Page 107 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
A fleeting frown crosses his face. I can’t decide if it’s irritation or something else.
“I asked you a question, Mariana. Answer it.”
It serves no point to bicker or refuse, so I do as he instructs and glance at the row of assassins behind me. I point at the one closest. “That one called me a bitch and hurt my arm.” I point at the one on the other end. “And that one said he wanted first dibs on me.”
In the middle of bringing a grape to his mouth, Capo pauses. He looks at the men. “Santino. Fabrizio. Is this true?”
Neither man hesitates to answer. In unison, they say, “Si, Capo.”
In the next instant, Capo pulls a silver handgun from under his jacket and fires off two rounds, one in each of the assassin’s foreheads. Blood and brain matter splatter the wall in a lurid, chunky pattern of red.
I jump and scream as the assassins crumple to the ground.
“What about Salvatore?” Capo calmly asks, casually waving the gun at the assassin who’s still standing. “Did he behave?”
Salvatore hasn’t moved, not even to look at the bodies of his compatriots on the floor. Blood—not his own—drips down his cheek.
“H-he didn’t do anything,” I whisper, my stomach violently churning.
“Good.” Capo slides the pistol back into its holster inside his jacket and pops the grape into his mouth.
I manage to make it to a wastebasket near the potted palm to my right before I vomit.
In between heaves, I catch a glimpse of a small, round object at the bottom of the trash can, glinting metallically among the putrid yellow bile.
Thirty
Mariana
“All right now,” Capo says in a soothing voice, gently patting my shoulder. “Take it easy. Just breathe.”
I rock back to my heels, wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. “Don’t touch me!” I say hoarsely.
His sigh sounds disappointed. “Oh, Mari. You always were a bleeding heart. So easy to hurt. So quick to love.” His voice changes, hardens somehow. “That was your downfall, you know.”
My downfall? What’s he talking about? I stagger to my feet, shrugging off his hand in disgust and contempt, and turn to look at him, keeping my gaze off the floor and the widening pools of red around the lifeless bodies. “I’ve brought the diamond. Where’s Reynard?”
Capo gazes at me for a long time, a strange, probing expression in his eyes that’s especially unnerving because it’s a look I don’t recognize. Without glancing away from me, he instructs Salvatore to leave us alone.
“Si, Capo.” Salvatore ignores the bodies on the floor and exits through the mahogany doors as if nothing is amiss.
Maybe it isn’t. Maybe this is situation normal and bodies aboard the Sea Fox drop like flies.
Something about the name of the yacht bothers me, but I’ve got bigger problems to think about. When Capo just stands there staring at me, I ask again. “Where is he?” A touch of hysteria raises my voice.
Capo wordlessly holds out his hand and makes a “give me” gesture. I pull the Hope from the pocket of my hoodie where I’ve been carrying it and set it into his open palm.
He looks down at it. “What’s on it?” he asks with a curled lip.
“Dried milk.”
He cocks one dark brow at me and waits for more of an explanation. When it doesn’t come, he shrugs, removes a jeweler’s loupe from under his coat, then holds the diamond up to the light and peers at it through the magnifier. Satisfied, he makes a low sound in his throat.
He pulls a silk handkerchief from another pocket, wraps the diamond in it, and returns it to his pocket. “Have you ever wondered, Mariana,” he asks thoughtfully, “what stayed my hand all these years?”
His eyes are dark brown, like mine, only his reflect no glimmer of light or mercy.
“Stayed your hand?” I repeat in confusion, resisting a primal urge to back up.
