Page 39 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“Sissy,” I mutter, flipping up the collar of my coat to ward off the chill of the evening.
It doesn’t help.
I walk down a dark alley on the side of the building until I reach an unmarked door. The reek of the Dumpsters nearby is overwhelming. I rap my knuckles on the cold metal to the tune of “Shave and a Haircut,” shivering as an icy wind whips around my bare ankles.
A small window in the center of the door slides open with a clack. An eyeball peers out at me. Then a deep male voice grunts, “Piss off.”
“New England clam chowder,” I say.
The eyeball gives me a searing once-over.
From my pocket I remove a silver coin and hold it up so the eyeball can see it. “Open sesame, amigo. It’s freezing out here.”
The eyeball disappears as the window slams shut. The quiet of the alley is broken by the scrape of the door opening and the doorman’s greeting, friendlier now that he’s heard the password and seen the coin.
“Evenin’.”
He holds out his hand. It’s the size of a dinner plate. Into his palm I set the piece of stamped silver. He nods and steps back, allowing me to pass.
I walk down a short corridor lit by a single bare bulb hanging from a wire on the ceiling. A freight elevator awaits at the end, its doors gaping open. I step inside and press a button marked “Limbo.”
After a short ride, the doors open again to what appears to be the lobby of a posh hotel.
The Palace is a posh hotel. And bar, nightclub, neutral meeting space—even safe house if needed—all designed for a particular clientele.
A spectacularly beautiful redhead in a tailored ivory suit smiles at me from behind a marble counter to my left. Her fiery hair is gathered into a low chignon. Her skin is milk white. A gold placard on the counter reads “Concierge.”
When I approach her counter, she smiles wider. “Dragonfly. How wonderful to see you again.”
“Hello, Genevieve.”
She notices I’m not carrying luggage. “I take it you’re not staying with us long?”
“No. Do you have any messages for me?”
“One moment, please.”
Her fingers move quickly over a keyboard as she glances at the computer screen tucked below the counter. “Yes. Mr. Moreno requests you join him on the seventh floor when you arrive.”
Our gazes meet. Genevieve’s pleasant smile doesn’t waver. If she feels any pity at all for me at being summoned to the seventh floor by the head of the European crime syndicate, she doesn’t reveal it.
“Thank you, Genevieve.”
“You’re welcome. Please let me know if I may be of any service during your stay.”
Translation: If you require unregistered weapons, forged identity papers, armed escorts, or emergency disposal of dead bodies, I’m your girl.
We nod at each other in farewell. I quickly cross the lobby, noting several familiar faces. People are checking in and out, relaxing on sofas and reading newspapers, strolling around with drinks in their hands. Exactly like people do in a normal hotel lobby.
But this is no normal hotel, which I’m irrefutably reminded of as I enter the main elevators and look at the row of buttons on the panel on the wall. The floors aren’t numbered. Inspired by Dante’s Inferno, each of the nine floors in the Palace is named after one of the circles of hell.
I hit the button marked “Violence” and shiver as the elevator doors slide silently shut.
Eleven
Mariana
The elevator dings. The doors slide open. I’m greeted by the sight of two men, naked from the waist up, beating each other bloody with bare fists in the middle of an open ring, with boundaries marked by a square of silver coins on the burgundy carpet.
