The Innocent: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance (The Syndicate's Revenge Book 3)

by Mara McQueen

  "Perhaps he likes me more than you," Veronica said with a coy smile over her shoulder and disappeared behind a column, snagging every stare around as she went.

  But not Enzo's. He kept his eyes on a spot right above Patrice's shoulder.

  She didn't know if she should be annoyed or impressed. Veronica seemed to live on her own terms and do whatever and whoever she wanted—and that had included Enzo at one point, judging from their little exchange.

  Then again, everyone had a past. Not as long as her future husband's, though.

  Patrice shook her head. It wasn't any of her business what Enzo had done before meeting her.

  "Who's Rossi?" Patrice asked to distract herself.

  The name sounded vaguely familiar.

  "Zio Rossi. The Syndicate's Consigliere. Or as you Brotherhood like to call him, the devil's right hand."

  Patrice narrowed her eyes. How did Enzo know what they called the goddamn son of a bitch who'd single-handedly ruined at least ten Brotherhood operations? Per year?

  Enzo might've guessed—or he might have friends in all the wrong places.

  "I thought Victor had only one remaining brother." Felix, the most spineless of the five Caputo brothers. The four of them had been a thorn in the Brotherhood's side since their father, the incomparable and frightening Baron Caputo, had died.

  Together, the Caputo brothers had ruled the North American territories. The Brotherhood still had an iron grip on most of Europe and Asia but, damn, they would've loved for their Clan's influence to finally cross the Atlantic.

  "Zio Rossi was grandpa Baron's youngest brother," Enzo said, checking his much too expensive watch.

  Did the man cum money or something? Where was he getting all these insanely expensive things?

  "I'm going to get us some refreshments," Enzo said a bit too loudly.

  The music was getting louder, but this man was the perfect embodiment of high society manners. What was he doing?

  "Bourbon with ginger and anise for the lady? Perhaps with a bit of cinnamon for extra bite?" he asked with that charming smile of his.

  "I—yes." Patrice stared at him. She wasn't that big of a drinker, but she liked her alcohol with some kick and spice. "How—"

  "Chemist, likes cold climates, and has a spitfire hidden underneath that cold, calculated facade." His eyes roamed over her. Patrice was a few heartbeats away from squirming. There was fire in his gaze. "I know liquor and I know women."

  With a wink, he turned. No longer under his gaze's spell, Patrice sobered up real fast.

  There was something very curious going on with her fiancé. Huh. The word suddenly didn't sound as strange in her mind.

  Party boys couldn't read people so fast, they definitely didn't care about chemistry books, didn't have deep intel on a rival Clan, and they absolutely didn't vanish in a small crowd in the blink of an eye.

  Where to, she had no idea. Did she even care? Should she? After all, they were nothing but strangers forced into each other's lives by circumstance, and she had a fantastic book to admire—

  Patrice went very, very still. There it was again. That godawful sandalwood cologne. And there he was, the man with the black mask.

  He strolled past her much too leisurely. He admired the books around them with too much interest.

  Patrice had been trained by the best assassins the Brotherhood had to offer. This man was putting on a show. And he was going in the same direction Enzo had wandered off to and trying really hard to be inconspicuous about it.

  Patrice's instincts blared.

  Everyone who was anyone in the Underworld had that feeling. When something just felt off. If you didn't listen to it, you could end up with a bullet in your forehead. Or worse.

  It was the same feeling which had saved Patrice's ass dozens of times during her missions.

  The feeling that had told her to jump out a window into the pool below two seconds before that corrupt senator's armed bodyguards had broken down the locked door—two seconds too late, because Patrice had already poisoned the asshole and stopped a military takeover.

  The same feeling which told her that man was going after Enzo.

  Patrice and Enzo were in this arranged marriage together. She wasn't going to let anything or anyone ruin the Brotherhood's chances of clearing its name and stopping a Clan war. Enzo getting hurt or killed, especially when she was close by, wouldn't help.

  And—God help her—charming devil or not, she didn't want anything to happen to him.

  With much more finesse and stealth than whoever that man was, Patrice went after him.

  Nobody interfered with the Viper's plans.

  Chapter Six

  PATRICE

  Thank God for this bloody music, Patrice thought as she rounded another dusty, grimy, crumbling corner.

  At least the skulls were few and far between here, outnumbered by jagged rocks and compacted dirt. The corridors were getting narrower and the blasted music was getting fainter the further she skulked.

  Where the hell was Enzo going and why was this man following him?

  Patrice had been following them both for a good fifteen minutes, keeping a safe distance behind the man, and timing her steps in tune with the creepy songs.

  Unfortunately, so was he. But Patrice was doing it in high heels, on uneven, rocky ground.

  She should've known Enzo was up to something. Question was what?

  Why was he wandering down these catacomb corridors, checking his watch every other minute?

  They'd gotten so far away from the party area that the lights scattered every few feet were nothing but flickering little pebbles.

  Patrice gritted her teeth and held on tighter to her pendant. She should've been back home in her cabin, sitting in front of the fire with Mr. Oscar purring in her lap, not skulking in the shadows.

  After this whole mess was done, Enzo was getting an earful. Two. Loud enough for all of Paris to hear.

  But first, she had to find out what the hell he was doing. He had to have a plan. A devious one. Nothing good happened in grimy corridors.

  For now, all she hoped was that the man trailing him wasn't armed. Patrice wasn't a fan of guns.

  Why didn't Enzo look back? At least once. They were obviously trespassing, shouldn't he be more concerned? He couldn't have been that oblivious.

  That Underworld instinct of hers roared back to life. Enzo was being too oblivious.

  What the hell was going on? It had to be some kind of Syndicate ploy. Was he trying to get Patrice in trouble, have the arranged marriage annulled somehow? Was this man his accomplice?

  The thought chilled her.

  She stifled a groan. Why couldn't Enzo Caputo be less infuriating? Or less complicated?

  Up ahead, Patrice could barely make out a larger room, with seven different corridors spreading out. The daft coming from some of them was just rank. She hoped Enzo wouldn't wander down one of those.

  Unfortunately, she didn't see which one he did dash into.

  Patrice's mouth hung open in surprise. She had been looking straight at him. Where had he disappeared?

  He'd moved so fast. Like a ghost.

  She inhaled sharply, her heart skipping a beat.

  No. Not like a ghost.

  Oh my God.

  Everything clicked in Patrice's mind, taking her breath away.

  She picked up her pace, shivers running down her spine.

  Luckily, the man wasn't nearly as quick—and even if he was, that stench of his was easy to follow.

  He walked like he hadn't seen where Enzo had disappeared either, but as if he knew where he'd been heading all along—a measly little door tucked on one side of the corridor.

  Enzo stood in front of it, rattling the rusty doorknob and cursing much too loudly.

  The man stopped a few good feet away from him, concealed in the shadows.

  Patrice kept her distance behind the corner, concerned gaze ping-ponging between the two.

  She didn't know what
business Enzo had with that door, but the man was clearly upset about it.

  The corridor smelled of danger. That eerie tension before someone did something stupid and a life was taken.

  The longer Enzo rattled the door, the more the man's shoulders tensed. He was almost vibrating with anticipation.

  He was going to do something stupid and Enzo had his back to him.

  Patrice held onto her necklace for dear life. Why, oh why, didn't she bring her poisoned darts with her? She could've hidden them in her hair like Axton's she-devil, Ella Caputo, had tried to do at that Brotherhood party recently.

  The man's right hand slowly drifted into his large coat pocket. Slowly. Much too slowly.

  Shit.

  Patrice wasn't going to let anyone kill Enzo before she'd gotten her answers out of him.

  She snapped into action.

  She tore off her mask in case the man recognized it, hid it in a dent in the wall, and mussed up her hair to look like she'd been pulling at the roots for hours. Using the back of her hand, she smeared what little eye make-up she had onto her cheeks.

  She let the clammy, cold air, the musty, choking scent, and uneven, jagged ground seep into her bones as she staggered forward, eyes wide and as frightened as she could get them while pissed off beyond belief.

  She was a bad liar, but a great actress when she had a job to do.

  "Oh, thank God!" she said in her most nasally, slurred voice.

  The sound echoed in the small corridor. Enzo stilled. The man's head snapped to hers.

  "Please." She ran forward, making sure to trip one or two times.

  She tilted her left shoulder down just enough so one of her dress straps fell. The man's eyes instantly snapped to it.

  Bingo.

  Patrice needed him good and distracted.

  "I'm so lost!" Patrice whimpered as she approached the man. "I've been trying to find my way back to the party for hours."

  Two feet away from him, Patrice "stumbled", arms reaching out for his lapels.

  Instinct took over. The man turned fully to her, his back toward Enzo, hands reaching out to steady her. Because she was so absolutely helpless, she needed him to stand upright, of course.

  Patrice would've felt sorry for playing him if he hadn't been a few seconds away from hurting Enzo.

  "This is no place for you," the man said, grip tightening painfully on Patrice's shoulders.

  Asshole.

  "I know, I know!" She sobbed; she didn't dare look back at Enzo, but from the corner of her eye, she saw him turn, taking off his tie with quick, precise movements. Anger radiated off him, filling the entire corridor. "My boyfriend brought me here, but he just left me and I—and I—"

  Patrice's right hand shot to her pendant, even as the sobs turned louder.

  "I don't know how to get back. Please, please, please help me." She locked eyes with the man's beady, narrowed gaze. God, his cologne was going to kill her. "My daddy's rich, he'll definitely thank you himself when we're—"

  Patrice raised her pendant in his face and pushed on the metal flower petals. She held her breath. A shot of the sleeping draught hit the man straight in the face.

  He let go of her, wobbling on the spot. But he didn't fall instantly like he was supposed to.

  Shit. His mask covered too much of his nose, not letting the gas through quickly enough.

  Patrice's draught was powerful, but it wasn't magical.

  With the last of his strength, the man's hand flew into his coat pocket again.

  He was going to shoot Patrice, wasn't he?

  Served her right for trying to help the Syndicate princeling.

  Patrice staggered back, for real this time.

  Before the man could take another haggard breath, Enzo appeared behind him. He noosed his tie around the man's neck and pulled.

  Patrice saw a glimmer of metal right next to the tie's inside seam. A concealed steel cord, meant for quick, unexpected killings.

  The man's eyes rolled into the back of his head, as his body convulsed. But no matter how hard the burly man flailed, Enzo didn't budge. He didn't even blink.

  All of a sudden, he was very frightening.

  "Don't kill him!" Patrice whisper-hissed.

  Enzo's eyes snapped to hers over the man's shoulder. He looked absolutely furious. He pulled on the tie and hidden cord tighter, until his knuckles turned lighter.

  "I'm not going to kill him," Enzo said eerily calm and controlled. "I still need him."

  A second later, the man's body dropped to the floor in a messy heap.

  The draught and cord had done their job. He was still breathing, but he was out cold.

  "That was quite a show," Enzo said in that low, menacing voice again.

  It slithered down Patrice's skin, igniting it.

  This wasn't the party boy she'd met. This was one of the most dangerous men in the world.

  "I could say the same for you." Patrice rose to her full height, squaring her shoulders. "Phantom."

  Chapter Seven

  ENZO

  Out of all the women in the Underworld, Enzo had to be paired up with the only one who could figure him out. In a couple of days, too.

  If Patrice had been Syndicate, it would've made more sense. Members in the Clan knew him, his own cousins had found out the truth a few years ago.

  But someone from the Brotherhood Elite knowing he was the Phantom? That could become, as Patrice had put it, real dangerous, real fast.

  "How?" he asked as he crouched down slowly, patting down the man at his feet.

  Patrice stuck her chin in the air and righted her dress strap. Enzo's eyes instantly snapped to her shoulder. He wanted to run his tongue all over it, up her delectable neck.

  "You were being too smart and cagey for your own good," she said. "You should've been drowning your liver in alcohol, not reading up on chemists and moving so fast my eyes couldn't keep up with you. Nobody knows what you do. You have too much money. Word travels fast in the Underworld, but nobody knows anything about you. The only other person who got away with that was the Phantom. Couldn't be a coincidence."

  She was right. He should've been even more obnoxious and get Patrice off his scent. But ever since they'd met, he had this weird instinct to impress her. He didn't want to just be the party boy around her, and now, he had to pay for that lapse in judgment.

  "You shouldn't have come after me," he said, voice low. "And you definitely shouldn't have attacked Jason."

  Enzo had noticed Patrice following him around the third corridor—which was impressive. He'd known Jason was skulking after him even before he'd left the party area—which had been the whole point all along.

  But he'd never imagined Patrice would attack the poor bastard.

  "He was going to shoot you," she hissed.

  Enzo raised her brows at her. "Concerned for my well-being, all of a sudden?"

  The thought was strangely comforting. Nobody went with him on missions. That would defeat the purpose of being a damn good spy.

  "Don't flatter yourself." She clenched her jaw. "I was worried everyone would blame the Brotherhood if you died on my watch."

  "I'm truly touched, but you shouldn't have worried." He took out Jason's gun—it was loaded with sleeping darts, just like Enzo had expected. "He was supposed to shoot one of these into my neck, drag me through that door, and tie me to a chair. Now I have to get in by myself, which will be a pain."

  Patrice's mouth hung open. "That's why you were being so loud."

  "Obviously." And why he'd stashed some money in the party invitation so that the guard said his name out loud. Wouldn't want Jason getting confused with all these masks. Enzo rose to his full height, towering over her. "And that's why I stole Darryl's key back at the party. Why I made sure the host knew I'd be here tonight. I knew Darryl would set Jason on my heels and save me some trouble."

  Enzo had been doing this for years. Stealing secrets—for the right price—and covering his tracks. It's why they called
him the Phantom. Impossible to catch. Apart from his family, nobody had figured out what that he flew from country to country for his missions. Until Patrice had come along.

  Veronica might have been right. Enzo had met his match.

  Patrice stared at him for the longest time. Then her eyes went wide with fury. "That's why you insisted I come tonight. You needed a cover."

  Enzo averted his gaze and nodded. He had done that. "I also made sure you had fun while I was getting shot."

  Patrice's nostrils flared. "That call at the party, when you were speaking French?"

  "I spotted you as soon as you stepped into the room." Enzo shrugged. "Talked to a local official to make sure the books would be down here tonight. I'd heard you're a museum fan, you like chemistry. Two birds with one very old book."

  He hadn't wanted her involved in this. He'd known tonight would be dangerous and that she wouldn't just stand by if she'd known what he wanted to do.

  He had told Patrice he had friends in all the right places. Underworld, Runagate, civilian. It didn't matter, as long as he could use their positions.

  Patrice fisted her hands, crossing her arms over her chest. She was trembling from the cold. "I'm sorry I intervened. You deserved to get knocked out by this—this—who is he?"

  "Jason Zbornik. Darryl's right hand man, high in the Runagate ranks." Enzo stared down at him. Poor sod, he'd just been doing his job.

  "Why are you involved with Runagates? What the hell are you doing?"

  Enzo took off his jacket and draped it over Patrice's shoulders. She looked like she wanted to throw it onto the grimy ground, but then thought better of it.

  Good. Enzo didn't want her catching a cold.

  "I'm trying to find out who killed uncle Victor and opened fire on my cousin's wedding." He tugged on the jacket, bringing her face so close to his, her breaths ghosted across his face. "Which is why nobody from your Clan can know who I really am."

  Patrice grimaced. "We've been looking for the Phantom for years. You think I can keep quiet about this?"

  "Yes," he said, voice leaving no room for argument. "Because if I find out who the real killer is, your Clan's name will be restored. We want the same thing."