Page 106 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
For a long time, there’s nothing below us but water. Endless water, in every direction. But then I glimpse a spot of white in the distance against the unceasing navy blanket, and it all makes sense.
As we fly closer, the size of the yacht grows and grows until we’re hovering over it, and I get a better sense of how massive it truly is. I’ve seen city blocks that are shorter. The helipad we’re headed toward is on the lowest of the vessel’s six decks, to the rear of an oval swimming pool which is situated at the extreme forward tip. There’s another helipad on the aft deck, an enormous bridge deck topped with bulbous satellites, and a tender on the starboard side that’s about the size of an average ski boat, only it looks miniscule in comparison to the sheer enormity of its berth.
The megayacht’s name is spelled out in italic lettering on one section of white siding:
Sea Fox.
“She has a two-seater submarine, too,” says the lead assassin, startling me. When I stare at him, he smiles. “In case Capo wants to take you for a deep-sea dive after dinner.”
His smile turns evil. Heart pounding, I look away.
We land on the helipad with a gentle bump.
A manservant in a white uniform opens the door from the outside. Ignoring everyone else, he gestures at me to disembark. I do, with the assassins following at my heels. We’re led off the deck and through an outer lounging area of tables, cushioned sofas, and a large, built-in fire pit. Then we enter the yacht through electrically operated sliding-glass doors.
The first thing I hear is opera music. Muted and beautiful, it plays over hidden speakers and instantly makes my stomach curdle. I force back memories of the last time I heard opera and try to remain calm.
I fail. Every part of my body that has sweat glands is working overtime.
The interior of the yacht is decorated in muted earth tones of sand, brown and gray, with ultramodern furnishings and a lot of polished wood. Colorful, contemporary art adorns the walls. We head toward a glass staircase in the center of a lobby-like area, and I follow the manservant as he mutely motions me on.
Why doesn’t he speak?
“Loose lips sink ships,” one of the men behind me says with a low, sinister chuckle. I realize he’s read my mind at the same time I realize the probable meaning of those words. The manservant is missing his tongue.
Breathe, Mari. Just breathe. One foot in front of the other.
We walk for what feels like a lifetime, navigating through a warren of rooms—each more spectacular and luxurious than the last—until we arrive at a pair of mahogany doors flanked by marble statues of roaring lions, fangs bared, crouched to pounce. The manservant raps twice on the doors, waits until he hears a murmur from within, then pushes open the doors and stands aside.
The suite is vast, maybe five thousand square feet from glass wall to glass wall, with a private outside deck at the opposite end. It’s tall, too, three stories capped with the brilliance of a modern, sculpture-like chandelier suspended from clear cables so it appears to float in midair.
The floor is white marble, the view is of sparkling ocean, and the man looking out the windows across from me with his hands in his trouser pockets and his back turned in my direction is Vincent Moreno.
My heart stutters. For one long, breathless moment, I’m transported back in time to that fateful night, the last time I saw my sister alive, when I was so near death and a dragonfly saved me.
Reynard saved me. I owe him my life. That’s why I’m here.
The thought gives me strength as Capo turns around and meets my eyes.
Our gazes lock.
I’m certain one of us isn’t leaving this room alive.
He’s wearing a crisp white linen suit, which sets off his dark tan. The collar of his shirt is open, revealing a strong neck. A small gold medallion nestles in the hollow of his throat. He’s calm and spotless, and I hate him so fiercely, it’s like I’ve swallowed fire.
His lips curve upward. “Mari. You made it.”
His gaze flicks over me, taking in my tangled hair, rumpled clothing, and bare feet. “Though worse for wear, it would appear.” His gaze slices to the three assassins, who’ve taken up positions against the wall to my left and stand with hands clasped behind their backs, faces impassive.
He wanders across the room, in no particular hurry, stopping midway to inspect a bowl of green grapes set out on a glass coffee table. He selects a few, then continues toward me, popping a grape into his mouth.
My hands shake so hard with the urge to curl around his throat that I have to flex them open to get them to stop.
When Capo’s within arm’s reach, he pauses. He lifts his chin at the manservant, who bows and silently backs from the room, closing the doors behind him. Then he stands looking at me for a while, obviously relishing the moment.
“Were you treated well by my men?”
“What difference does it make?”
