Page 44 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
He flips me onto my back on the sofa, a big, dark presence looming over me as I cough and struggle against his grip. My eyes water. I draw my knees up against my chest in useless defense.
He shouts into my face, “Do you know what I’d do to you? Do you have any fucking idea?”
I don’t understand what’s happening. I know he’s furious with me, I know his hands are squeezing the life from my body, and I know that very soon I’ll lose consciousness, because the room is starting to fade.
But I still don’t get why I’m not already stripped naked and strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross, watching Capo approach with nothing but a dark smile and a whip.
Enzo strolls back into the room, wiping his hands on a white handkerchief. Capo catches sight of him from the corner of his eye and abruptly releases me.
He stands and roars, “Fuck!” at the top of his lungs, then stalks to the ring outlined in silver, interrupting the two fighters.
He grabs one of the men by the throat and punches him so hard I can hear his nose shatter all the way across the room. The fighter crumples to the floor. Capo turns to the other man with an animal snarl and lunges at him, striking him with his fists over and over, mercilessly, even after the man falls motionless on his back on the carpet.
Enzo watches this outburst with vague interest, his lower lip puffed out. He’s still wiping his hands on the handkerchief.
I sob when I realize what he’s cleaning from his hands is blood.
The aria from Madama Butterfly ends. The only sounds now are ragged, heaving breaths, Capo’s and mine.
Capo stands. He spits on one of the men on the floor. He wipes his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve, then drops his head back, closes his eyes, and inhales a deep breath.
I roll to my side on the sofa, get my feet under me, and slowly sit up. My whole body is shaking. I cough and gag, dragging in excruciating breaths. My throat is so raw and bruised, I don’t know if I’ll be able to talk.
“You want I should order up some sandwiches, Capo?” Enzo asks, as if he’s a bored waitress in a diner.
Sweating and disheveled, his gaze disoriented, Capo turns and squints at Enzo. He shakes his head like a dog coming out of water. He swallows, rakes his hands through his hair, and staggers away from the bodies in the ring.
I can’t tell if either man is breathing.
“It looks like you’re in luck, Mariana,” Capo says, panting a little. “You won’t have to owe me a favor after all.”
He’s looking at Enzo’s bloody handkerchief.
I cover my face with my shaking hands. In a moment, another song starts up. Another aria. Another woman singing in her beautiful, soaring voice.
I’ll never be able to listen to opera again.
Sounding more under control, Capo answers Enzo. “Yes. Order food. But not sandwiches. Steaks. Bloody rare.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Whistling, Enzo wanders to the elevator doors. He steps right over one of the unconscious fighters on the way.
Between my fingers, I see feet approach. A pair of big, expensive black wingtips polished to a mirror shine stop a foot or two away.
“I called you here because I wanted to discuss your next job. Only two left to go under your contract.” Capo has regained all his control now and sounds like any boss addressing any employee in a staff meeting.
I can’t look at him. My voice comes out as a painful croak. “One.”
“It was one. Your dumb fucking Mother Teresa act just added another.”
I stay silent, eyes lowered, impotent rage boiling in my veins.
A heavy sigh breaks from Capo’s chest, stirring my hair. He lowers himself to the sofa beside me and pours himself more champagne.
“Ah, Mariana,” he murmurs. “This isn’t how I wanted tonight to go. I wanted us to have a drink, visit, spend a little time together. But you always make me so goddamn…” His voice shakes over the next word.
“Angry.”
I don’t dare look at him. I don’t dare speak. I think of tropical rainfall and roosters crowing at midnight and a man who called me Angel, and I try not to cry.
