When I slipped into Mathias’s suite, the TV was blaring, and he was in the bathroom. The shower was running, and I could hear water pulsing against the tiles.
I pushed a hand into my jacket pocket and my fingers curled around a small bag of pills.
The punishment met the crime, whenever I could manage it. Rapture X likely wouldn’t kill its maker, but it would send him on a hell of a trip while I finished the job. I set the bag down on the TV stand and checked my watch. I had twenty minutes before fashionably late turned into the event coordinators calling my secretary.
The bathroom door opened soundlessly. Steam rising from the hot running water filled the room and obscured my reflection in the large mirror. I could see the shadow of the man behind the cloth curtain. He was rubbing himself, soaping up, and singing softly. Why was it that monsters could be so disarmingly normal? It was as if the grand plan was to always have the wolf in sheep’s clothing so that danger could prey on the innocent in a grotesque circle of life.
Raising the gun, I took aim at stomach height. A gut wound would be slow; it would give me more time to work. More time to take revenge for the hundreds of people his drugs had maimed and murdered.
I pulled the trigger and watched as the man shouted and floundered in the tub, clawing at the curtain to stay upright. The TV sounds covered most of the thrashing and gasps for help.
Holstering the gun, I moved forward, gripping the shower curtain with both hands and gathering it up into a makeshift rope. I yanked it down, ripping the material from the clips, and I stared at the naked man writhing against the porcelain and clutching at his wound. He stared up at me, eyes wild. I leaned down and wrapped the curtain around his throat, twisting it tightly. And then I dragged him out of the tub, out of the bathroom, and into the suite where the pills waited.
“Let me go,” he sputtered. “Do you know who I am?”
“I know exactly who you are, Mr. Mathias. Or should I say I know what you are. A rich plastic surgeon. The Apothecary. Crafter of designer drugs. Killer of a bunch of hapless college kids. You don’t need the fucking money. You do it for pleasure.”
“I didn’t kill anybody!” He gurgled around the blood now pooling in his mouth.
I twisted the curtain harder, choking him until his face began to change colors.
“Your drugs kill people, Mr. Mathias. You knowingly test your compounds on unsuspecting people. You have your men tell them it’s just regular Molly. And you don’t give a shit if they die.”
“I’m not who you think I am,” he mumbled weakly.
I shoved him on his side and used the ends of the curtains to tie his hands together, and then I snagged the bag of pills before squatting down to wave the Rapture X in his face. “Do you know what this is?”
He shook his head ‘no’, but I could see the recognition in his eyes.
“Surely you recognize your handiwork. Look,” I moved the bag closer, showing him the tiny stamp of an apothecary vial with the letter ‘A’ in the middle.
He shook his head ‘no’ again.
“Well, you’re going to love it. Guaranteed. You’ll be up, down, fucking sideways and then you’ll feel so good that you never want the high to end.” I mimicked the sales pitch his guys had given the college kids. “And you’ll be happy to know it’s from your most recent batch. Only the fucking best for the boss.”
My last words renewed the man’s struggles. He knew the shit was tainted. Knew it in his bones.
Pulling my gun out again, I shoved the barrel into his mouth, forcing his lips apart and chipping his front teeth, so I could pour the entire contents of the pill bag down his throat. He sputtered and fought, swallowing though he tried not to.
“Take every fucking one,” I growled, pulling the gun out of his mouth and keeping it trained on his forehead as he continued to writhe and kick and try and push the Rapture X out of his mouth with his tongue.
“It’ll fucking kill me,” he gasped around the pills, his words garbled.
“If they don’t, I’ll be your goddamn reaper,” I promised, standing up and moving to lean against the TV stand and enjoy the show.
When his body stopped jerking and his eyes were glassy, lifeless pools, I placed the black rose into the small drug bag, and I stuffed my calling card into the bastard’s mouth.
5.
Juliette
“And what do you do?” A short man in a white suit and matching mask leaned toward me, too close for comfort. His cologne was expensive, but overapplied. The scent of it overwhelmed me and made my head start throbbing lightly. I took a step back, cradling the nearly finished cocktail like it was my last lifeline. An hour. I’d been here over an hour. As expected, it had been total hell.
“I’m in law enforcement.” I had to nearly shout to be heard.
“And I’m a lawyer. Look at that, meant to be.” He sidled closer, erasing the gap I’d put between us. His movement caused a fresh wave of overpriced toilet water smell to slam into my body. “Dance with me?”
A dark waltz pulsed from the speakers, so loud that it threatened to swallow the gala room that had been transformed into a lush masquerade ball that could rival the one I’d seen in a recent production of Phantom of the Opera.
Black chandeliers swung gently along the ceiling. They sent soft golden light spilling across the ornate coffered tiles above them. The floor was illuminated from within. I don’t know how they managed to make it blaze like liquid gold, but they had. It was like walking on a sea of precious metal.
“I don’t really dance!” I shouted again, shaking my head. Even if the guy hadn’t been completely odious, the thought terrified me. So far, I’d managed to stay upright in the heels. A few quick movements could change that though.
“Come on, just one dance!” He tried to snake his hand around my waist, and I stepped to the side as fast as I could, finally losing my balance and falling over. There was nothing I could do but watch the room tilt.
Until it stopped tilting and new strong arms wrapped around my body to keep me from tumbling further.
“Are you all right?” A deep husky voice breathed from behind me. This new man smelled good, woody and earthy and with just a hint of sweaty musk. Like he’d just come from the gym and stepped into a fancy gala without showering.
“Fine,” I clipped, allowing the man to help me regain my balance.
“Who’s this creep?” White suit man sidled forward, obviously not feeling at all regretful over nearly causing my fall by being handsy.
“This creep is her date.” The same deep voice growled.
“She didn’t say she was with anyone.” Finally, some hesitation.
Before my savior could keep playing my knight in shining armor, I took charge. “I shouldn’t have to say that I’m with someone to keep a random stranger from putting his hands on me.”
“Hey now, don’t start that ‘me too’ shit. Dressed like that... you’re clearly looking for some action.”
The man behind me started to move around me. I still hadn’t looked at him, but I could feel the shift in the air. I didn’t let other people fight my battles, not if I could help it. Giving myself room, I reared back my fist and slammed it forward into White Suit’s mouth. Blood spurted from his split lip seconds later, flecking across his chin.
“You bitch,” he scowled, “do you know who I am?”
“I’m guessing a rapist who hasn’t been caught yet,” I snarked, resisting the urge to shake my fist because it fucking hurt to hit someone. Professional fighters make it look easy. It was a good thing I had the mask on too, because I’d told this dick I was in law enforcement and now I’d assaulted him.
“I want your goddamn name. You’ll be out on your ass after I sue the shit out of whatever department you’re with. What are you? Secretary for the fucking NYPD?”
“Because a secretary is all a woman can be, right? Does that belief keep your tiny ego inflated?”
He ripped off his mask to reveal his face. “I’m a pa
rtner at Krum & Craning and you just made the biggest mistake of your goddamn life.”
Krum & Craning, while not the most fearsome name on its own, was known to be a vicious firm. Any case they took on, they won. One way or the other.
“Ah, Victor.” The man behind me came to life again, and this time I allowed him to move around me. Hitting the prick had been a mistake, and I didn’t want to lose my job over it. Because if K&C tried to sue the FBI, they’d serve me up on a silver platter as penance. And I’m sure this guy knew the Federal Tort Claims Act backwards and forwards.
“Who the fuck are you?” White Suit turned his attention to my rescuer.
“I think this has all gotten quite out of hand, don’t you?” He was in front of me now, deep voice commanding. He was a foot taller than me, at least, with shoulders so broad that he completely blocked my view of the lawyer. I watched from behind as his arm raised and he lifted his mask up enough to reveal his face.
Shifting to peer around his body, I caught a glimpse of White Suit.
Even in the dim lighting, I could see he’d gone white as a ghost.
“Can we let the matter go and get on with our pleasant evening, Victor?”
White Suit licked his wounded lip and nodded. “Yes, yes. Fine. I would never have approached her if I’d known she was with you.”
“Even if a woman is alone, perhaps you should think about being a gentleman.” The much larger man countered.
White Suit flicked a glance my way, scowling for a moment, before nodding and slinking off to the dance floor to weave between couples. He was retreating, tail between his legs. Who was this man in front of me?
His mask was back in place before he turned around, but even with half of his face obscured, I could see the strong jaw line and perfect cheek bones. A hint of rugged five o’clock shadow darkened his chin. He smiled, mouth opening to reveal rows of beautiful white teeth. But his eyes didn’t smile. They stayed fierce, trained on me like a predator. They looked black, pinpricks of white punctuating the surface. A gaze so dark that even with proper lighting I had a feeling they’d appear obsidian. And if they weren’t... I wondered what the soul behind the eyes looked like. Dark. Shadowed.
“Thank you for that.” I stared up at him through my mask.
“My pleasure.” He nodded. “I can see why he was insisting on a dance.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re goddamn stunning.”
I blushed despite myself. It wasn’t that I was a stranger to male attention, but I wasn’t used to being saved. I did the saving. The few times I tried dating in the past, the men hadn’t liked that I didn’t need their help. They wanted a woman who acted... like a woman. Whatever the fuck that meant. Maybe it was the kind of shit my mother used to do—have Dad open jars for her, wait for Dad to open doors for her, act soft and helpless so men would fall all over her trying to assist.
Maybe she’d be disappointed that I’d turned out the way I had. Here I was, surrounded by her sort of people, and I felt like I was on a different planet. All I wanted to do was jet back to Earth. Yes, this was her world. Not mine. It couldn’t be now.
“Did I trade one creep for another?” I snarked jokingly.
“Oh, I don’t dance.” He shook his head. “Not in public anyways.” He added huskily, his smile fading. “But a woman like you, I’m surprised you’re not dancing with every man here. Or a woman, whatever your preference.” He shrugged.
I stuck my leg out, the dress falling open from a surprisingly high slit and revealing my body from my ankle to the hint of lace panty. Even a glimpse of my ill-advised tattoo of roses, done in white and black ink, showed.
My eyes widened in surprise, but now I felt frozen and unsure of what to do. Act like I meant for that to happen or sheepishly lower my foot and say something awkward? I opted for the former.
“I don’t normally wear stilettos. Or heels of any height really. I’m not the most graceful in them, so I figured not dancing would be safer for everyone around me.”
“But you want to dance?” he asked gently, not closing the distance between us, yet somehow making it feel like we were having an intimate private chat despite the fundraiser ball pulsing loudly around us. I studied him, really studied him, looking past his half-hidden face to the tall frame and wide shoulders. To the hint of his own tattoos sneaking out over the collar of his expensive shirt.
“I love to dance,” I breathed out, the lie tasting unfamiliar on my tongue. I rarely lied. I demanded the truth from myself and those around me. But this man... I wanted to dance with him, even though I was shit at it on a good day and would likely be dangerous in these ankle-busting heels.
“You hate to dance,” he countered, now stepping closer. “I have a talent for sniffing out lies.”
“I’d love to dance with you.” I modified, this time my words holding only honesty.
Taking my hand, he led me to the dance floor. It was like Moses parting the seas, everyone moved out of our way to give the stranger wide berth. Maybe it was just my imagination.
When he faced me, I noticed for the first time that we coordinated. My slinky black dress against his black designer tux. Red silk tie against my red stilettos. Two black masks facing one another and waiting to reveal their secrets.
“We do look like we’re together. Black and red.” I reached forward and pressed my index finger gently to his tie, then trailed down it until I reached the V of the buttoned suit jacket. It was an almost absent-minded action. I did that sometimes, when lost in my own thoughts.
His hand covered mine suddenly and I looked up in surprise, blinking the world back into focus.
“I’m sorry. I just punched a guy over trying to touch me and then I basically do the same thing to you.” I tried to move away, every fiber of my body wanting to retreat like White Suit man.
But my knight in an Armani tux kept his hand pressed against mine, tethering me to him.
“I don’t dance in public. You can’t leave me on the dance floor.” His piercing eyes bore into my soul. I hated being told what to do, but something inside of me melted. I was always so strong.
Maybe I could take one night to be what my mother would want—weak, helpless, and loved by everyone.
6.
Romero
I’d come to the fundraiser with a singular goal. Kill The Apothecary.
If I could skip the crowd of fake do-gooders, I would in a heartbeat. But I’d committed to delivering the speech in my mother’s absence. And even though I’d avoided the front entrance fanfare outside of the building, reclusive billionaire Romero Montego coming out of hiding to give a very public speech about fighting crime was not a headline others would allow me to shirk. Balthasar had said as much when he’d told me the cleaners were on their way. They’d make the hotel room spotless, dump the body elsewhere, and I’d have the evidence of Gregory Mathias’s extracurricular activities anonymously sent to the NYPD and FBI.
Everything wrapped up in a perfect fucking bow.
Now, I stood in the shadow of oversized plants near the front entrance, delaying the inevitable.
Tonight had almost been too easy. Normally I didn’t go to the trouble of having a body moved, but this place was too public, and it was common knowledge that I was guest of honor. I didn’t like ends to be that damn loose. Not when I was calculated, careful. Not when I had infinite technology at my disposal.
I peeled off the 3D printed adhesive coverings from my fingertips and rolled them together into ball of unidentifiable clear putty before tossing them into one of the planters. I’d bought a lifetime’s worth off the dark web. They provided a print pattern different from my own. I knew better than to try and mutilate my own fingertips. Firstly, mine were in the system thanks to a joyride in my father’s Rolls at age thirteen and he’d made a point to have me arrested and booked. And secondly, fingertip mutilation rarely worked. Always found it funny how often criminals tried it maiming themselves but didn’t realize that the fingerprin
t ridges grow back eventually. Usually within a month. Hell, Dillinger went through fucking surgery, cutting away all the outer layers of skin and then treating the wounds with acid.
He’d still been gunned down in an alley, the edges of his prints recognizable.
If I ever was fingerprinted by the authorities, they’d only find the one juvenile transgression followed by a lifetime of private school, Ivy League College, legitimate business efforts, and charity work. Hell, I’d dismantled my father’s thriving under-the-table weapons trade. To most people in the city who knew anything about the dark underbelly of New York, Romero Montego was a fucking hero.
And they could run The Rose Killer’s prints over and over again, into infinity, and they’d never find a match in IAFIS.
“Barring faking my own death, I suppose I should get this over with,” I muttered to myself.
“You make fashionably late an art form,” Balthasar’s voice chided.
“Remember who pays your wage.”
“Remember who has treated your wounds for a lifetime!” he countered, his voice rising a few octaves. Which was about as authoritative as Balthasar ever got. Even when I was a child, he catered to my every whim and only disciplined when safety was a concern.
Moving out of the shadows and into the open, I shifted my mask up onto my forehead. It took mere seconds for someone to spot me.
“Oh, thank God. You made it!” A harried woman in a crisp blue skirt suit rushed over to me. “I’ve been calling your secretary but getting no answer. I was about to call Mrs. Montego.”
“I am a grown man, and you’d call my mother regarding my absence?” My voice was low, rough. For a moment, I forgot to coat myself in a guise of pleasantness.
“Manners,” Balthasar’s voice hummed softly.
I reached towards my ear, pretending to push my hair back, and removed the tiny bud to silence him. I slipped my hands into my pants pockets, a smooth graceful motion, and was free of Balthasar’s mothering.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m just under a lot of pressure and when you didn’t arrive on time—” The poor woman sputtered, sweat breaking out on her brow.
Her Villain: A Dark Bully Romance (Aqua Vitae Duet Book 1) Page 4
