstains.
I steel myself against the revulsion that twists my stomach.
A barrel-chested man with no neck, a crooked nose, and a mouthful of disheveled teeth stands to the right of the doors. The only thing remotely attractive about him is his suit, a bespoke pinstripe Brioni with a midnight-blue tie and matching silk pocket square.
“Dragonfly.” His voice is a rocky rumble, heavy with the mark of southern Italy.
“Enzo. You’re looking well.”
He chuckles. Somehow it sounds just as
Sicilian as his accent. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, bambolina. It’s no good for your health.”
His gaze drifts over my figure, lingering on the hint of cleavage the collar of my coat doesn’t manage to conceal. I curse myself for leaving my scarf at Reynard’s.
Enzo murmurs something lewd in Italian, licking his lips.
Aggravated, I respond in Italian that his mother would smack him to hear him talking like that.
“Ya,” he says, nodding. “But she’s dead, so she don’t hear nothing no more except the munching of worms. Capo’s waiting on you.”
So much for the pleasant chitchat.
Enzo turns, expecting me to follow because he knows I always do. I walk behind him as he leads me around the fighting men to a sitting area on the other side of the room.
The walls are painted black. The room is dim, smoky, and smells like sweat. Incongruent to everything, the gorgeous resonance of a pure, perfect soprano singing an aria from Puccini’s Madama Butterfly plays on invisible speakers.
Trying to ignore the grunts of pain that punctuate the opera as blows are landed, I keep my gaze averted from the pair of bloody fighters and focus on the irregular mole on the back of Enzo’s bald head.
But I’ve already seen enough.
Judging by the bruising on their bodies and how both men are panting and swaying on their feet, the fight has been going on for some time. Won’t be long before one of them will collect his coins and the other is dragged out by his heels and disposed of.
Losers in one of Capo’s fights don’t leave the building breathing.
The sitting area is raised on a dais, flanked by a pair of floor lamps, wide enough to hold a long leather sofa and a few club chairs on either end. Six men in suits stand discreetly in the shadows at the rear, three on either side, hands clasped at their waists, faces impassive.
Capo’s soldiers. Made men.
Assassins.
A glass coffee table in front of the sofa holds a magnum of champagne on ice and two empty crystal champagne flutes. The sofa itself holds two very young, nude girls—leashed with leather collars—and one large, dead-eyed man.
Wicked Intentions: The Wicked Games Series, Book 3 Page 9