by Mara McQueen
They started slow. A few steps forward, a few steps back. With each one, her face turned redder and redder and she refused to meet his eyes, gaze glued to the sliver of skin peeking from underneath his unbuttoned collar.
Such a simple thing. A mere glance, and furtive at that. But Enzo felt himself heating up all the same.
Because Patrice, this dangerous, world-renowned poison expert, whose name slashed fear wherever she went, was trying her darndest not to be attracted to him.
She leaned into his touch, but when she caught herself, she scowled. Her left hand kept sliding up his shoulder, as if her fingers wanted to glide across his neck, but she always lost her nerve and slid it right back down with a small sigh.
The blush. The way she almost vibrated in his embrace. How she closed her eyes whenever his breath snaked across her forehead.
The way she giggled when he twirled them unexpectedly, then shook her head, as if chastising herself.
Why didn't she want to let go? Lose control?
Dozens upon dozens of women had propositioned Enzo, in the most seductive and depraved ways, and yet, Patrice trying so very hard not to be mesmerized by this one dance was somehow hotter than all those sweaty, loud, frenzied nights he'd indulged in.
Patrice was so innocent. How much fun the two of them could have. Enzo could show her things that could make her blush down to her toes if only she'd let him. Which begged the question—why didn't she want to want him?
They were getting married. They couldn't find comfort or ecstasy in anyone else's arms. This was it for them.
Why was she so against desiring him?
"You've never done this before," he whispered before he could catch himself.
"Dance at thirty-thousand feet? No." She took a deep, centering breath and finally met his eyes. "But I have a feeling you've done this way too many times."
Enzo kept on twirling them between the leather chairs, careful not to step on the cat, who'd had enough of being ignored and wanted to join in on the fun.
"I can honestly say I've never done this." But he liked that he'd done it with her.
His plane wasn't some—what did she call his house last night? Den of debauchery? He didn't have parties or company while he was flying.
The jet was a means to an end; how he got from one mission to another. He was either tired or scheming, never entertaining while up in the air. He needed his alone time. He valued it.
But he liked having Patrice with him now. Interesting.
"Since we're being oh-so-honest, can I ask you something?" Patrice said. She was still looking into his eyes, fingers digging into his shoulder. "Why did you steal that key from Darryl last night?"
It was a good thing Enzo had become a master of bottling up his emotions. Otherwise, he might've done something stupid and revealing, like missing a step.
Of course she knew who that louse was—Brotherhood Elite through and through, this one—but how did she notice Enzo stealing that key?
He needed to be careful around Patrice.
"Are you calling me a thief?" he said as charmingly as he could, lowering his voice. Her blush deepened and he loved it.
"I'm calling you an opportunist. What's the key for?"
Damn it. "A lockbox with some very interesting pictures." Not a total lie, but definitely not the truth. "Darryl 'borrowed' the photos from me, I 'borrowed' the key to get them back."
Patrice tilted her head to the side, assessing Enzo. He could feel himself heating up. This woman got under his skin in the best and worst ways.
"So you spend your days jetting off from one party to another, but somehow managed to become an expert pick-pocketer in the meantime? And one of the most feared and respected men in the Underworld? I asked around, you know—"
Of course she had. She seemed like the kind who prepared for anything, even an arranged marriage.
"—some very dangerous people spoke very highly of you. They've killed more people than I can count, important ones, too, but they'd never cross you. A lot of things don't add up." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Who are you?"
That, he could never tell her. "I'm your future husband."
Chapter Five
PATRICE
"You've got to be kidding me," Patrice whispered, staring at the insane entryway Enzo had actually suggested they walk through.
It was flanked by two huge Gothic columns, each with a menacing-looking gargoyle on top. Here, in the heart of Paris.
A burly guard stood out in front, checking golden invitations and patting everyone down for weapons. So it was that kind of party. Where dangerous people had to be checked for guns and daggers.
Not that Patrice could identify any of the guests. They all had intricate masks on, similar to the ones she and Enzo were wearing. His was silver and deep blue—Syndicate colors—and he'd given her one with golden swirls on the sides, which wrapped around her eyes and forehead, disappearing into her hair.
It was gorgeous. But it made her antsy. Masked parties were always trouble.
"What is this place?" she asked as they advanced in the quickly diminishing line.
Everyone wore furs that didn't seem all that faux and dripped in diamonds and emeralds. Patrice had exactly one piece of jewelry on her, which happened to be her weapon of choice for tonight—her pendant.
She usually relied on Duchess, her crossbow, and her darts to get the job done, but tonight was supposed to be just a fancy, safe party—right?
"It's a centuries-old surprise," Enzo said with a deep laugh.
Patrice gulped. Ever since the whole dancing in the private jet incident, she'd become even more aware of him. How deep his voice got when he spoke to her. That decadent cologne of his, a mix of anise and bergamot that made her mouth water whenever she got a whiff of it. The way he was looking down at her now, a smile on his gorgeous face and in his eyes.
He was a charming devil and Patrice should be careful around him. Wouldn't want doing anything as stupid as falling for him.
He might have been her fiancé, but he was also the Syndicate princeling, sworn enemy, and a man who lived a careless, chaotic life.
The two of them would never fit. Patrice needed order. Security. Clear goals in her life. She didn't want to be jetting off from country to country for lavish parties for the rest of her life. And if she did, she'd better have a target to kill once she got there, or what was the point?
"Your invitations," the guard said once they got to the front of the line.
As Enzo took out a crimson envelope, which looked a bit stuffier than the ones the other guests had, and handed it to the guard, Patrice stared beyond the dark entrance. She couldn't see anything other than a long, dimly-lit corridor. A strong musty scent wafted through. But it wasn't as strong as the sandalwood cologne the dude with the black mask and the mighty mustache had apparently bathed in tonight. He was right behind them, too.
The guard patted Patrice and Enzo down and waved them through. "Enjoy your evening, Mr. Caputo."
"I'm sure we will," Enzo said pleasantly and guided Patrice down the corridor.
They stopped right in front of an alcove lined with hangers dripping in expensive jackets.
"Your coat, darling," he said to her, as if they'd already been married for years.
Patrice took a deep, steadying breath and began to unbutton her white wool coat, the fanciest she owned.
She hadn't exactly had time to get ready for tonight. Once they'd gotten off the plane, it had been a rush to drive to the apartment, located on a sleepy, elegant Parisian street that looked like it had come to life from a magazine. Patrice hadn't even gotten a chance to properly gawk at her chic bedroom, all white and cream and pastels, before she'd taken the shortest shower of her life—on the colder side, too, because she'd definitely needed one after the long hours by Enzo's side—and slipped into the one bougie dress she owned. It was red—Brotherhood all the way, baby—and slinky and felt too tight, but had looked just right in the mirror.
> But would it look like that now, with these dingy lights and Patrice's nerves all over the place?
She took off her coat and handed it to Enzo, without meeting his eyes. He didn't move.
Patrice finally looked up at him. "Something wrong?"
He shook his head, as if coming out of a reverie. "You look stunning."
Damn this man. Couldn't he go half an hour without making Patrice blush?
"Thank you." She cleared her throat. "You do, too."
Coat carefully hung in the alcove, Enzo placed his right hand on her lower back, guiding them deeper into the darkness. A deep, eerie song vibrated through the stone walls. They looked like they'd been carved centuries ago.
The further they advanced, the louder the music became, peppered with soft laughter and the sound of clinking glasses.
Patrice's nerves mixed in with a hint of excitement. Okay, a lot of excitement. This felt secretive and forbidden. Stepping into another world, right alongside Enzo.
As they rounded the corner, it was her turn to freeze.
"What in the…" She kept staring around them, but she still couldn't believe it. "The party is inside the Parisian catacombs?"
Good Lord. She'd only read about the famed underground labyrinth, which snaked throughout the city. It had many entrances, and even more secret corridors, waiting to be discovered. Interesting, in an old-world way—if one ignored the rows upon rows of carefully arranged skeletons.
Everywhere Patrice looked, there were walls and walls of skulls and bones. All perfectly lined, all illuminated, all very, very old, and very, very morbid.
The party-goers didn't seem to care, though.
They wandered around the columns of bones and skulls, drinking from their tall glasses and swaying to the music.
"I can't believe it." She let out a surprised laugh. "I thought it was an insane rumor, but it's true."
"She believes in the Phantom, but she doesn't believe in catacomb parties," Enzo said with a dramatic sigh. "Come now, even civilians do things like these."
"Not the civilians I know." Who were few and far between. After Patrice had joined the Brotherhood, she'd cut the few ties she had. Acquaintances, mostly. People from school, casual friends she'd meet up with for study groups and the occasional concert. It wasn't hard to distance herself. Her parents had had her when they'd already passed the prime of their lives and had died shortly after. They'd been nice, law-abiding people who wouldn't have been particularly happy with Patrice's current line of work. She was supposed to become a pharmacist, in their eyes. And, honestly, wasn't she still a pharmacist, in some twisted way?
She still mixed ingredients, but they were made for killing, not saving. Though her toxins had saved countless lives in the long run—she never left home without her antidote bag, which had saved Mason's life after that laced bullet.
Sometimes, some people had to die for more to live, and Patrice wasn't going to apologize for any of the corrupt, cruel lives she'd taken.
"We need to broaden your horizons," Enzo bent down, whispering so close to her ear, Patrice got goosebumps.
"You're a charming devil, aren't you?" she mumbled.
"You think I'm charming, do you?"
"Yes," she said, barely managing not to blush. Not that it would've mattered; the lights were so gloomy and low, nobody would've noticed her cheeks. Patrice was a horrible liar. "And a devil."
"I only focus on one compliment at a time." He sent her a wicked smile and took her hand in his. "Come on, your surprise awaits."
Her fingers tingled in his large palm. Such a simple touch, but it made her heart flutter all the same.
"So the piles upon piles of human bones weren't my surprise?"
"We can call them a bonus."
Hand-in-hand, they made their way through the labyrinth. Some corridors were so narrow, Patrice had to glue herself to Enzo's side to avoid touching a skull or a thigh bone.
The other guests mingled and danced, some fascinated by the morbid decor, some more interested in whatever transparent alcohol they were gulping down.
It was unnerving, to walk these corridors, surrounded by remnants of death and luxury. But Patrice knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime event. Most people never delved into this eerie, gaudy side of the world. She had, by Enzo's side.
"This can't be legal," she said.
"God, no." Enzo laughed. "If it were, it would have to be regulated with rules and inspections and all that civilian mess. Where's the fun in that?
They walked into a high-ceilinged space, more cavern than room. No skulls or bones here. Centuries-old manuscripts lay open behind illuminated glass panels, put on display.
"Some local officials are thinking about opening the catacombs to the general public and profiting off the entry fees. Sort of a creepy museum. Since one might get bored of looking at skeletons for three hours, they've brought in some distractions." He nodded at a thick, open book that looked like it had seen more wars than Patrice could count. "I think you might like that one."
"I do like museums." They were quiet, beautiful, and put secrets out on display for all to see.
Patrice approached the dusty tome carefully. It smelled like musty chamomille and dust, and its yellow, frail pages were held together by a leather cover trimmed with gold.
She gasped when she saw the pages it was opened on. She'd recognize that scraggly writing and the grey drawings anywhere. She'd spent hours looking at pictures of it back when she didn't even know Clans existed.
Her fingers gingerly touched the glass holding the book captive. "Is this…?"
Enzo stopped behind her; his hot breath tickled her ear. "It is."
One of Boyle's famed works. One of the first modern chemists in the world had poured his thoughts and discoveries onto these pages, and there was nothing but a sheet of glass separating them from Patrice's shaky fingers; one famed chemist's words to a secret chemist's thrilled gaze.
An innocent smile, like the ones she had before she'd decided to join the Underworld instead of being one of its ignorant pawns, bloomed on her face.
"Thank you," she whispered, eyes flying to Enzo's. "This is really awesome."
Who would have thought the perpetual party-boy would have cared about making her night just that little more special? And he'd paid attention, too. A chemist's book wasn't everyone's first choice to spice up an evening.
The air crackled around them the longer they stared into each other's eyes. A tension rose between them. Patrice didn't mind it, not one bit.
But the song changed to an even grimmer, louder one, and the spell was broken.
Their gazes ran to opposite corners of the room.
"You're very welcome," Enzo said, clearing his throat. "I'd planned on unlocking the case and letting you have your wicked academic ways with it, but the pages are one hard breath away from crumbling. Wouldn't want anyone knowing we were here, would we? But maybe I can get my hands on The Sceptical Chymist one of these days. A nice wedding present."
Patrice's surprised gaze flew to his face. "How do you know about The Sceptical Chymist?"
Enzo shrugged. "I went to very expensive schools, courtesy of uncle Victor."
Bullshit. That tome was Boyle's most famous work. One of the most renowned chemistry books ever. But people who didn't spend their days mixing ingredients or studying old texts didn't care all that much about it.
"Did you study chemistry?"
"Lord, no." He laughed. "It takes a more organized mind than mine for that. My chemistry expertise begins and ends with mixing cocktails."
Patrice narrowed her eyes. He was lying. And what was that about stealing centuries-old books?
"Enzo, mon cheri," a soft, elegant voice filled the room.
A fabulous woman, draped in rubies and golden silk, enveloped Enzo in a hug that was just on the brink of friendly and whispering-something-seductive-in-his-ear.
Patrice gritted her teeth. She was standing right bloody there. Something deep and sinister
roared inside her.
"Where have you been? I haven't seen you since that night in Cannes." Even the woman's laughter sounded crystalline.
Enzo patted the woman on the back and pushed her away politely.
The beast inside Patrice quieted back down, but it still grumbled. Where had that come from?
"Veronica," Enzo said with a dazzling smile. "Allow me to introduce you to Patrice. My fiancée."
Veronica turned with surprise in her green eyes. She had her golden mask pushed up her forehead. Patrice would have done that, too, if she'd been as breathtakingly gorgeous as this woman.
She was bony where Patrice was plump. Fabulous where Patrice was just faking it.
"A pleasure to meet you," Veronica said, and Patrice didn't detect any venom in her voice. Was this woman nice, too, on top of everything else the universe had given her? It made hating her impossible. "It's good to know Enzo has finally found his match."
"Yes, a match made in hell," Patrice said with a half-laugh.
She couldn't even kid herself. Enzo was, well, Enzo, and Patrice would keep on being Patrice for the rest of her life without remorse. She wasn't changing herself for any man, future husband or not.
"If you're staying in Paris for more than one night, I'd love to have coffee with you," Veronica went on; she sounded sincere, too. "You have to tell me the secret to snaring this devil when so many of us have failed."
"I tackled him and sent him into a temporary coma with a sleeping draught," Patrice deadpanned.
Veronica's eyes widened. So definitely not Clan.
Patrice never tired of startling people with the truth—or them trying to reason it away.
Enzo locked eyes with her. They shared a small grin. At least they shared this secret.
"Oh, you're hilarious, too." Veronica laughed and nodded at Enzo. "You did good. I'll leave you two to your night. Send kisses to Rossi, I hear he's in town. And tell him he's not leaving until we go out dancing at least once. The man might be sixty, but he dances like he's twenty."
Enzo frowned. "He didn't mention being in Paris."
