Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  “Good God. Spectacular. Come into the light, my darling.” Reynard waves me closer. He removes a pair of spectacles from a drawer in his desk and slides them onto his nose.

  “Since when do you wear glasses?”

  “Since I’m old, as you so charmingly pointed out. Turn left a little. There.” He examines the necklace without touching it. “Pity it’ll have to be dismantled. The craftsmanship is exquisite.”

  I lift a hand and touch my finger to the center stone, a flawless twenty-carat ruby. It’s heavy and cool against my skin. It is a pity the stones will have to be removed and sold separately, the gold setting melted down for scrap, but pieces like this inevitably are. It’s simply easier to find buyers.

  “Is that a love bite on your neck?” Reynard’s eyes narrow at the mark the American’s teeth left near my jugular.

  “Me not bein’ sweet is gonna leave marks.”

  I have to forcibly banish the memory of his face when he uttered those words. How his voice sounded, hot and rough with desire.

  “I should be so lucky,” I say breezily. “It’s a bruise. Trek through the jungle, remember?”

  “Hmm.”

  I can’t tell if he believes me or not, but in another moment, it doesn’t matter, because he says something that makes my entire body go cold.

  “Capo wants to see you. Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” I repeat, my voice high. “He’s in London?” My heart slams against my breastbone, sending my pulse flying.

  Reynard meets my panicked gaze. His voice is steady when he answers. “He flew in when he discovered you’d be here.”

  I flush with anger. “You mean when you told him I’d be here.”

  Reynard removes his glasses and places them into his coat pocket. He says gently, “We all have to sing for our supper, my darling. We live and die at his leisure. You know this.”

  Yes, I do know. But I’m still childishly wounded by Reynard’s betrayal. I look down, swallowing back tears.

  When I stare at the ground a little too long, Reynard takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look up.

  “I need to keep him thinking I’m loyal, Mariana.”

  I jerk my chin from his hand. “He knows you’re not loyal. Which is why we’re in this situation in the first place.”

  I unhook the clasp on the necklace with a practiced flick of my fingers. It slithers down my chest. I capture it in my hands, thrusting it at Reynard because I’m suddenly filled with disgust for it.

  At least he has the manners to look ashamed when he takes it from me. “I’m sorry, my darling—”

  “Don’t be. I knew what I was doing when I took the oath. And it was worth it, to keep you alive after everything you did for me. I’m just tired.”

  I find the nearest chair and sink into it, dragging my hands through my hair. He watches me silently, examining my face.

  Again I’m reminded of the American. He and Reynard have that same hard speculation in their gazes, the way of making you feel utterly exposed in spite of all your careful disguises.

  Stop thinking about him, Mari. Don’t waste time on foolish dreams. Exhaling heavily, I pass a hand over my eyes.

  Still holding the ruby necklace, Reynard says sharply, “What’s going on? You’re different tonight. What’s happened?”

  I lift my eyes and I lie again, because I have to, because the notion of honor among thieves exists in the same place as Tinker Bell.

  Neverland, where children never age, and all it takes to keep you alive is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie dust.

  “Nothing,” I say, keeping my face as blank as my voice. “Now why don’t you tell me where I’m supposed to meet that son of a bitch so I can get it over with.”

  Reynard opens a drawer in the Louis XVI cabinet and removes a black velvet bag. Into it he carefully deposits the necklace. Then he draws the bag closed, puts it back into the cabinet, and lifts his gaze to mine.

  “He’s staying at the Palace. And please, Mariana. Be careful. He’s in a strange mood.”

  “When isn’t he?” I mutter.

  “You’ll need these.” Reynard opens a different drawer. Another black velvet bag appears, this one much smaller than the first. From inside comes the soft chink of metal sliding against metal as he carries it over to me and places it in my outstretched hand.

  I open the bag and peer inside, then look at Reynard with my brows pulled together. “I only need one to get past the doorman.”

  Reynard’s pause could mean anything. It’s short but weighty, and tells me he’s carefully considering his words. “You never know what you’re going to need when you’re in the Palace, my darling. Better safe than sorry.”

  Those words echo in my ears long after I’ve had my tea and left.

  From the outside, the Palace looks like a dump. It’s an abandoned, decaying textile mill in a dodgy part of town, near the docks, a block or two away from a large homeless encampment. Tourists don’t come around here. Neither do the police, who are paid handsomely to turn a blind eye.

  The cabbie thinks I’ve given him the wrong address.

  “Nuttin’ here but trouble, miss,” he says in a thick Cockney accent, peering through his window at the ten-story building outside.

  It looks deserted. All the windows are blacked out. Old newspapers and the odd bit of trash decorate the sidewalk. A skinny orange tabby cat slinks around a corner, catches sight of the cab idling at the curb, and darts back out of sight.

  “No, this is it. Thank you.” I hand him a fifty-pound note through the opening in the plastic screen that divides us and get out of the cab.

  He doesn’t even offer me change before he drives off, tires squealing.

  “Sissy,” I mutter, flipping up the collar of my coat to ward off the chill of the evening.

  It doesn’t help.

  I walk down a dark alley on the side of the building until I reach an unmarked door. The reek of the Dumpsters nearby is overwhelming. I rap my knuckles on the cold metal to the tune of “Shave and a Haircut,” shivering as an icy wind whips around my bare ankles.

  A small window in the center of the door slides open with a clack. An eyeball peers out at me. Then a deep male voice grunts, “Piss off.”

  I say, “New England clam chowder.”

  The eyeball gives me a searing once-over.

  From my pocket I remove a silver coin and hold it up so the eyeball can see it. “Open sesame, amigo. It’s freezing out here.”

  The eyeball disappears as the window slams shut. The quiet of the alley is broken by the scrape of the door opening and the doorman’s greeting, friendlier now that he’s heard the password and seen the coin.

  “Evenin’.”

  He holds out his hand. It’s the size of a dinner plate. Into his palm I set the piece of stamped silver. He nods and steps back, allowing me to pass.

  I walk down a short corridor lit by a single bare bulb hanging from a wire on the ceiling. A freight elevator awaits at the end, its doors gaping open. I step inside and press a button marked “Limbo.”

  After a short ride, the doors open again to what appears to be the lobby of a posh hotel.

  The Palace is a posh hotel. And bar, nightclub, neutral meeting space—even safe house if needed—all designed for a particular clientele.

  A spectacularly beautiful redhead in a tailored ivory suit smiles at me from behind a marble counter to my left. Her fiery hair is gathered into a low chignon. Her skin is milk white. A gold placard on the counter reads “Concierge.”

  When I approach her counter, she smiles wider. “Dragonfly. How wonderful to see you again.”

  “Hello, Genevieve.”

  She notices I’m not carrying luggage. “I take it you’re not staying with us long?”

  “No. Do you have any messages for me?”

  “One moment, please.”

  Her fingers move quickly over a keyboard as she glances at the computer screen tucked below the counter. “Yes.
Mr. Moreno requests you join him on the seventh floor when you arrive.”

  Our gazes meet. Genevieve’s pleasant smile doesn’t waver. If she feels any pity at all for me at being summoned to the seventh floor by the head of the European crime syndicate, she doesn’t reveal it.

  “Thank you, Genevieve.”

  “You’re welcome. Please let me know if I may be of any service during your stay.”

  Translation: If you require unregistered weapons, forged identity papers, armed escorts, or emergency disposal of dead bodies, I’m your girl.

  We nod at each other in farewell. I quickly cross the lobby, noting several familiar faces. People are checking in and out, relaxing on sofas and reading newspapers, strolling around with drinks in their hands. Exactly like people do in a normal hotel lobby.

  But this is no normal hotel, which I’m irrefutably reminded of as I enter the main elevators and look at the row of buttons on the panel on the wall. The floors aren’t numbered. Inspired by Dante’s Inferno, each of the nine floors in the Palace is named after one of the circles of hell.

  I hit the button marked “Violence” and shiver as the elevator doors slide silently shut.

  11

  Mariana

  The elevator dings. The doors slide open. I’m greeted by the sight of two men, naked from the waist up, beating each other bloody with bare fists in the middle of an open ring, with boundaries marked by a square of silver coins on the burgundy carpet.

  Burgundy. Good for concealing bloodstains.

  I steel myself against the revulsion that twists my stomach.

  A barrel-chested man with no neck, a crooked nose, and a mouthful of disheveled teeth stands to the right of the doors. The only thing remotely attractive about him is his suit, a bespoke pinstripe Brioni with a midnight-blue tie and matching silk pocket square.

  “Dragonfly.” His voice is a rocky rumble, heavy with the mark of southern Italy.

  “Enzo. You’re looking well.”

  He chuckles. Somehow it sounds just as Sicilian as his accent. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, bambolina. It’s no good for your health.”

  His gaze drifts over my figure, lingering on the hint of cleavage the collar of my coat doesn’t manage to conceal. I curse myself for leaving my scarf at Reynard’s.

  Enzo murmurs something lewd in Italian, licking his lips.

  Aggravated, I respond in Italian that his mother would smack him to hear him talking like that.

  “Ya,” he says, nodding. “But she’s dead, so she don’t hear nothing no more except the munching of worms. Capo’s waiting on you.”

  So much for the pleasant chitchat.

  Enzo turns, expecting me to follow because he knows I always do. I walk behind him as he leads me around the fighting men to a sitting area on the other side of the room.

  The walls are painted black. The room is dim, smoky, and smells like sweat. Incongruent to everything, the gorgeous resonance of a pure, perfect soprano singing an aria from Puccini’s Madama Butterfly plays on invisible speakers.

  Trying to ignore the grunts of pain that punctuate the opera as blows are landed, I keep my gaze averted from the pair of bloody fighters and focus on the irregular mole on the back of Enzo’s bald head.

  But I’ve already seen enough.

  Judging by the bruising on their bodies and how both men are panting and swaying on their feet, the fight has been going on for some time. Won’t be long before one of them will collect his coins and the other is dragged out by his heels and disposed of.

  Losers in one of Capo’s fights don’t leave the building breathing.

  The sitting area is raised on a dais, flanked by a pair of floor lamps, wide enough to hold a long leather sofa and a few club chairs on either end. Six men in suits stand discreetly in the shadows at the rear, three on either side, hands clasped at their waists, faces impassive.

  Capo’s soldiers. Made men.

  Assassins.

  A glass coffee table in front of the sofa holds a magnum of champagne on ice and two empty crystal champagne flutes. The sofa itself holds two very young, nude girls—leashed with leather collars—and one large, dead-eyed man.

  In one fist he holds the stub of a cigar. In the other he holds the girls’ leashes.

  He’s thirty-five, maybe forty, wearing a tailored dark suit even more beautiful than Enzo’s. His hair is thick and midnight black. His jaw is as hard as his eyes. He’s handsome in an ugly sort of way, all the violence inside him barely contained, oozing out around the edges.

  Vincent Moreno.

  The most evil creature in the world, next to the Devil himself.

  “Mari,” he says softly. “You’re here.”

  With a savage jerk of his arm, he drags both girls off the sofa. They land at his feet in a tangle of pale limbs and pained yelps, quickly silenced by another cruel jerk on their collars. They cower on the carpet, heads down, clinging to his legs.

  My back teeth are gritted so hard, I think they might shatter.

  “Capo di tutti capi,” I say. Boss of all bosses. “I am.”

  Those dead eyes slice straight through me. For a long moment, he simply stares at me. Then, horribly, he starts to laugh.

  “Enzo! Have you ever seen such a look!” He motions to me with his cigar. A fat clump of glowing ash falls onto one of the girls, burning her leg. She pulls her lips between her teeth and whimpers.

  “Ya,” drawls Enzo, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. He winks at me. “When some guy wants to kill me, he looks just like that.”

  Smiling, Capo tilts his head back and looks at me from under hooded lids. “You want to kill me, Mari?”

  Only every day, you worthless piece of shit. “I’m not in the murder business.”

  His smile vanishes. “You’re in whatever business I say you’re in.”

  I swallow. A cold bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Behind me, one of the fighters lands a vicious blow.

  The crunch of bone makes the collared girls shudder.

  “Yes, Capo. I meant no disrespect.”

  Gazing at me thoughtfully, he draws on his cigar. The tip burns red. He exhales a plume of smoke, then, without looking away from me, he raises the hand that holds the girls’ leashes and says to Enzo, “Get rid of this garbage.”

  Enzo leads them off like they’re a pair of dogs on choke chains. They crawl behind him on hands and knees toward a door on the far side of the room. I can’t watch, because I can’t help them, and I’m concentrating on swallowing the scream of impotent rage building in my throat.

  I start counting all the places I’ve hidden weapons on my body.

  Left thigh. Lower back. Right forearm. Shoe.

  I’m not going to attempt anything because I’d be dead within seconds, but it calms me.

  Capo motions for me to join him on the sofa. “Come. Take off your coat and have some champagne.”

  The six bodyguards watch me rebel for a moment against an order from their king. Try as I might to move, my body remains frozen.

  Capo’s hand is extended toward me. His eyes glitter with malice. Very quietly, he says my name.

  I drag in a breath and find the will to get my shaking fingers to untie the belt on my coat. It falls open, Capo’s eyes flare, and I freeze all over again.

  Abruptly, he stands and comes to me. He cuffs my wrists in his hands and gives me a short, hard shake. I smell his cologne, sandalwood and cloves, and almost groan in terror.

  “You seem reluctant.” His voice is low, his face close to mine. “Are you afraid of me, Mari?”

  I could die in this room, and no one would ever know. I’d never see Reynard again. I’d never see the sun again.

  And the American… Will he think of me?

  I’m hyperventilating. It must be my fear that answers Capo, because I would never be so self-destructive to utter the words I say next.

  “Yes. But I hate myself for it. You’re not worth the wasted breath.”

  A muscle in
his jaw flexes. He looks at my mouth. “I’ve killed men for less than that,” he says, deadly soft. His gaze flashes back up to mine. His grip around my wrists is viciously tight.

  I think of the American again, the way he touched my body with such reverence, how he was so sweet I couldn’t bear it. It’s comical that I should be thinking of him at this moment. Or maybe it’s madness. Either way, it gives me a welcome boost of strength.

  “I can’t help it if you don’t like to hear the truth.”

  Capo exhales slowly. His lids droop. He moistens his lips.

  With a fresh dose of horror, I realize he’s aroused by my defiance.

  In a lover’s tender murmur, he says, “Always so reckless, Mari. Always so proud. Do you know what I’d like to do with that pride of yours?”

  My mouth goes dry. My stomach knots. I’m sure he can hear my knees knocking.

  He leans closer. He inhales deeply against my neck, raising all the tiny hairs on my body. The tip of his nose nudges my earlobe as he breathes hotly into my ear, “I’d like to beat it out of you.”

  Then he releases me abruptly and snarls, “Now sit your ass down on the fucking sofa!”

  He shoves me so hard, I stumble and fall to my knees. A hand grips my hair and yanks my head back. I look up into a handsome, unsmiling face.

  Capo makes a clucking noise and chides, “Clumsy.”

  He drags me to my feet by my hair. I suck in a sharp breath from the pain but don’t scream. I won’t give the bastard the satisfaction. He pushes me onto the sofa, then stands glaring down at me while I wait, heart hammering, for him to pull out a gun and shoot me in the face.

  But he only runs a hand over his hair and adjusts his tie, smooths a wrinkle in his beautiful jacket.

  “You always manage to disrupt my equilibrium.”

  There’s an edge like a knife in his voice. He sits next to me and pours champagne into both glasses. An acrid coil of smoke wafts up from the carpet beneath the coffee table where he abandoned his cigar.