Page 115 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“That won’t be necessary. We’ve had enough bloodshed this morning. Thank you, Salvatore.” After a beat, I add, “Your loyalty is appreciated.”
I feel his pride at that statement, that I’ve said it in front of the other men. I can sense his chest swelling with it, and the urge to laugh returns tenfold.
I’m losing my sanity. Perhaps I’ve already lost it.
Perhaps I never had it at all.
“I want you to take everyone except the captain and get on the tender,” I instruct, walking slowly to Vincent’s body. In my gauzy dream, I bend down, fish the Hope Diamond from his jacket pocket, and curl my fingers around the stone as I gaze down at his lifeless face.
There’s blood and spittle in the corners of his lips. He didn’t shave this morning. His chest is still warm.
I straighten and direct
my gaze to Salvatore again. “Everyone who’s alive, I mean. Get on the tender and go to the nearest island. Do it now. Take nothing with you. Before you go, tell the captain to come to me here.”
His brow creases, but he doesn’t contradict me or ask for clarification. He simply murmurs, “Si, Capo.”
He turns and leaves the room, the other men right behind him. I’m left alone with four dead bodies and the muggy chaos of my thoughts.
I walk to the outside deck and raise my face to the morning sun. It’s warm and sunny, the smell of the ocean strong. A light breeze plays with my hair. I don’t know how long I stand like that, in a trance, but when I hear an engine roar to life, I look down. There on the surface of the white-capped water below is a boat with four men in black suits, and fourteen others in navy-and-white uniforms.
Salvatore is at the helm. He guns the throttle and makes a heading for the island in the far distance, not turning to look over his shoulder even once.
Absolute power corrupts absolutely, said Lord Acton. Now, for the first time, I have a true idea of what he means.
I head inside to wait for the captain.
Thirty-Five
Ryan
Armin and I are trotting out of his bedroom when we hear the explosion.
It’s huge and somewhere not far away, judging by the concussion that rattles all the windows a second later.
We look at each other at the same instant. “That doesn’t sound good,” he says.
My heart stops. Mariana.
I shove past Armin and run through the yacht the way I came in until I reach an outside deck and see what caused all the noise.
On the eastern horizon, a big orange fireball illuminates the sky.
It’s not the sun.
“Get us over there!” I scream at Armin when he appears on deck. He pulls a cell phone from his pocket, touches a number, lifts the phone to his ear.
“Let’s go check out that explosion, Captain. Somebody’s gonna need help. Full steam ahead.” He listens for a moment. “All right, as close as you can.” He clicks off, then stands looking at the fire in the distance with his arms folded across his chest. “She can do thirty knots when she’s up to speed. We’ll be there in under ten minutes.”
Ten minutes is too long. I pull my own phone out and call Connor. He answers on the first ring. “What’s your status, brother?”
My voice comes out hoarse with stress. “I’m on the wrong fuckin’ yacht! The one Mariana’s on just blew up! You got satellite feed?”
“Blew up?” Connor mutters a curse. “We’re not live streaming. I won’t have an updated shot for about ten minutes.”
Ten minutes, again. I throw my head back and roar my frustration. Beside me, Armin doesn’t even blink. The man is unflappable.
“It’s gonna be okay, Ryan,” Connor says firmly. “Listen to me—”
