Page 59 of Intrigue

It’s been a few minutes and I’m still waiting.

The gallery reeks of varnish and fresh paint, an undercurrent of something metallic staining the air. The art pieces mock me from their perches, pretty distractions meant to draw moths to the flame. I check my watch again. The Morettis will arrive soon, following breadcrumbs about a nonexistent shipment straight into my carefully laid snare.

My fingers brush the cold metal beneath my jacket. Everything is positioned exactly as planned, but my thoughts keep drifting to Selene. To last night.

A door creaks. Footsteps echo through the gallery’s hollow spaces.

I stand in the shadows near the mezzanine, watching the men filter in below. The Morettis are careful, backs to the walls, hands twitching too close to their weapons. They know something isn’t right, but greed trumps caution.

I count three. I expected more.

Bianchi’s intel said they’d come sniffing around for a shipment that doesn’t exist, a fabrication meant to dangle bait in front of their desperation. The Marconis have been closing in, and the Morettis are bleeding resources trying to keep up. That makes them reckless. And reckless men are easy to kill.

“Check the back rooms,” a gruff voice commands. “That shipment has to be here somewhere.”

I slip behind a marble sculpture, trying to slow down my heartbeats. This could go terribly wrong in one wrong move.Three sets of shoes scuff against hardwood. Amateur work, coming in blind like this. But desperation makes men stupid.

The first shot is clean. Straight through the throat. A wet gurgle, a heavy fall. His body crumples before his friends react. The second man spins, gun raised, but I’m faster. A shot to the kneecap drops him, and the next one ends it before he can scream.

The third—Giovanni Moretti, I recognize now—scrambles backward. “The bastard!” he screams. “Don Marconi was right about everything. About the girl—”

I advance, weapon raised, but he’s already running. His words echo: “The Moretti bastard will pay! She’ll pay!”

My blood turns to ice. They know about Selene already.

That bastard put everything on her.

Now they want to finish what Edoardo started. They do not know the real person who orchestrated this whole thing.

They know but not the whole of it.

I lunge forward, firing, but he’s already past the gallery doors, stumbling into the night. Bianchi will handle it. I tell myself that, but my pulse is hammering too hard against my ribs. If they know who she is—if they’re putting pieces together—I don’t have time to let him run.

I turn, ready to chase, when a shuffling noise drags my attention to the left.

Cassian.

He stumbles in through the back entrance, leaving a trail of blood. His shirt is soaked, dark smears streaking down his arm. He’s gasping, mumbling, hands shaking. When he lifts his head, his eyes are wild.

“I—” His breath hitches. “I fucked up.”

I move before I think, gripping his collar, yanking him up until his toes barely scrape the floor. “Where is she?”

He chokes on a laugh, or maybe it’s a sob. “Gone.”

Something sharp twists in my chest. I slam him against the wall, rattling the frame of some worthless painting. “Where?”

His smile is red, teeth stained with blood. “Tried to stop her. Tried to stop him. The Don.” His head lolls, eyes unfocused. “I loved her. I loved her, and she—”

“Where. Is. She?”

“I ran when she shot the gun. I left her with... the Don...” He coughs, red spittle on his lips. “Been working for him... watching her... but I fell in love. Wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Focus.” My fingers tighten. He gags. “What did you do?”

“Hit her.” His laugh is broken glass. “Hit her good when I found out about you two. The Don will kill her anyway. Should’ve seen how she looked when—”

Something snaps inside me. I don’t remember moving. One second, he’s standing. The next, he’s on the floor, coughing up more blood, hands scrabbling for purchase as I drive my fist into his ribs. Again. Again.