Page 4 of Tide of Treason
Inside, the foyer was all mirror-polish marble. A hostess with caramel hair and glacier eyes cocked an eyebrow at my boots (blood-flecked laces, lovely) and pointed me toward the staircase cloaked in crimson velvet.
“Private suite, second door. Don’t stray.”
Wasn’t planning on it.
Halfway up, I felt the crawl again, that tide of heat that licked the inside of my skull and whisperedrun, tear, burn.I flexed my fingers, counted back from ten in Portuguese, and pushed through the second door.
At first, I thought the woman was a mirage, some decadent hallucination cooked up by adrenaline and sleep debt, but then the crystal tumbler in her hand flashed, an ice cube clicked, and reality bit down hard. Dark hair coiled over one shoulder in a sinuous rope, black dress slipped over curves that made physics look fucking handcrafted. God must’ve been feeling showy the day he built her, but I’ve always known he’s got a dark sense of humor.
I flicked the clasp on the duffel once, twice, a nervous tic masquerading as nonchalance. The nylon rasp echoed off mirrored paneling and crystal sconces, glassy nerves jangling against sharper edges.
Our gazes met.
If she noticed the corpses marching behind mine, she didn’t blink. I wondered if the gunshot residue on my sleeves left visible ghosts; her stare suggested she could catalogue each one by caliber. Then the door clicked shut behind me, severing exit and excuse alike.
“Lost?” she drawled.
“Waiting on Francesco.” My glare drifted to the glass in her grip. Hesitantly, I added, “Until then, I’ll drink your silence.”
“My cousin is busy. You’ll deal with me.”
Right. Okay. Hell with it.
Up close, the specifics blurred: cheekbones that could cut diamonds, lips the shade of freshly oxygenated blood, lashes long enough to net sins. But it was the thing beneath the bone-deep poise—some volatile shimmer under her skin—thatpinned me. It punched through my rib cage with one perfect heartbeat of recognition, and suddenly the night jolted backward, spooling through blood-wet memories until it snagged on seventeen.
The shelter lights were broken that night. Everything buzzed. I’d blacked out after some guy tried to touch me in the wrong fucking way, or maybe it was the day Abel and I jumped the dealer who’d been using ten-year-olds as mules. I don’t remember what triggered it. The hallucination was always soft around the edges. A haze of perfume and heat and soft lips on my busted eyebrow. A manicured hand running through my curls. And then . . .Ragazzo stupendo.
I thought it meantstupid. To this day, I haven’t checked. It felt right.
The past fizzed, faded, and then I was back in the present, feeling a decade too young, and all the worse for it.
“You always crash your cousin’s appointments?” My tone was lazy, but the thrum beneath it was not.
“Only when the guest list concerns my family’s future.” A pause, infinitesimal. “And mine.”
Huh. “So this is what the Italian welcome committee looks like.”
“Depends.” One brow rose. “Feel welcomed?”
Honestly? “No. I was hoping for one of your strippers to give me a nice, sloppy welcome. Maybe a little tongue if I tipped right.”
She shook her head. “I asked for someone competent. Francesco sends me this.” Her tongue flicked over her teeth ina way that made my gut clench. Suddenly the urge to bolt rode high in my throat, but I forced that nagging voice down, back where the dead men lived.
She was a chameleon. I knew the type when I saw one. Guaranteed, this woman could walk into a Wall Street boardroom and convince them she was born in Connecticut. But here, behind crystal and gold filigree, she let Europe seep through her consonants. Rounded Rs. A whisper of Palermo sun. For some reason, that pissed me off. That she could sound American, and didn’t. That she didn’t bother, with me.
She also didn’t offer her name. So I gave her mine. Or, rather, a variation. All the fucking variations. Because that’s what people like me did when we weren’t sure if someone was going to shoot us or fuck us.
“Lucius Andrade,” I said, first. Real as it goddamn gets. No flicker. “Also known as: Braga’s Bastard. The Rio Reaper. Andrade the Undying. FBI’s Favorite Liability. Bleach Boy—long story. The Ghost in the Shipping Yard. Saint Lucius of Lost Causes. Psych Eval Pending. Unmedicated Liability. Darling of Staten Island, brief as that was. The reason two DEA teams are still in therapy. And one girl in Newark calls mePapi.”
She regarded me heavily, as if I was an odd species. “Are you waiting for applause?”
“After that roll call? A nod would do,chica.”
Silence stretched.
The chandelier hummed.
“You’re reckless,” she decided.
