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The assassin stabbed again. Again, Marcello used his own movement against him, guiding the knife to the side.
Thrust—block.
Another thrust—block.
Arkan was shockingly good, but Marcello was better and knew he was better. He was looking for an opening, but he was in no hurry. And everyone else just watched it. They were fighting for a full five seconds, and nobody jumped up and hit the bad guy with a chair.
Arkan tossed the knife into his left hand with ridiculous precision and slashed, sure and fast. Somehow Marcello had anticipated it and leaned out of the way. The camera caught his face. His eyes glinted. His lips stretched, baring his teeth. It almost looked like anger, but I had seen that exact expression on Alessandro’s face. Marcello was having fun.
Finish him. Stop playing with him and finish it.
The assassin kicked at Marcello’s leading leg, aiming for the kneecap. Alessandro’s father stepped out of the way and hammered a quick jab into the attacker’s face.
Ouch. Straight shot to the nose. That had to hurt like hell.
The video froze. Nothing moved. Marcello paused, one arm extended, fingers ready to grab. To the left, an older man half rose from his chair, caught in midmove. To the right, a woman stopped in midscream, her hands halfway to her mouth.
I tapped the pause button a couple of times. The timer was still going, counting off the seconds. The video didn’t freeze. Somehow, Arkan had petrified the entire wedding party.
The assassin uncoiled from an aborted kick, his movements smooth, almost lazy. He raised his hand and slit Marcello’s throat with a dramatically wide swipe. It was almost a flourish. He made a little show of it.
Marcello stared straight at the camera. His neck had to be cut, but there was no blood.
I had never heard of this in my life. I had never seen it, I’d never read about it. How?
The killer moved past Marcello, sliding between the bride and the groom. Someone had pressed the invisible play button, and suddenly people moved. The man on the left collapsed into his chair. A piercing scream cut through the silence. Marcello gulped. Blood drenched the front of his neck, a hot, vivid scarlet.
The assassin looked at the bride and stabbed the groom in the chest. A textbook thrust to the heart, easy to understand, almost impossible to execute.
“Francis says hello,” the killer said.
The groom collapsed. The bride spun and ran from the altar, clutching her gown in her hands. The wedding guests fled in all directions, knocking over chairs in a human stampede. The camera shuddered and became still. The photographer must’ve fled, abandoning it on its tripod.
At the altar Marcello fell to his knees, his hand clamped on his throat. Blood spurted between his fingers. He sagged to the ground and folded on his side, his eyes terrified.
A lone boy stood in the middle of the aisle, staring at Marcello with Alessandro’s eyes. I had no idea when he had gotten there.
Arkan put his foot on the groom’s chest, pulled the knife out, wiped it on the groom’s jacket and strode past Marcello down the aisle. The boy watched him come. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink, like a baby rabbit seeing a wolf approach. His fear locked him in place, shivering in his eyes.
My heart was beating too fast. I wanted to reach through the video and grab him and run away.
Arkan paused by him and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Sorry, kid. It’s business.”
The boy gazed at him, glassy-eyed.
The killer nodded and walked away.
The video stopped.
My mouth tasted bitter. The muscles of my face contracted, too tight, squeezing and making me dizzy. I closed my eyes, waiting it out.
It was like watching Runa’s mom die again, only it was worse, because it was Alessandro’s father and Alessandro was there, helpless and terrified. The look on his face . . .
My hands rolled into fists.
How long had Alessandro stood there watching his father die?
He must have felt like his whole life ended right there, on that lawn. He must have been like me. I divided my life into before Dad died and after, except I had my mother and my sisters and my cousins, who all loved me. He had his grandfather, who called his dead father an idiot. He also had his mother and his siblings, but he barely mentioned them. Whenever he talked about his family, it was in terms of obligation. It was never in terms of love.
It should have shattered Alessandro. It probably had. At some point he must have thought about revenge and grasped it, like a lifeline. The need to avenge his father became his new core and he pulled himself together around it. I understood now. He must have dedicated himself completely to his vengeance. He probably only took the jobs that aligned with his goal of tracking down his father’s killer.
Alessandro was a great liar, but when he said he wanted to protect me, he was sincere. And sometimes, when he didn’t think I was paying attention, he watched me with a raw, desperate want in his eyes. It couldn’t be a lie. He looked at me like I was everything that anchored him to life.
But he’d wanted his revenge for so long, and if he told himself that the killer of his father didn’t matter, he was lying to himself. Alessandro would not stop until Arkan was dead. If it was a choice between my life and Arkan’s death, who would he put first?
I had no idea.
I knew one thing. If I ever had a chance to kill Arkan, I would take it. I would hunt him down and make him suffer. He didn’t just kill Alessandro’s father. He murdered his childhood, he destroyed his family, and until he was punished for it, Alessandro would never be free.
By the time Alessandro appeared in the doorway of my room, I had wiped off the circle, taken a shower, blow-dried my hair, twisted it into a bun with a hairpin, and gotten dressed.
He’d switched to a blue-grey suit with a crisp white shirt with the two top buttons undone. The suit hugged his waist and broadened his shoulders. Instead of minimizing his physique, he accentuated it. His hair was brushed back from his face, and his five o’clock shadow drew the eye to his perfect jaw and sensual mouth. He left the jewelry back at his hotel. Combined with the casually unbuttoned shirt and tousled hair, the effect was unsettling. He looked like a man who’d spent the entire day working and now was ready to relax, but more than that, he looked ready for intimacy. I could imagine stepping close, running my hands over his hard chest, and nudging the coat out of the way to kiss his muscular neck and feel the scrape of that sexy stubble on my lips.
I knew it was a pose, I knew it wasn’t for me, but I saw him and just stared for a long moment, unable to help myself.
“You dressed up for Cheryl.” I managed to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
“Yes. Your makeup is done. Were you going to leave without me?”
“No. I waited for you.”
Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
Somehow, he could tell. Something must have been off in my tone or expression. I needed to do a better job of hiding.
“Yes. I got my third shot of antivenom and no additional painkillers to deal with it. Let’s go before my willpower gives out and I start crying like a five-year-old.”
We were walking down the hallway to the front door when he said, “Catalina, I won’t let anyone hurt you. I won’t abandon you.”
A few days ago, I wouldn’t have believed him. He had abandoned me, and he’d done it during one of the worst times of my life, when I’d needed him most. But I knew better now. I still didn’t understand why, but Alessandro was determined to put himself between Arkan and me. And I would do the same for him.
“I know,” I told him and made myself smile.
Chapter 11
Alessandro insisted on driving again.
“Do you have a problem with the way I drive?”
“No.”
“Then why do you keep stealing the keys?”
He glanced at me. “It keeps me occupied. My eyes are on the road and my hands are on the wheel.”
I decided it would be a great idea to shut up and keep my own eyes on the road.
Cheryl Castellano owned an office suite in Felicity Tower off West Loop. The office in the brand-new thirty-five-floor tower came with perks, like private elevators, chartered helicopter service, complimentary access to a world-class steakhouse, and a private courier firm. Clearly House Castellano’s show of humility didn’t extend to their business accommodations.
I didn’t want to see Cheryl right now. I needed to be sharp and alert for this conversation, and instead I was still tired and slightly loopy from the medication. Too much had happened today, and this wouldn’t be an easy interview.
Bern’s background on Cheryl had been rather brief by his standards, only about twelve pages. She was the Head of House Castellano, forty-one, widowed, two sons and one daughter, ages twenty, eighteen, and sixteen. Both parents deceased. Her only living relative was her uncle, also a Prime animator. She married Paul Renfield, a Significant animator, at twenty, and he took her name. He had no House; he was a statistical anomaly born to Average parents and he died in his thirties from a preexisting heart condition.
House Castellano made their wealth in the construction industry, and among the five board members, Cheryl’s resources were second only to Felix’s. She seemed obsessed with charitable giving. The list of the organizations she contributed to was a mile long, everything from Red Cross to the local Bright Minds of Houston scholarship fund. She sat on the boards of a dozen charities and floated through the top ranks of Houston’s elite thanks to her wealth and stellar reputation.
