Page 101 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
I run, wet and frantic, shouting her name through every room in the house.
It’s only when I see the note taped to the elevator doors that I stop running. Unfortunately, I stop breathing then, too. I read what she’s written and inhale what feels like my last breath.
Ryan,
I’m not saying goodbye, because goodbye means going away, and going away means forgetting. And I’m never going to forget a single moment with you.
Forever,
M.
My enraged bellow of “FUCK!” echoes throughout the whole house.
When I yank open the fridge and find the milk container empty, the roar that tears from my chest isn’t even human.
Twenty-Seven
Mariana
I don’t have any money, so when the cab I flagged down on the street pulls up to the curb at the private jet terminal at JFK, I throw open the door and run out before the driver can stop me. His angry shouts quickly fade as I run into the terminal, and I head straight for the nearest customer service counter.
“Mariana Lora,” I say breathlessly the moment I get there. “My name is Mariana Lora. I was told—”
“Yes, Ms. Lora.” The woman behind the counter, an attractive, middle-aged brunette in a navy-blue suit, smiles at me with all her teeth showing. Then she gestures like a spokesmodel to a set of sliding double glass doors to her left. “Right through those doors. The jet is waiting on the tarmac.”
Of course I don’t need a ticket, or identification. I don’t have to go through security, either. Such is Capo’s power.
I run through the glass doors into the cool evening, my hair blowing wild around my face. There are a dozen jets of different sizes spaced up and down the tarmac, but the one closest to the doors is large and has a man in a black suit waiting at the bottom of fold-out stairs. He lifts his hand in greeting. I wonder how long he’s been waiting there like that for me.
I wonder who else is on that plane.
As it turns out, two other men in suits. I enter the plane and find gleaming luxury: large, buff-colored leather seats and a few small tables, and a pair of big, unsmiling guys seated at the back who stand when I come in, adjusting their suit jackets like they’re hoping for a chance to use the weapons under them. The man on the tarmac follows me inside, folds the stairs up, and locks them into place. Then he raps twice on the closed cockpit door and asks if I’m carrying a cell phone.
I debate whether or not to give it to him, but judging by his expression and the gun glimpsed in the holster at his waist, it would be a bad decision to lie.
I hand it over wordlessly. He removes the SIM card, smashes it under the heel of his shoe, and tosses the phone aside.
He motions for me to extend my arms. I obey silently and he frisks me for weapons, head to foot. When he doesn’t find any, he asks if I’d like a drink.
I decline. He pours me one anyway—vodka, straight—and points to the closest chair.
“Why don’t you sit there for the flight?” he says, his voice as quiet as his eyes are hard.
It’s not a request. I sit. Then he gives me the drink and a smile so chilling, I shrink back into the chair.
He switches to Italian. “The vodka will help.”
I answer in English. “With what? I’m not afraid of flying.”
“Not the flight,” he says, still in Italian, still smiling. “With what comes after.”
He leaves the bottle on the table in front of me and goes to sit at the back of the plane with his two friends as the engines roar to life.
Twenty-Eight
Ryan
“Take it easy, brother, calm down, I can’t understand you—”
