TWENTY-NINE
The following morning a thick, white envelope slides beneath my door. I lie in bed in my new suite, surrounded by beautiful yellow sunflowers, staring at it, wondering what it means before I dare touch it. I finally throw off the covers and climb out of bed. Pick it up. Rip it open. Collapse onto the sofa.
Plane tickets. Hotel reservations. We're flying to Amsterdam. First class.
Of course we are.
A key.
Elevator.
The penthouse.
He's giving me access to the penthouse.
My fingers curl around it, tucking it safely within a fist. I remove a small blue folder and open it.
A passport.
With my license photo. All of my personal information.
"Jesus," I mutter. Everything is set. "In less than twelve hours."
"You're not going," a voice calls.
"What? Why not?"
"Because," Viola replies, moving in front of me. "This has gone on long enough. Lucien Castellani is not going to see Europe ever again."
"I don't know what you want me to do. I don't have the information I need. I don't know how to kill him."
Her arms cross, folding together, the colorful tattoo peeking beyond the sleeve of her sweater. "This ends before he leaves."
"You want the job done right, right? You can't rush me. I can't just . . . walk up to him and shoot him. We're barely ever alone. I don't even know where to aim!"
She lunges for me, eyes flaming, wraps her fingers around my neck, searing the already tender bruises from the night before. "You are not going to ruin this for me," she says, teeth clenched.
"If you kill me now, you'll ruin it for yourself," I choke.
"Will I?" She exhales. Her fingers loosen. "Don't let him get to you, Genesis. He's tricking you. All of his promises? His gifts? They mean nothing. He will take everything you have, and he will throw you away."
"Is that what he did to you?"
Her eyes narrow, expression hardening. "Something was taken from me—something I am desperate to get back. . . . That's all you need to know."
THIRTY
Luke Castellani is silent. I hear nothing for the next thirty-six hours. There are no messages. No mysterious packages. Notes slipped beneath my door. My only visitors are maids and hotel staffers delivering meals and fresh towels. The flat screen becomes my gateway to the outside world, and I drown myself in kitchen renovation shows, bathroom makeovers, and police drama marathons. But mostly I worry. I worry Luke is gone. That he left for Europe without me. That he somehow discovered who I am and why I'm here. I wonder where he is. What he's doing. Why he hasn't contacted me.
Apart from him I realize how attached I've become. Every second without him like coming off a high. Difficult at first, with an ensuing sense of clarity. Who I am. What I have to do. What will make it happen.
The following morning, before climbing out of bed or drawing back the curtains, I grab a hotel memo pad and ink pen off the nightstand. And, by the light of the sconces framing the bed, I draw. First the outline of a body, then every characteristic Mara taught me. Every possibility. Emotions. Disappointment. Selfishness. Jealousy. Malice. Resentment. Lust.
Because I can't kill him if I don't know what drives him.
In one column, I list everything I know:
No family. No wife or kids.
If he's not lying.
The most powerful demon walking the Earth.
Not his words.
A businessman. An investor of people.
Has everything, but isn't satisfied.
In another column, I focus on personality, what he's like: Confident. Polite. Witty. Reserved. Apologetic.
Protective, but not possessive. In control. He's never lost his temper. I've seen no malicious behavior. He's been nothing but gracious and generous. But Viola . . . she hates him. The Council believes he deserves to die. Mara swears he can't be trusted. There has to be something I'm not seeing. A side of him I'm not exposed to.
And that creeping voice in the back of my head persists, desperate to be heard:
Even if you figure out what Lucien Castellani wants, will you be able to pull the trigger?
When the phone finally rings late in the afternoon on that second day, I try not to jump to answer it, or sound relieved when I hear his voice on the other end.
"I was starting to think you left without me," I tease.
He laughs. It's light, musical. Happy. "I'm sorry. I've been tied up in meetings."
"I'm glad you called."
"Me too. I've missed you."
The words ring with genuine surprise, the tiniest flutters rippling through my body. Already I'm craving him, more time with him.
Don't do this. Don't let anything get in the way of what you have to do.
Because if I'm not stronger than him, if I'm not smarter, faster, this is all for nothing. I clear my throat, guarded. "What can I do for you?"
Another laugh. "What makes you think I'm calling for a favor?"
"I haven't heard a word from you in two days. Are you saying you called to check up on me?"
"All right. Guilty. I need a favor. I have a business dinner tonight. It's nothing formal, but I'd like to make an impression, and that means I need a beautiful, charming woman on my arm."
"I think you've managed fine without me so far," I point out, twirling the phone cord around my finger.
"True. But imagine the damage I could do with you by my side."
"What time?"
There's a smile in his voice. "I'll be at your room by seven."
Dinner.
I stand frozen in front of a barren closet—nothing to wear. And my winter coat is gone, already on its way to some landfill on the outskirts. I check the clock again, seconds slipping away. I can't go shopping and get ready.
And so I reach for the phone and dial zero. I am VIP, after all.
* * *
At three minutes past seven Luke Castellani knocks on my door. I grab my purse and the black pea coat, tags freshly snipped, from the edge of the bed.
"You look stunning, Love," he says, planting a soft kiss on my cheek.
The hotel operator remained true to her word, sending several dress and coat samples to my suite within the hour. I refuse to think about the sheer number of beverages, trays of food, dessert menus, I would've delivered to earn that money in a previous life—a life not too long ago, even.
Outside a Mercedes waits for us at the curb, black finish gleaming beneath streetlights, windows so dark they seem impenetrable.
We climb inside, fastening seatbelts as the driver pulls away.
"Thank you for agreeing to this. I'm sure there are a million other ways you'd rather spend your evening." He touches the silver earring dangling from my ear, fingers trailing my jaw line. "You do give me something beautiful to look at, though."
A flood of heat rushes to my cheeks, and my heart kicks up a notch, flipping anxiously.
Focus.
I study buildings as we pass, darkened windows punctuated with the sporadic, fluorescent glow of someone pulling a late night at the office.
"Nervous habit?" He nods toward my left hand, where I'm twisting my ring, around and around and around again.
"Apparently."
"Would you be opposed to removing it for the evening?" he asks. "I'd like to have all of you for one night, if I may."
Carter's ring?
My fingers curl together, an instinctive fist. "No. I'm not taking it off."
"Would you be willing to switch hands, then?" he presses.
Switch hands?
I examine the blue diamond, hesitating.
I suppose it wouldn't hurt anything.
I slide the precious stone off my left hand ring finger, swapping it for the right. The stoplight changes from yellow, a brilliant filter painting the world red. The driver slows.
"I appreciate it. We wouldn't want to start any unnecessary rumors."
"I'm a Fleming," I remind him. "There will always be rumors."
Luke laughs at this, eyes lighting. "If you've nothing against rumors, then I have something for you." His hand disappears, reaching inside the tailored pocket of his dark coat, producing a light blue box.
A jewelry box.
Those reputed strings tumble invisibly, flowing suspended between us.
"What is it?" I ask, cautious.
We're moving again.
"A gift."
I waver, resisting the inexplicable flurry of excitement threatening to consume me, then take the box from him, lifting the lid. Inside, a bracelet. A bangle of wildflowers covered in diamonds—sparkling, colorless diamonds. The name of the jewelry store is etched into satin lining. My pulse flutters, stirred by the small fortune in my grasp.
"I can't accept this," I insist, snapping the lid shut and passing it back to him.
"Nonsense." He removes the bracelet and slips it onto my wrist, wraps his fingers around mine. "One day you're going to realize, Genesis, that you're worthy of beautiful things."
Worthy of beautiful things.
The driver eases the car to a stop in front of the restaurant.
Luke offers his hand and I step outside, joining him on the sidewalk. My fingers remain locked in his, frozen, faces inches apart. Those glittering, emerald eyes—they're beyond deep. They're limitless, entire worlds held within them.
Our heavy breaths turn to smoke, vanishing. And I feel. . . .
Powerful.
Like I can do anything.
My heart stutters, lips refusing to cooperate, having forgotten how to speak. How to move. I swallow hard, searching for my voice—grappling for words.
A gentle smile curves his lips. "You're very welcome."
"What?"
"The bracelet. You were trying to thank me."
"Oh." I laugh, uneasy. "Right. It really is beautiful. Thank you."
What is happening to me?
The rest of our party has arrived, and introductions are made at the table. Luke sits beside me, arm draped comfortably across the back of my chair. There are eight of us, and I'm the only woman in a sea of dark suits and glasses of brandy. The questions abound.
"Where are you from, Genesis?"
"A little town on the coast. South Marshall," I reply.
"We've vacationed there before," another says. "I hear they're not allowing visitors until the crime is under control."
"There have been a few problems this year," I admit, reaching for my glass of ice water. "We're hoping everything is back to normal by the busy season. I'd love to have my town back."
"What do you do?" another asks.
My spine stiffens—assassin for hire—and I have to force a smile. "Absolutely nothing at the moment. Just living off a trust fund and enjoying my post-graduation year before settling down."
"I'll drink to that," someone else says, lifting his brandy in a toast.
"Genesis has agreed to join me in Europe for a few months," Luke announces.
"Lucky girl."
"I'm looking forward to it," I say, stealing a quick glance at him. He smiles at me, pleased, as the waitress arrives with baskets of fresh bread.
"And where do you hail from originally, Luke? You have an interesting accent."
"Italy, originally. However, I spent much of my youth in Scotland."
"I knew it had to be Scottish," another says.
"What about your family?"
I watch him—his lips, rather—as he answers. "I have no mother or father of which to speak. No siblings. My early education included a great deal of independent study under private tutors—some of the greatest minds I've ever known. My formal schooling includes stints at both Oxford and Yale."
The list flashes in my mind, and I wonder how this never came up in our conversations. Why I never asked.
If you were doing your job, you'd know this by now.
"You certainly have the credentials for the job."
"I believe my record speaks for itself."
"What about the young lady?" one asks, frowning, nodding in my direction as if I'm not even here. As if I can't see. I don't hear.
"I'm not sure I understand what you mean," Luke confesses, reaching for his Scotch.
"We would prefer to avoid any . . . distractions," he replies, hesitating.
Luke stiffens beside me.
"I am not a distraction," I say, a vain attempt to defend myself.
"I can assure you that there is no such thing as far as I'm concerned," Luke promises. "Whatever exists between Genesis and I—whatever I'd like to exist—will have no bearing on my performance."
An older man speaks, his thick, white eyebrows drawing together, expression hard. "If we sign off on this, we want one hundred percent of your effort."
"I believe my stake in the company is enough of an incentive to see to your success. I do not fail."
The men laugh, and the disbelief resonating in its echo hovers, casting a dark shadow on the party.
Luke's eyes harden, irises blackening with disapproval. "You seem certain that this is what you want. I can make it happen. Distractions or otherwise. You realize, however, that once the contract is signed there is no breakout clause. No loopholes. You enter this agreement freely, understanding that I will do whatever necessary to see the job to completion."
"That's all we're asking, Mr. Castellani."
The smile returns. "Excellent."
Everyone seems to speak at once, the buzz of excitement palpable.
"You seem pretty confident you can give these guys what they want," I point out, keeping my voice low.
He turns toward me, voice smoldering. "I can."
"Do they know what they're giving up?"
"They've read the fine print, I'm sure."
A smile pulls at my lips. "Ah, the proverbial fine print."
"Why are you smiling?" he teases, shifting closer.
"No one knows what they're giving up, Luke. You said so yourself. Because we don't really know what we have until it's taken from us." I reach for my glass, diamond bracelet catching the light. "It's the real consequences that matter. What's hidden between the lines."
"Christ," he whispers, eyes softening. "You're amazing."
I swallow a mouthful of water, stifling a laugh. "No, I'm not."
"You are. Every second I spend with you. . . ." The thought disappears, voice lowering. "What do you want from me, Genesis?"
My body grows heavy, weighted, as the room around us disappears. And for a moment it's like he knows. He can see right through me. Who I was. Who I am. Who I'll be. He knows my every thought. Everything I've done. Everything I'll do.
"You're afraid," he confirms.
"What?"
"You're afraid to depend on anyone. You hesitate to ask for anything."
"But I don't need anything."
"There must be something," he insists. "I only want to understand you—to know you better."
"Maybe I don't know what I want."
"I refuse to believe that."
His eyes burn into mine, on fire, mesmerizing, drawing me closer. "What if—what if you can't give me what I want?"
"Impossible," he replies, voice dangerously low. "But I'll admit my fear is that what you want for yourself isn't in line with what I want for you."
"I don't know what you want for me."
A sharp laugh. "At this point I think I'd settle for your happiness." He reaches for his drink, smile easing to a frown.
"That offends you. Why?"
He swallows hard, returns the drink to the table. "Because I like you, Genesis," he admits, tone harsh, abrupt. He casts a furtive glance around us. The men are absorbed in private conversations. "I . . . like you," he murmurs. His thumb moves along my back, caressing my skin, slowly circling the space between my shoulders. "From the moment I saw you sitting on that barstool. And you should know that was never my intention. That's not how I operate. And yet . . . I can't seem to get enough of yo
u."
Someone moves, hastening toward us, winding between tables. But I can't. I'm trapped, smothered in his eyes, unraveling at the core.
Luke Castellani likes me.
His hand curls behind my neck, guiding me closer, and my head tilts instinctively as his lips brush my jaw line, sending a thousand tingles tripping through my body. I feel him everywhere.
He wants me.
It's like a high—that someone so powerful. . . .
My skin burns where he's touched me, humming.
"Let me make you happy," he whispers, breath warm against my ear.
My spine shudders. Everything inside screams at me to say yes.
I need to say no.
But my voice, my lips—they refuse to work properly.
The figure approaches, passing, fingers sweeping along my skin. The moment evaporates, disappearing with a delicious shiver, and my attention shifts as he saunters away, dark hair shining beneath each new slant of light.
Seth.
THIRTY-ONE
"Thank you, gentleman. I'll be in touch." Luke shakes every hand as I linger by the car, shifting my weight from one leg to the other, afraid to stop moving for fear of freezing to the sidewalk. An icy breeze rips between us as he opens the door. It's warm inside, a dry heat, as if the engine idled through dinner.
As we pull into the street, as my fingers and my toes begin to thaw, my thoughts swirl.
It wasn't him. It's impossible. There's no way.
If it wasn't him, then who was it? The voice in my head counters. It looked just like him.
I don't know. My imagination. My mind playing tricks on me. What I wanted to see—not what was really there.
Luke speaks, interrupting, jarring me back to reality, and I realize I haven't heard a single word he's said since we left the restaurant.
"What?"
"I said I appreciate you coming with me tonight."
The world shifts, sinking into weightlessness. "Oh." I turn toward the window, squeezing my eyes shut. But those sparkles—those lights—already they lure me into them. "You're, um, welcome."
No visions. Please, I beg. Not here.
"Are you all right?" Luke's voice is far away, distant.