Page 75 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
My brows arch. For a smart man, he’s utterly failing to grasp the general concept of our predicament. “Is prison overrated? Because if I’m caught—”
“I’m gonna take care of that.”
Examining his face gives me no clue as to what he could possibly mean, so I prod an explanation. “‘That’ being…”
“Your record. The rap sheet of one nameless, international thief known as the Dragonfly. That’s all gonna go away.”
Because my brain is incapable of directing any of my bodily functions in the aftermath of that outrageous statement, my mouth falls open and expels a small, astonished breath on its own. It takes every ounce of focus and determination I have to form a coherent sentence, and even then, it’s only three sputtered words.
“Th-that’s not p-possible!”
In his supremely casual, confident, infuriatingly-vague-yet-dripping-with-overt-sexual-innuendo-Ryan-like way, he drawls, “You just worry about how you’re gonna show your gratitude when your man’s done fixin’ all your shit that’s broke, okay?”
He kisses the tip of my nose and makes a move to turn away, but I grip his biceps and give him a hard shake, which fails to move him even a single inch. This time it’s his brows that arch.
“Stop it! Just stop with the random, over-the-top, incompre
hensible pronouncements! How are you going to fix it?”
He produces a dazzling smile that, if it showed up on anyone else’s face but his, would inspire me to commit homicide.
“That’s what heroes do, baby. We save the motherfuckin’ day.”
When it becomes apparent that that’s his idea of a reasonable explanation, I say between gritted teeth, “I will kill you where you stand.”
“Damn, you’re gorgeous when you’re angry.”
I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath while mentally adding another few choice words to his list of faults.
“Ryan. Please. This is my future we’re talking about. My life. No more jokes. Tell me.”
He strokes the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone, following its path with his gaze. “I made a deal with the FBI to get the charges against you dropped. I’m gonna give ’em somethin’ they want a lot more than a jewel thief.”
My heart slams against my breastbone, sending my pulse flying, my blood roaring through my veins. The FBI? A deal? He can’t be serious. He can’t possibly be speaking the truth.
“What are you going to give them?” I manage to ask past the roaring in my ears.
The wolf slips back into Ryan’s eyes and is there in the growl in his voice when he answers.
“A monster.”
Twenty
Ryan
Mariana stares at me, breathless, speechless, her eyes wide and her face bone pale. For a while, I’m not sure if she’s happy or angry, but then she releases my arms, stumbles backward, and drops heavily into a chair.
Gazing up at me like I just arrived from outer space, she breathes, “Capo?”
“Yeah. Vincent Moreno, aka Capo, head of the European crime syndicate, head of a transnational human and drug trafficking organization, head of a big fuckin’ violent snake that specializes in suffering and exploitation. Your boss.”
“My jailor,” she corrects vehemently. “My master. The man who holds my leash!”
I force myself not to react to the image those words invoke of Mariana on her knees, the man from the limousine with the dead eyes gripping the chain to the choke collar around her neck. But rage has a way of making itself known in spite of all efforts to contain it. In this case, it’s the flush of heat climbing my neck that gives me away.
She glances at my throat and sniffs in disapproval. “If all it takes are those few words to get you mad, you’ll never be able to take him down. He’s a siphon for negative emotions. He’ll feed off anything—anger, fear, shame, doubt—grow stronger from it, and turn it around and use it against you.”
The heat on my neck flames hotter. “There you go underestimating me again.”
