Page 111 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“This shit is so much easier in the movies,” Connor mutters.
“You’re tellin’ me.”
“Tabby’s pulling up the info. The number’s on the way.”
“Thanks, brother.”
“No problem. And Ryan?”
“Yeah?”
There’s a pause before he speaks. “Keep frosty, brother. This guy Moreno’s a real piece of work.”
“I will, brother. See you soon.”
I disconnect the call, thumb over to my texts, and click the link to the phone number of Skydive Italia that just popped up on my screen.
Thirty-Two
Mariana
A deafening bang, a blinding flash of light, and a violent recoil jolting up my arm are the three things that happen simultaneously when I shoot Vincent Moreno at point-blank range in the chest.
He staggers back, arms flung wide, eyes bulging. He lands on his back with a whump that shakes the floor. Blood flowers from the hole in the center of his chest, quickly seeping crimson through his pristine white shirt.
Reynard is frozen, staring blankly at his son. I don’t know if his shock is due to finding himself standing when only seconds before my gun was pointed at him, or if he’s still trying to understand what happened.
In case it’s the latter, I provide him with an explanation. “He lunged. It was instinct.”
Reynard shifts his gaze to me. His eyes are so wide, they show white all around the irises. His face is the color of the marble floor.
I stand slowly and face him. My body feels like it’s a thousand years old. As if the words are coming from someone else, I speak in a hollow voice. “Only blood can pay for blood?” I gesture to Vincent, still alive but gasping for air, his hands fluttering uselessly at his sides. “Consider us even.”
Alerted by the sound of a gunshot, four assassins slam through the closed doors. They see Vincent on the floor and me standing there with a gun, and all of them pull up short, draw their weapons, and point them at me.
“Stop!” shouts Reynard in Italian, holding out a hand. “Don’t shoot! This is my daughter! You will not hurt her!”
They freeze. They glance at each other, then at me, then at Vincent, who’s making awful gurgling noises, desperately trying to suck air into lungs that are most likely collapsed.
I can tell by the expression on Vincent’s face—past the pain and panic—that he’s unhappy with this development.
The men slowly lower their weapons. Reynard turns his attention back to me.
“You were the son I should have had,” he says, his voice shaking with emotion. “You were always the strong one. The dedicated one. The one without the sickness in the head.” He gestures to Vincent, who wheezes in outrage.
Blood seeps from one corner of his mouth, and has gathered in a slick, shining pool under his body. His eyes are like a rabid dog’s, rolling viciously in his head. Even fighting death, he’s full of rage.
“You were always the one I intended to pass everything to, Mariana,” Reynard says. “You are my true heir.”
I blink, the assassins gasp, and Vincent roars like a wounded lion.
Then everything takes on the quality of a dream. It all seems to happen in slow motion. I see Vincent reach into his jacket. I see him withdraw his silver pistol. I see him point it at his father. I smell the acrid stench of gunpowder in the air, still lingering from the shot that took him down. I see another burst of brilliant light, hear another bang, and a crack like thunder.
Reynard’s head explodes like a pumpkin. He spins a fast half circle, then crumples facedown to the floor.
An eerie stillness follows. I’m untouchable, inside a cocoon of unreality that’s softening all the hard edges of things, keeping my pulse even and my mind clear, removed from it all, like I’m a spectator watching a movie, serene and safe behind a gauzy screen.
Vincent takes one last, ragged breath, shudders, then closes his eyes. The gun drops from his hand and clatters against the floor. After that, he doesn’t move, his chest stops rising, and I gather from all the evidence that he’s dead.
