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Leo talks about trust, but it’s bullshit. He doesn’t trustme, even after I proved to him that I have his back during our visit to PacSyn, not to mention their subsequent raid on the docks.
So much for Jack’s theory that one simply has toshowtrustworthiness. And haven’t I done exactly the same for Jack? Saved his life? And what do I get in return?
Insults and threats.
I don’t often get angry. I don’t often feel much at all, not emotionally, which might be one reason I like Hollywood parties so much. All those heightened actions and reactions, all those beautiful people play-acting emotional highs and lows, so easy to memorize the way they pull their mouths wide or furrow their brows.
Much easier to mimic than the stoic, controlled faces of the Castellani men.
But right now, I’m scowling, my mouth a hard downturn, my eyebrows so tight together that they’re in danger of cramping. And there’s something hot burning in the middle of my chest, a glowing coal that makes me eager to blow on it, see if I can make it catch fire.
I wonder if this is how Sandro feels when he gets angry. Because it’s notjustanger. I might have a blunted experience of human emotion, as a rather foolish therapist once tried to explain to my father, but I can still differentiate one feeling from another.
And this—whatever it is—doesn’t feel like anger. It doesn’t have the same taste. It’s not even sitting in the same place, physically. It’s—
I turn a corner and see a shadow leaning against the wall. A shadow that becomes a person as it steps into my path. A person wearing a balaclava.
“Walk away,” I warn. “I’m not in the mood.”
And just as they start running at me, I’m aware of a rustle behind me as well, another shadow, dressed all in black, but much broader in the body than any martial artists I know. Broad and heavy andslow.
The first attacker charges at me, knife in hand. I’m ready for him, though, and as he lunges forward with the blade I dive to the side and grab his arm, twisting it in an effort to disarm him. He yelps in pain but doesn’t let go of the weapon, so I slam the heel of my hand into his nose. He stumbles back, stunned, and I catch his knife as it drops from his hand.
Nice. A good weight, well-balanced. But I have no more time. The second attacker is coming up behind me. I spin around just in time to see him take out a gun and point it directly at my head. Instinctively, I throw the knife in my hand, and with a dull thunk, it drives home.
The first attacker is still leaking blood from his nose, coming up on us as I pull the knife out of the dead man. I spin it around in my fingers, enjoying the pretty spray of blood, and give the other guy some time to think. He chooses wisely, backing up at once, and then he turns tail to run.
Before he can get more than two strides away, the knife finds a new sheath in his back. He falls heavily to the ground, crawls a few feet, and then slumps, defeated.
I jog up, pull out the knife, and roll him over. “Who sent you?” I try, but he’s too far gone.
Pity.
With the tail of my shirt, I wipe off the handle of the knife and leave it there next to him. As a last thought, I ease up the balaclava so I can take a photograph of the dead man, then do the same to the other.
Maybe someone else will recognize them.
Someone like Leo.
CHAPTER28
LEO
Knowingthat a predatory assassin plans to kill my brother’s fiancée doesn’t make it any easier to prevent. Especially when I don’t want Gino to know what Dad had ordered, not yet. It’d break his heart. So while the smart thing to do would be to corner the two lovebirds at home, explain the situation, and tell them what I’m going to do about it—once I’ve figured that out—I don’t do that.
Instead, I arrive at Chateau de la Lune the next afternoon, ignore the concierge’s squeaks about the dress code, and find Roxanne Rochford lounging under a huge sunshade out by the pool with her faithful clique hanging off her every word.
She bolts upright as soon as she sees me, and looks like she’s about to make a break for it. “You,” I say, pointing at her, “stay right there.” She freezes. “The rest of you,git.” They get. Scatter like vultures startled by a lion.
“Oh, my God,” Roxy says, breathing hard, and backing up on her lounge chair. “Leo,what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to have a conversation,” I say, sitting down at the end of her chair. It’s low to the ground and awkward, but I make the best of it. “And it’s gonna suck for both of us, but I figured it was better to have it with you than with Gino.”
Her pale skin has gone pink, and her hand shakes a little as she reaches for the cocktail sitting on the stand next to her. I watch her suck half of it down in one go, and then she gives a big gasp and seems to get ahold of herself.
“We can talk here, or we can talk inside,” I say. “What’ll it be?”
“H-here.” I can’t see her eyes. They’re covered by huge black shades. But the way she turns her head in little starts tells me she’s looking all around, trying to find help.
