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

by Mara McQueen

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "By the way, I have my own money and things. I don't want any of yours, so you need to stop worrying I'll...what? Take half of everything you have?"

  It finally clicked. Enzo had been saying a lot of my and mine since they got here, but he hadn't meant anything by it. He'd grown up with Toni; if he didn't clearly state something was his, his twin had had a nasty habit of taking it for herself.

  Now Enzo was the one stuck with a nasty habit. And it wasn't like he'd had to share anything, with anyone in his adult life.

  "This is absurd. I didn't mean anything by it. What's mine—"

  "Can be shoved straight up your ass." Patrice picked up her cat and sent one last disheartened look Enzo's way.

  Then she stuck her nose in the air and walked straight past him. Oscar hissed Enzo's way for good measure.

  "Don't leave like this," Enzo said. "Let's talk this out."

  "Talk?" Patrice scoffed. "I can't even look at you."

  With that, she stormed out, leaving Enzo alone. His long sigh filled the room.

  He'd messed up. Big time.

  Chapter Nineteen

  PATRICE

  "I should've poisoned him when I had the chance." Back when Patrice's heart didn't tremble at the mere idea.

  She held on tight to Mr. Oscar as she stormed out of the house, past the rose bushes, and straight toward the back of the massive garden, where she hadn't ventured yet.

  "Who does that son of a bitch think he is, cutting off my conversation, suspecting me of ratting him out?" she fumed, stomping between the perfectly trimmed rows of petunias.

  "If I would've wanted to reveal his grand scheme, I would have as soon as I'd learned he's the fucking Phantom. I don't pussyfoot around."

  She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so insanely angry.

  No, wait. She did. When she'd found out she had to marry the current bane of her existence.

  But underneath the fury, all Patrice felt was an overwhelming sense of disappointment. Enzo had actually thought she'd betray him. After all those whispered embraces.

  "This man, I swear!" she erupted once she reached the garden's low outer fence, her yell carried by the wind.

  Mr. Oscar meowed his good-boy meow and rubbed his head against her chin. Patrice sighed. The only being she could talk to right now had whiskers.

  Or maybe not.

  "Are you alright, Miss?" Charles' voice startled her.

  He was kneeling next to a raspberry bush, hands covered in dirt, a few crinkly leaves stuck to his straw hat. Patrice hadn't pictured him without his suit—because, oh God, no—but this toned-down look fit him perfectly.

  "I'm...fine," Patrice said.

  "Yes, you do sound fine." Charles turned back to his raspberries, gently pruning the smallest bush in the row. "And you sounded even finer five minutes ago."

  Shit. "You heard us yelling?"

  "Miss, I think the seagulls flew away because of it."

  Patrice snorted a laugh, despite the anger.

  A butterfly flew next to her shoulder, heading straight for the wild field just outside the garden.

  Mr. Oscar instantly tensed, fur fluffing up. He was a hunter, through and through.

  He meowed and wiggled, trying to break free.

  "We do not eat butterflies, Oscar," she chastised. "Insects are on the brink of collapse."

  Mr. Oscar wriggled some more.

  Patrice wrestled with him until the butterfly was out of view, then placed him down on the ground gently. He bolted away as soon as his paws hit the ground.

  Great. Now not even her cat wanted to be around her.

  "It's none of my business," Charles began in that conversational tone of his that tried really hard to be polite, but always came out a bit snooty. "But I don't like hearing you and Master Enzo fighting."

  "You're right." Patrice crossed her hands in front of her chest, gaze jumping around the garden. Everything inside the fence was so neat, every plant in its own row. When did Charles have the time and patience for it? "It's none of your business."

  Charles shrugged and snipped off some more leaves. "My job is to make sure Master Enzo is alright. I like seeing him with you. He smiles more."

  Patrice pursed her lips. She smiled more around Enzo, too, but that wasn't the point.

  "And this is none of your business," Charles went on. "But he has every right to be suspicious."

  Patrice rolled her eyes. "Because I'm the fearsome Brotherhood Viper and I'm inevitably going to bite him when he least expects it?"

  "No. Because the first friend he had outside the Clan—some preppy douchebag he befriended at college—tried to blackmail him into stealing some corporate secrets. It was right when he'd become a Syndicate spy, he was still too trusting, that bastard had saved his life a year before. Long story. That time was rough for Master Enzo." Charles sighed. "Then again, the last day of that sorry sod's life was also rough. Master Enzo doesn't take kindly to betrayal. Or being told what to do."

  That didn't sound good. At all. It also didn't justify anything. "Just because someone else betrayed him doesn't mean I will."

  Charles shrugged. "A few weeks ago, you were the enemy. Can you honestly say you already trust Master Enzo implicitly?"

  No. Her heart, the biggest traitor of all, might've been quick to jump on the trusting bandwaggon, but Patrice's mind wasn't totally sold on the idea.

  "I don't like what happened today," she whispered, more to herself.

  But of course Charles heard. Ears like a hound, this one.

  "Sounds to me like the two of you need to have a nice long chat," he said. "I know I wouldn't want to live the rest of my days always suspecting my partner."

  Patrice sighed. He was right. Of course he was.

  Banter she could do in her sleep—and she'd had many dreams where she just argued, with anyone and anything that popped into her imagination.

  But talking? About feelings? That was hard for her.

  She couldn't let this fester, though. She had to talk to Enzo. But she was still so mad at him.

  The yacht's engine blared the silence away. Enzo was still leaving for the village? At sunset? With some nasty clouds in the distance? What if it got too dark and a storm came and—

  There she went again, being concerned for him. Her heart needed to pick a side and stick with it.

  Patrice let out a long sigh. She needed to take a shower and think things through.

  But first, she had to feed Mr. Oscar or he'd scratch at her bathroom door until he got his tuna. Or worse, open the door—her very smart cat had a knack for trouble—wander into the shower, then freak out when a drop of water landed on him. It had happened before.

  Patrice didn't need a scared cat and scratches all over her legs on top of everything else.

  She sighed again. This day had been shitty on too many levels.

  "After I'm done sprucing up the lilac trees, maybe you can join me for a cup of tea?" Charles asked, though he didn't seem all that thrilled about the idea.

  The man still hadn't warmed up to Patrice, but at least he was trying, in his way-too-polite way.

  "Thanks, but I'm going to let you enjoy tea time in peace," she said, already walking toward the fence. It was going to be a bitch finding Mr. Oscar in that field of wild bushes. "Hey, since you're so into gardening, I think you and Bruce will have a lot of things to talk about."

  Bruce, Axton's mansion guard, also had a thing for plants. He was stoic. He and Charles would get along great—and it could be a start to the truce between Patrice and Charles.

  He pursed his lips. "Is this Bruce part of the Brotherhood Clan, by any chance?"

  Patrice nodded.

  "Then perhaps not," Charles said, then hesitated as he watched Patrice pass the fence. "Careful out there. Those dreadful weeds have some nasty thorns. They'll take over the island soon if we're not careful."

  See? He was trying for a truce, too.

  "Why,
Charles, I didn't know you cared," she called back.

  "I care about Master Enzo and he wouldn't want you getting hurt."

  Ah, well. At least Charles was loyal and honest.

  He was also right. The scraggly bushes came up to Patrice's thighs, and had nasty thorns on their gnarly stems, each ending in a cluster of white flowers.

  Patrice had never seen such a plant before. She inhaled deeply. Huh. They didn't smell like much either, so no chance of identifying its scent. Just a general sweet fragrance that reminded her of honey.

  The bushes stretched all over the small hill, down toward the edges of the small Southern beach, which Enzo had warned her was a rocky nightmare with too much seaweed. So a sturdy, stubborn plant, too.

  Patrice's dress snagged on one of the thorns.

  "Oscar?" She whistled. "Come here."

  No response. Really. If he was still hunting down that poor butterfly, he was going to get grounded for a week.

  "I'm the one with the can opener, you know."

  She scanned the entire rocky hill, the breeze flowing through her hair. The bushes might've smelled like generic sweetness, but Patrice loved the scent of the island.

  So clean and salty. Very different from the fresh air back at her cabin, but so similar at the same time.

  It reminded her of her little lake back home. There was a quiet to nature that drew her in.

  But there was something other than sand and sea in the air this evening.

  Patrice wrinkled her nose.

  Blood.

  And it didn't smell human.

  "Oscar?" she called out, heart in her throat.

  Nose high in the air, she carefully weaved through the bushes as fast as she could.

  When she finally found Mr. Oscar, she gasped. Her cat was laying in the dirt, a thorn in his leg.

  He must've heard her running to him, because he lifted his little head and let out a weak, panicked meow that broke Patrice's heart in two.

  "I'm here, I'm here." She gently cradled him in her arms. "Don't worry, I'll patch you—"

  No. It was impossible.

  But it was real and horrifying.

  The gash on Mr. Oscar's leg wasn't normal.

  The blood was turning green.

  It looked like it was boiling—just like Mason's had when he'd gotten shot with that poisoned bullet.

  A cold chill raced up her spine.

  This was it.

  This was the toxic plant she'd been trying to find for weeks and it had been right under her nose.

  On Enzo's island.

  Mr. Oscar went limp in Patrice's arms.

  "No, no, no," she whispered, struggling to run back to the house without touching the devil plant.

  She had her universal antidote in her lab. She could save Mr. Oscar. She had to.

  He was dying because of her. Because she hadn't seen the danger right in front of her.

  "Miss, are you okay?" Charles asked as she dashed through the garden, holding onto Mr. Oscar for dear life.

  "Fine," she called back, though she felt like roaring.

  Charles and Enzo couldn't know she'd discovered this secret. One or both of them could've been in on it.

  This wasn't a coincidence. The toxin from the wedding massacre coming from a plant that grew on a secret Syndicate island.

  On Enzo's island.

  She'd been a fool. A goddamn fool, falling for his lies and whispers.

  A small, small part of her mind was screaming at her not to jump to conclusions. To investigate the issue. That Enzo couldn't have known about this.

  But he knew everything.

  That break-in in Paris must've been a ruse. Patrice had thought Enzo had been playing the Runagates—maybe he had been playing Patrice, to make her think they wanted the same thing—solving the wedding mystery.

  He'd been playing her since day one, hadn't he?

  That's why he'd gone insane when he'd thought she was going to reveal the island's location. He might've charmed Patrice and twisted her mind, but couldn't pull that off with everyone in the Brotherhood Elite.

  Privacy, her ass. He didn't want the Brotherhood to know about that fucking plant.

  Disappointment gnawed at Patrice. It hurt. It hurt so damn much to think she'd been a pawn in Enzo's game.

  But she was a damn good player, too. She was the Viper. Lady of the Brotherhood.

  She never lost.

  As she shoved a pill down Mr. Oscar's throat and gently disinfected his wound, almost crying out in relief when his blood stopped boiling, she made a plan.

  It was cruel. It was vicious. It was what the Phantom deserved.

  Lorenzo Caputo would curse the day he met Patrice.

  Chapter Twenty

  ENZO

  He'd been an asshole. The biggest asshole.

  Enzo knew that. He'd known it as soon as the words had left his mouth.

  He'd been prepared for Patrice to yell. Scowl. Throw something in his general direction.

  But nothing could have prepared him for the hurt and disappointment in her eyes.

  Enzo never wanted her to look at him like that ever again.

  He'd been talking about how they needed to trust each other and be on the same team almost as soon as they'd met. Then what did he do?

  Turn around and not trust Patrice, that's what.

  But she hadn't promised him she wouldn't reveal his identity to her Clan. Never said the words.

  Enzo had thought he was okay with that. He obviously wasn't.

  But he'd messed up and now he had to fix it.

  Night had already fallen by the time he got back to the island. Nothing but the moon and the lights from the house and greenhouse lit his path. Even the stars were dimmer tonight, as if they were pissed off at him, too.

  He took a deep, centering breath and walked through the front door with all the confidence of a man who knew he had to sort things out for good.

  He and Patrice couldn't keep doing this. Questioning each other every step of the way. They were on the same team now, for the rest of their lives.

  He carefully set the box of beakers on the kitchen table. He'd gone after them just like he'd promised, as if that could erase the fact that he'd been such an asshole.

  But he didn't have a time machine—and didn't know literally anyone who did—so the past was settled.

  Now he had to fix the future.

  He put the gelato in the freezer. Chocolate, vanilla, and almond, the perfect combination.

  Weird. Charles usually had dinner going by now. Maybe he sensed Patrice's ire and was pretending he still had some work to do in the greenhouse.

  Enzo couldn't blame him.

  The house felt eerily silent. For a breath, his heart stuttered. Had Patrice left?

  No, she couldn't have. He'd had the yacht, and their argument couldn't have been that horrible—could it?

  He rushed through the house, adrenaline pumping. She wasn't in her room—but her things were, carefully arranged, as always. No sounds came from the cellar. She wasn't by the pool—

  If he hadn't felt the fury rolling off her, he would have missed her in the darkness of the living room. She stood by the window, draped in a long, blood-red silky robe. She had her back to him and didn't seem in a hurry to change that.

  She looked unflinching and unreachable. But Enzo spied a glass of wine in her hand.

  On that first day on the island, they'd said they'd only share a glass together. Maybe this was a subtle way of saying she wanted to talk.

  Only one way to find out.

  Enzo poured himself a glass of wine and came to stand next to her. She was already tense, but somehow clenched even more.

  Mr. Oscar was sleeping on a very plush pillow, nestled on the windowsill. But his little right leg was shaved, with fresh stitches all over it.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "A thorn," Patrice said from the tip of her lips. Those two measly words felt like lashes against Enzo's chest.

>   He had his work cut out for him. He'd promised Patrice that Oscar would be safe.

  "Didn't know we had thorns this big on the island." He raised his hand, wanting to pet the poor beast. "I promised you he was going to be okay here and he's not. I'm—"

  Patrice's hand slashed through the air, blocking Enzo's arm before he reached Mr. Oscar. "He's sleeping."

  She was beyond pissed with him.

  Enzo took three healthy gulps of wine, watching her from the rim of his glass.

  Her hair was pulled up in a stern bun, but it still caught the soft moonlight. She stared at her reflection in the window, not even blinking Enzo's way.

  She'd turned cold and unreachable. Enzo hated it. He hated that he'd caused it even more.

  "I'm sorry." No point in delaying the groveling. "I shouldn't have exploded like that and I definitely shouldn't have suspected you."

  Enzo had liked to think himself above the pettiness and uselessness of the Underworld's vitriol. He didn't care who belonged to which Clan as long as he could use them, their secrets, or their skills. But it was obvious that wasn't the truth.

  After a lifetime of thinking the Brotherhood was the enemy, some of those preconceptions had lingered in the back of his mind and had come out at the worst moment.

  Patrice remained silent. It cut Enzo more than any screaming ever could. She'd shut him out.

  "I promise that won't happen again," he went on, hearing the urgency in his voice. "I meant what I said. We're on the same team now."

  The ugly silence stretched on.

  Enzo could hear his heart beating against his eardrum.

  "It doesn't matter," Patrice finally said in that same icy voice.

  Doesn't matter? Doesn't. Matter?

  Enzo wasn't having that. If he had to grovel, he would, but he wasn't letting Patrice go.

  He raised his hand, wanting to grasp her shoulder. Feel like she wasn't slipping away from him.

  But he couldn't.

  He couldn't move. His arms were useless, his mind fuzzy.

  Horror finally struck. With the last of his strength, Enzo stared into his half-empty glass. Patrice had done something to the wine.