by Snow, Nicole
“You're late, Bernard,” Cesare shouts as soon as I open my door.
I take my sweet time stepping out of the truck. Fucking bastard.
So, he's in bad cop mode tonight. That'll just make this easier. As a certifiable psychopath, one of his quirks is being obsessed with punching the clock. He's used to subordinates showing up early. He also throws an absolute shit-fit when he's late for anything.
That's what I'm hoping he'll do tonight, before the bombs go off. Whatever it takes to rattle his cage and throw him off.
“We’re right on schedule,” I say, stepping closer. “You’re the one who changed the time, remember?”
“I expected you to be here when I arrived. Waiting.” He blinks slowly, his brow furrowed.
He isn't much to look at. More like a twenty-something blue blooded kid trying to play start-up CEO in daddy's company. Polished skin, three hundred dollar hair cut, a faint, wispy goatee. He's in another suit, charcoal-grey tonight, a pair of familiar silver-toed boots completing his dark ensemble.
He'd be an imposing sight in his negotiations with other cartels and mafias. To me, he's a goddamn mannequin with a demon's spirit instead of a soul. Put on this planet for making me feel just enough raw hatred not to override caution.
But I'm not afraid. I'm not fooled. I'm damn sure not impressed.
I sidestep to the front of the truck and lean a hip against the chrome brush guard. “What's the hurry? I thought you and me would catch up,” I say bitterly.
“Turn him over. Now.” Cesare isn't amused. He waves a hand for one of his goons to get Harkness, who's hiding behind the passenger door he never shut.
Sneering away while his men move, Cesare says, “Careful you remember who signs your checks. You seem to think it’s the other way around, Bernard.”
“Checks? Right. Like you don't operate an all-cash business.” I shrug, even as my gut clenches.
His face goes darker. An icier silence than before creeps in.
That's...different.
The Cesare Lucient I'm used to dealing with should be barking threats right now. Reminding me how he can have me pistol-whipped or worse anytime, if I dare waste another precious minute of his time on sarcasm.
He’s clearly pissed, but it's not what I expect. I can’t believe it’s all because he's shown up a few minutes before us. The hair on my neck stands on end, this sixth sense telling me things aren't quite right.
My fingers stop just short of my pocket, where they're suddenly very unsure about touching the remotes. Fuck.
I glance around without moving my head, questioning what I might have missed. Nothing.
Nothing obvious. And that's the problem.
The remote fobs are in my pocket. Safe and sound.
He's got Harkness. Exactly what we both came here for.
I'm waiting for my money. And he's such a freak with his reputation, even in the criminal underworld, that he always pays promptly.
I close my eyes a second longer than I mean to. Wondering if I should just say 'fuck it' and set off the diversion now.
All I have to do is press a palm against my thigh, touch the button, and there'll be fireworks aplenty.
I shift my stance slightly, so my movements will be more hidden, but hold my ground as Cesare stomps forward, grabs Harkness from the two men holding him, and hurls him to the ground at my feet.
Is he shifting to violence, thinking it'll twist me up? He doesn’t scare me. Not even when he narrows his beady eyes on my face.
Then it happens. Insanity hits so fast and unexpected I don’t have time to think twice about the remotes or the unexploded charges in the distance.
The moment I see the gun in Cesare’s hand, I reach for mine, but he’s already fired. Hitting Harkness in the back of the head.
“Look nice and hard, Bernard. That's what happens when someone thinks they'll go behind my back,” Cesare says as Harkness’ body goes completely limp, blood streaming away from his face and soaking the dry ground. “Whatever game you’re playing just ended, Bernard.”
“What fucking game?” I ask. My hand is on my gun, but I don’t pull it.
Besides Cesare, both of his goons have guns trained on me. I’m not afraid. Only disappointed that I haven’t already killed this bastard.
“The one you’ve been playing with me ever since Jess ran off,” Cesare says, fixing his dark, narrow eyes on me. “I know you didn't just come here tonight to deliver a traitor and collect your cash. You came to kill me.”
Fuck. How could he possibly know what I had planned? I hadn't left any loose ends. Had I?
Oh, I'd planned to grab him, beat him, get my answers, and then drop him at the nearest place in Reno he'd be found, dead or alive. But I hadn't let on to anything, I swear.
My rage flares. Jess didn’t run off.
She was done in. I know it.
If there was a chance in hell she was still alive, she’d have gotten ahold of me. Would've known that I’d help her, no questions asked.
“What did this worm tell you?” Cesare asks, pressing the silver toe of his boot viciously into Harkness' limp side. “Didn't he warn you? Maybe not, I fear. If he'd spoken up, if he hadn't gotten himself into so much trouble, perhaps you'd have known better.”
I don't know what's going on. I'm not sure I care.
Time to end this. Consequences be damned. Wrapping my fingers tighter around the butt of my gun, I'm ready to pull it while picking out targets, where to hit all three of them before their bullets put me down.
Forehead. Throat. Chest. Knees.
“Don’t even think about pulling the gun,” Cesare says, glancing at my hand. “It’ll not only end you, but also that cute little brunette you were kissing so tenderly at your place this morning.”
Lucky? Shit.
My heart slams against my chest so hard my lungs lock up.
“You know who I’m talking about,” Cesare continues, a wicked smile turning his lips up like pitchforks. “The same lovely lady you were playing around with at the casino the other night, when you were supposed to snag Harkness for me.”
My insides slump into a molten ball of hellfire anger.
He did set me up that night.
How the hell did I let that happen? Or this?
“Let go of the gun,” Cesare says. “Show me both hands.”
Fuck. I have no choice but to release it and hold my hands out to my sides. Just like a prisoner.
“Now, that’s more like it.” His twisted smile stretches wider. “No little girl or her badass cousin will ever outsmart me, Bernard. You might as well face the facts and make peace with them. Then stop trying.”
“I never tried outsmarting you, Lucient,” I lie.
It's actually painful. Maybe because there's a hint of truth.
If I'd outsmarted him, this wouldn't have happened. When I ran through all the scenarios in my head, I never had one that left me disarmed, a dead guy at my feet, and a threat on my fake wife's life.
Should've known it wouldn't be easy, and he wouldn't keep his word. Not a single fucking promise. “Look, I did what you asked, didn't I? Brought you Harkness for info on Jess. You have Harkness, now I want to know what happened.”
“You two really were close, weren't you?” Cesare asks quietly, waving to one of his men. “More like a sister than a cousin. She mentioned it once. After I'd done things to her delicate body no man will ever do again.”
It's hell ignoring his grin. I can't decide if I'm looking at Lucient anymore or Lucifer. Just picturing my own flesh and blood, entangled with this monster...
“Careful how you look at me, Bernard,” he snaps, smile fading. “You ought not let yourself fill in too many blanks. That certainly wasn't my intention. A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell.”
His fucking tone is so ridiculous, so mocking, such unadulterated evil, I have to tighten my arms to keep them at my sides. They want to rip the lips off his face, the same mouth he uses to torment me, and which must've been al
l over Jess before he killed her.
I keep one eye on the goon walking toward the Escalade, and the other on Lucient.
Goddamn, I wish he was the one dead at my feet instead.
Harkness was a clueless little snake, but he hadn’t deserved this.
His death is my fault, too. That’s what Cesare's really trying to point out tonight.
Letting me know Lucky’s death will be on my hands, the very same way. Criminal logic.
I can't let this bastard get her now.
No fucking way.
I’ll die first.
And that can't and won't happen till he pays his dues for pulling her into this.
I have to stay alive tonight. Even if it involves lying to this demon's face one more time and letting him humiliate me.
I'm expecting more taunts, more sneers, more savage words meant to provoke. He'd love for me to lash out in a blind rage, take a swing at him. Then he'd pull out that switchblade with the gold handle, the one I've seen him playing with before, and drive it into my guts.
It's pure hell, knowing you've got to save your own life at all costs, when you know you don't deserve it.
I watch, leery, as Cesare nods for his man to drop the bag he’d gotten out of the SUV on the ground. “Open it.”
I don’t move. Don’t even peel my eyes off Lucient for a split second.
The crony obeys, and soon I'm looking at more cash than I've seen in my life.
“There's your payment for bringing me Harkness,” Cesare says. “You see, I’m a generous man when I get what I want. I'm forgiving. I'm able to move past these...trifling emotional squabbles for the sake of business. Let's put this behind us.”
I keep my eyes locked on him. I want to lie, I have to lie, but I can't.
“I don’t want your fucking money. Fuck you.” I spit in his direction.
“You’ll take it,” he says, his expression a dead mask. “And then you'll shut that filthy mouth of yours and wait for my next order. Your next assignment, Bernard, I'll expect your full cooperation. No more tantrums. Because it sure would be sad if that dear little kitten you were petting this morning comes up missing, wouldn’t it?” He doesn't move as the goon comes around to pick up the bag. “That would be tragic. You've known that pain once. I wonder if it's just as shocking the second time?”
I'm fucking disembodied. My mind, my soul, my whole consciousness has left my body. It's all I can do not to launch myself at him and start beating my head against his until they bury a bullet in my brain.
The wretch who’d retrieved the bag throws it in my truck and slams the passenger door that's been open since Harkness climbed out. The man lying dead at my feet.
A sign. A signal. An omen.
That’s what Harkness is. What he was.
Cesare’s way of letting me know I'm more than outgunned. I'm also clueless and out of choices.
He wants me to know that he’s in control. Completely.
My stomach churns. No good will come from more questions or cursing him up and down. I'm fighting the instinct to attack, to demand, to roar in his face, forcing him to cough up answers. They were supposed to be my payment. Not this damn blood money.
Harkness had been a trap. Mine.
Why hadn’t I seen it coming? What had I missed?
What am I still missing? There’s more behind all this. Much more.
But what? What do I have that he wants? That has to be it. He's playing me. Trying to squeeze another job out of me, for reasons I don't understand.
“Go home, Bernard,” Cesare says. “I’ll be in touch.”
Even though I want to unload on this bastard, I bite my tongue and swallow hard. It feels like I’m physically swallowing my pride. It’s the most bitter thing ever, so rough it almost makes me choke.
I turn anyway, walking to the driver’s door of my truck.
Once inside, I drop the shifter into reverse, back up, spin around, and drive away from this godforsaken place.
Fuck. It can’t get any worse. Can’t get more damaged.
Of course, I'm flat out wrong, and I know it.
It can get worse. Atrociously worse.
Lucient's threats against Lucky aren't idle ones. Not after he offed Harkness in front of me.
Snarling, I shove my foot on the gas pedal, whipping around the winding bends.
I have to get to her before he does.
I have to save her.
7
Playing Doctor (Mindy)
My throat is scorched. So are my eyes. And my heart just might beat right out of my chest.
What have I done? What the hell possessed me to do something so insane? To tell him?
Holy hell.
Why had I even answered my phone in the first place? I knew it was Charlie.
The phone said CHARLIE!
What part of don’t answer did I forget? I'd blame it on the brain-fog, but that's no excuse.
And what was Charlie doing calling me at one in the freaking morning? At four or five in the morning his time?
At least, I think that’s what time it is there. Who knows. Who cares?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping the pain and pressure will provide relief.
For what, exactly?
Telling Charlie I’ve found someone else? A better man?
Why the hell did I say that?
Throwing back the covers, I climb out of bed, and pain instantly rips up my leg. It's incredible how bad stubbing my toe on the leg of the bedside table jolts me to the bone. Damn it all!
Growling against the pain, half-hopping on one foot, I head for the bathroom, only to be stopped short by another noise.
Is that...someone knocking?
On the door?
Surely, not mine. Or Martha's technically.
Can’t be.
But it is. There's no mistaking the second wave of thuds, so heavy they nearly rattle the floor.
Someone's knocking on the apartment door in the dead of night.
Charlie hadn’t already called my mother, had he? Just kill me now if he did.
Then again, if he had, she couldn’t have gotten here this quick. It's almost a twelve hour drive up here from Phoenix in the best traffic.
The knocking sounds again. Faster and harder. Persistent.
“Hold on, I’m coming!” I say loudly, limping with the pain still tormenting my toe.
I practically yell it because I'm hoping someone else down the hall will hear. I might need backup if my unexpected visitor turns out to be a nightmare.
Halfway across the living room, a crazy thought of the building being on fire hits, and has me glancing down at the cami top I’m wearing. Just great.
That would be my luck. Evacuated in nothing but a silk cami and underwear. But I pause, just a second, long enough to see if I can hear the old alarms blasting in the halls. There's nothing.
Taking a brief second to pull the knitted afghan off the back of the sofa, I wrap it around my shoulders while half-limping, half-dragging my throbbing foot the rest of the way to the door.
I hold my breath, hoping it's something benign, one of the neighbors in the building maybe, and unlock the deadbolt, opening the door just a crack. “Who is it?”
“Your husband, Lucky. Open up!”
I’m hearing things. Have to be. Noah...here...again?
The way my heart races has me stuttering, “N-Noah?”
“Who else? Come on!”
I click on the light and pull open the door.
At the first sight of him, my heart leaps into my throat. How is it every time I lay eyes on him he’s more handsome than I remember? Somehow hotter. Sexier. Hercules lavished with modern tattoos and all the charm of the Olympian gods.
I chase those thoughts away, remembering it is after one in the morning. “What are you doing here?”
He steps in and closes the door.
His eyes are locked on me. Specifically, on the afghan that's slipped off my shoulder.
I
pull it up and pinch it tight beneath my chin. I have no idea why.
He’s seen me in less. But he barely remembers that, and neither do I.
“No, wait, hold up,” I say, pushing my hands against his chest as he moves forward. It's like trying to stop a freight train. “You're answering my question first, Noah. Why are you here at one in the morning?”
Mercifully, he stops moving. His eyes slide down my body like a slow-moving sunset, all the way to my dull-throbbing toe.
The pain is worse again. Or maybe it never got better. Maybe seeing him here, tonight, unannounced, does that to me.
A shiver ripples through me. Jesus, I told Charlie. About him. As if it was real.
Not a fake marriage. Or a fake boyfriend.
“Sure, Lucky. But first, you're gonna tell me why you're bleeding.”
I glance down. “Crap!”
The pain in my toe completely renews itself. I hadn't realized it was bad enough to break the skin.
Actually, it's worse. A long ribbon stripe runs up the whole side of my toe, rusty blood oozing.
Lifting up the foot, I start hopping back toward the bedroom and bathroom.
“Lucky?” he growls again, a strange urgency in his voice. A demand in his sparkling blue eyes.
“I just stubbed it when I climbed out of bed. Jeez. Let me grab a Band-Aid and I'll be good to go. It's not like I woke up with a tiger chewing on my foot, or whatever else you're thinking –”
Before I comprehend what’s happening, I'm hoisted off the floor.
Noah Hercules Bernard lifts me up like I can't walk. Carries me around like he's the one who owns the place.
This is officially nuts. But instinct puts one arm around his neck, holding on, even as I say, “Put me down, crazy! I can walk.”
“Yeah? So you can leave a blood trail? Good thing the throw rug by your door's brown.”
I flinch as I look down at the age-old carpet. Blue and brown, just like he said. “Ick. Thanks for pointing out how much it probably hides.”
His grin comes, unexpected and mind-blowing. “Anytime. Now, let's get you patched up.”
He finishes carrying me to the kitchen and sets me on the counter. I have no choice but to let go of him, which takes considerable thought, making my arms move.
