Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  I take the champagne he offers, ashamed to see how hard my hand shakes. Unsure if it will be the last taste of champagne I’ll ever have, I swallow it in one gulp.

  One of the fighters hits the other with a vicious undercut to the jaw. It sends him flying. As the soprano hits a high note, his body lands on the carpet with a dull thud. A tremor shakes the floor under my feet.

  Get up. Keep fighting. Please don’t die in front of me. Please don’t die and leave me here alone with him and his soldiers and nothing else to hold their attention.

  “I told you to take off your coat.”

  Capo has leaned back against the sofa, and is watching me from the corner of his eye. I do as he orders, my gaze averted. When I try to drape my coat over my legs, he warns softly, “Mariana.”

  I place the coat on the arm of the sofa and fold my hands in my lap. I’m sitting ramrod-straight, staring at nothing, when I feel his hand settle onto my thigh.

  I flinch. He squeezes my leg. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. “So you know I finished the job.”

  He says casually, “Speak again without permission, and you won’t walk for a week.”

  “Who told you you could speak, you bad girl?”

  Why, why is the American in my head? Why can’t I get him out? Why am I thinking of him as I’m sitting here with this savage of a man, my life in danger, my heart exploding in fear?

  Even as I’m asking myself those questions, I know the answer.

  Because the further away I get from that beautiful night, the more clearly I can see what I was given.

  Capo asks sharply, “Why are you smiling?”

  My eyes snap open. The fighter who was knocked out has rolled onto his side and is struggling to stand. It seems like a sign, so I decide to tell him the truth. “You remind me of the things I’m grateful for.”

  My honesty surprises him. Something like amusement flashes across his expression, but of course it can’t be amusement because he doesn’t have a sense of humor—because he doesn’t have a soul.

  He says, “How interesting. That almost sounded like a compliment. If you’re not careful, I’ll start to think you’re sweet on me.” After a beat, he adds, “Although those murderous eyes tell a different story.”

  We stare at each other. My fingers itch to claw into his eye sockets, to dig out his eyeballs and crush them under my feet, to feel vitreous liquid, warm and gelatinous, ooze between my bare toes.

  I wonder if evil is contagious.

  I ask politely, “May I please have permission to speak?”

  His grin is unexpected. It’s also terrifying.

  “Do you know why I like you, Mariana?”

  He likes me? Dios mio. His hand, heavy and warm, still rests on my thigh.

  “No, Capo. Why?”

  “Because you’re a warrior. Even your submission is defiant. You’d rather die on your feet than live on your knees.” He adds thoughtfully, “Like me.”

  Like me? He thinks we have something in common? Revulsion curls my tongue when I say, “Thank you.”

  My expression makes him laugh. When he lifts his hand from my leg, it feels like I’ve been sprung from prison.

  “We could’ve made an incredible team, you and I. It’s a pity you chose to take the oath to repay Reynard’s debt instead of…the easier way.” His gaze drifts down to my breasts. He sinks his teeth into his full lower lip.

  I wish I hadn’t guzzled all my champagne. I need something to wash the taste of vomit from my mouth.

  He glances at my face. Whatever he sees there makes him prompt, “You may speak.”

  My plan was to try to get right down to business and find out why he called me here, but something has occurred to me that’s much more important.

  And far, far more dangerous.

  I say haltingly, “I want…I want to ask for a favor.”

  For a long, tense moment, he stares at me. I wonder how long the fighters will be able to continue, because I sense I’m starting to run out of time.

  Capo leans forward, sets his champagne glass on the coffee table, then rests his elbows on his knees and smiles. He’s never looked more ruthless.

  Holding my gaze, he says softly, “You know my favors aren’t free.”

  I almost lose my courage then. But I’m gambling that the blood oath I’ve taken will give me some measure of protection against the worst part of his nature. Sicilians value blood oaths more than anything, except family and respect.

  “Yes, Capo.”

  His eyes blaze with anticipation. He inclines his head, permission for me to speak granted.

  “The girls who were with you when I came in…”

  That muscle in his jaw flexes again. He looks hungry. Like a starving wild animal about to rip into a carcass with his teeth. “What about them, Mariana?”

  My name on his lips is so sinister, I have to take several breaths before I work up the courage to speak again. “May I have them?”

  He looks startled for a split second, then his face clears with understanding. His voice comes out as a hiss. “Save them, you mean. Rescue them. From me.”

  When I don’t answer, Capo sneers. “They’re two of hundreds. Thousands. All exactly alike. You can’t save them all.”

  I stare at my hands. They’re shaking. With fury or fright, I don’t really know. “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.”

  He grabs my jaw and forces my head around so we’re nose to nose, staring into each other’s eyes. “This is about your sister, isn’t it?”

  My silence infuriates him. He snaps, “There are better ways to respect the dead than throwing yourself on their funeral pyre!”

  I’m shocked. I thought he’d jump at the chance to degrade me the way I know he aches to.

  “Is that a no?”

  His nostrils flare. His hands clamp around my throat and start squeezing before I can react. He jerks me toward him. The movement is so violent, it lifts me clear off the sofa.

  “You stupid fucking woman,” he growls, veins popping out in his neck. “You stupid, proud, sentimental woman. You’d sacrifice yourself for a dead girl and two worthless whores who’ll rob you and stab you in the heart the second they get the chance?”

  He flips me onto my back on the sofa, a big, dark presence looming over me as I cough and struggle against his grip. My eyes water. I draw my knees up against my chest in useless defense.

  He shouts into my face, “Do you know what I’d do to you? Do you have any fucking idea?”

  I don’t understand what’s happening. I know he’s furious with me, I know his hands are squeezing the life from my body, and I know that very soon I’ll lose consciousness, because the room is starting to fade.

  But I still don’t get why I’m not already stripped naked and strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross, watching Capo approach with nothing but a dark smile and a whip.

  Enzo strolls back into the room, wiping his hands on a white handkerchief. Capo catches sight of him from the corner of his eye and abruptly releases me.

  He stands and roars, “Fuck!” at the top of his lungs, then stalks to the ring outlined in silver, interrupting the two fighters.

  He grabs one of the men by the throat and punches him so hard I can hear his nose shatter all the way across the room. The fighter crumples to the floor. Capo turns to the other man with an animal snarl and lunges at him, striking him with his fists over and over, mercilessly, even after the man falls motionless on his back on the carpet.

  Enzo watches this outburst with vague interest, his lower lip puffed out. He’s still wiping his hands on the handkerchief.

  I sob when I realize what he’s cleaning from his hands is blood.

  The aria from Madama Butterfly ends. The only sounds now are ragged, heaving breaths, Capo’s and mine.

  Capo stands. He spits on one of the men on the floor. He wipes his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve, then drops his head back, closes his eyes, and inhales a deep breath.

  I roll to my si
de on the sofa, get my feet under me, and slowly sit up. My whole body is shaking. I cough and gag, dragging in excruciating breaths. My throat is so raw and bruised, I don’t know if I’ll be able to talk.

  As if he’s a bored waitress in a diner, Enzo asks, “You want I should order up some sandwiches, Capo?”

  Sweating and disheveled, his gaze disoriented, Capo turns and squints at Enzo. He shakes his head like a dog coming out of water. He swallows, rakes his hands through his hair, and staggers away from the bodies in the ring.

  I can’t tell if either man is breathing.

  “It looks like you’re in luck, Mariana,” says Capo, panting a little. “You won’t have to owe me a favor after all.”

  He’s looking at Enzo’s bloody handkerchief.

  I cover my face with my shaking hands. In a moment, another song starts up. Another aria. Another woman singing in her beautiful, soaring voice.

  I’ll never be able to listen to opera again.

  Sounding more under control, Capo says, “Yes, Enzo. Order food. But not sandwiches. Steaks. Bloody rare.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Whistling, Enzo wanders to the elevator doors. He steps right over one of the unconscious fighters on the way.

  Between my fingers, I see feet approach. A pair of big, expensive black wingtips polished to a mirror shine stop a foot or two away.

  “I called you here because I wanted to discuss your next job. Only two left to go under your contract.” Capo has regained all his control now and sounds like any boss addressing any employee in a staff meeting.

  I can’t look at him. My voice comes out as a painful croak. “One.”

  “It was one. Your dumb fucking Mother Teresa act just added another.”

  I stay silent, eyes lowered, impotent rage boiling in my veins.

  A heavy sigh breaks from Capo’s chest, stirring my hair. He lowers himself to the sofa beside me and pours himself more champagne.

  He murmurs, “Ah, Mariana. This isn’t how I wanted tonight to go. I wanted us to have a drink, visit, spend a little time together. But you always make me so goddamn…” His voice shakes over the next word. “Angry.”

  I don’t dare look at him. I don’t dare speak. I think of tropical rainfall and roosters crowing at midnight and a man who called me Angel, and try not to cry.

  After a moment, Capo whips the silk pocket square from his suit jacket and digs into the silver ice bucket, rooting around the magnum of champagne. He grabs a handful of ice, ties the ends of the pocket square together, and silently holds the dripping packet out to me.

  I take it and press it against my burning throat.

  Because this is my life.

  Sounding tired, Capo says, “Listen to me. The job.”

  I nod. Ice water slides down my neck and trickles into my cleavage. It might as well be acid for how it burns.

  “It’s in Washington, DC. At the Smithsonian. I want the Hope Diamond.”

  I turn my head and stare at him with wide eyes.

  “By the first of the month.”

  I drop the ice into my lap.

  “And before you tell me it’s impossible, remember what happens to Reynard if you fail.” Capo takes a long swallow from his glass of champagne. Gazing at the unmoving bodies of the men on the carpet, he says bitterly, “You can do it. I have faith in you, Mari. Your loyalty to that old dog is even stronger than your need to be a hero to whores.”

  When he turns back to me, his eyes have changed. Gone is any hint of humanity. What I’m looking at now is the raw, brutal beast who would’ve strangled me to death if Enzo hadn’t accidentally interrupted him.

  The beast snarls, “Now get the fuck out of my sight before I lose my temper and tear you to shreds!”

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  I grab my coat and stumble away, vision blurred with tears of rage and desperation, vowing for the thousandth time that someday, somehow, I’ll find a way to take him down. Until then, I’ve got to figure out how to steal a world-famous diamond from one of the most secure locations inside the capital of the United States.

  Within ten days.

  Or Reynard dies.

  I grip the small velvet bag of silver coins in my pocket and hurry back down to Limbo to pay a visit to the concierge.

  12

  Ryan

  By the time the police finished poking around my room and collecting evidence, I’d missed my flight. I’d also discovered from my new friend the chief that a twin-engine Cessna was stolen from the local airport sometime during the night. Security cameras caught nothing but a glimpse of a woman—dressed in a black T-shirt and a pair of men’s white briefs and carrying a small backpack—slicing through a chain-link fence with bolt cutters before sprinting away across the tarmac.

  I got hard thinking about Angeline wearing my clothes as she flew off into the night. After breaking into an airport and stealing a plane. After breaking into a hotel suite and stealing a ruby necklace.

  After breaking into my heart and stealing the whole goddamn thing.

  I’d never spent time considering what my dream woman would be like, but apparently she’s on Interpol’s Most Wanted list.

  My mother always said I didn’t like things easy.

  I spent another two days at the resort after Tabby and Connor continued on the rest of their honeymoon and Darcy, Kai, and Juanita headed back to New York. I was determined to assist the local police in their investigation, but when it became apparent they worked on island time, I took matters into my own hands.

  I talked to everyone at the hotel who’d interacted with Angeline. I hacked into the resort computers and pored through the video footage. I broke into Angeline’s room after the police were gone and hunted for any clue that might point me in the right direction. Her direction.

  I came up with zilch. She was Gone Girl.

  But only for now.

  Tabby was amused by the whole thing. And ridiculously unhelpful. She liked Angeline nearly as much as I did.

  “I’d help you find her, but I’m on her side,” she’d said brightly, kissing me goodbye as she and Connor got into their taxi to head for the airport.

  “Fuckin’ Hello Kitty,” I’d muttered, shaking my head.

  “That too, but here’s the thing, Ryan.” Tabby looked me dead in the eyes. “She’s living life on her own terms. She’s nobody’s fool. You know how I feel about women like that.”

  Jesus. The fuckin’ crazy chick mutual admiration society. “She’s an outlaw, Tab.”

  “She’s a badass.”

  “She lied to me! She drugged me!”

  Tabby’s gaze softened. “She didn’t want to.”

  “How the fuck do you know that?”

  She shook her head. “What you understand about women wouldn’t fill a thimble, you know that?”

  Then she got into the cab and left with Connor, who was chuckling like a real asshole the entire time. I had to drop and do fifty pushups just so I didn’t punch someone.

  My plan at that point was to go back to New York and regroup, but then I got a hit on a search spider I’d set up on Metrix’s computer system that trawled all the online news outlets, and it changed everything.

  Cessna stolen from St. Croix found abandoned in a field in a rural part of Cornwall.

  Cornwall is in southwestern England. That’s about as far as a Cessna could fly from the Virgin Islands on one tank. And one hell of a trip across the North Atlantic for a lone pilot. It would probably take nine hours nonstop, maybe ten, mostly in the dark, completely over water.

  Talk about grueling.

  But still…Cornwall. It has one city. It’s one of the poorest parts of the UK. Not exactly a great place to fence a fifteen-million-dollar ruby necklace. I took a look at a map to see if it might jiggle anything in my mind. Sure enough, it did.

  Cornwall is a four-hour drive from London, one of the richest cities in the world.

  With some of the oldest and most powerful crime syndicates in the worl
d.

  When I did a search of police reports for stolen vehicles in the Cornwall area within the past seventy-two hours, I got one hit…and the stolen car was found with switched license plates less than a day later in a parking garage in Chelsea, a suburb of London.

  For the first time in two days, I could breathe again.

  I spent the flight to London thinking about something else my mother used to say: It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

  I had a bad feeling the fun-and-games part was behind me.

  13

  Mariana

  After I finish my business with Genevieve, I take a taxi to the Victoria Coach Station and retrieve my bug-out bag from the storage locker I rented before I visited Reynard. Then I use the burner phone in it to reserve a suite at the Ritz-Carlton for the night because there’s nothing on earth that could compel me to stay at the Palace while Capo is there. And I can’t stay with Reynard. He’d take one look at my black-and-blue throat and do something stupid like go and confront Capo and get himself killed.

  Reynard might be a lot of shady things, but a man who tolerates violence against women isn’t one of them.

  I pay for the room in cash. When the front desk associate requests a credit card for room incidentals, I use a prepaid Visa gift card I bought at a grocery store. I’ve already changed from the dress, heels, and overcoat I wore to the Palace—all stuffed into the train station bathroom garbage bin—into a nondescript outfit any tourist might wear: comfy shoes, ill-fitting beige slacks, and an oversized knitted sweater the color of baby shit. My hair is hidden under a short, curly black wig. I stole the reading glasses from a rack at a dime store.

  Glimpsed in a lobby mirror, I look like someone who owns too many house cats.

  I mouth meow to myself and head to my second-floor room. I never stay higher in any hotel, in case I need to make a speedy exit out a window or there’s a fire. Reynard taught me that fire trucks in most countries have ladders that only reach the third floor. Apparently, he found that out the hard way.

  Once I’m inside the room, some of the tension leaves my body. I draw a bath, take a long, hot soak, and try not to think. Tomorrow is for thinking. Tomorrow is for planning. Tonight is for washing the stink of Capo’s cologne out of my nose and trying to pretend I live a different sort of life.