Revelation (24 page)

"It was . . .
dark
," I reply, wracking my brain, searching the memory. "We were in an alley. I mean, they were tall. Tall as me, or maybe taller. They were young. Strong."

"Any unique features? Distinguishing marks?" he presses.

"No. I don't know."

My hand moves to my throat. It's tender to the touch. Hurts to swallow. Luke grasps my chin with his fingers, turns my head closer, lifting, examining my neck where, even now, bruises darken.

His eyes narrow, brows pulling together, anger weaving itself into every feature. "Christ. You're serious."

"
Of course
I'm serious!" I reply, jerking away from him. "Why would I make something like this up?"

A deep frown wrinkles his forehead. "Charles, make some calls. Find out if anyone has seen or heard anything unusual," he orders. Then, turning to me: "I have eyes and ears everywhere. I'll find out who did this. The deed will
not
go unpunished, I assure you."

He speaks quickly, words dripping with unease. Sincerity.

He isn't lying.

Luke
Castellani
had nothing to do with tonight. He didn't send the demons, wasn't searching for information about me. He knew nothing of this. It's written in his eyes. But as reassuring as this is, if he wasn't behind their actions, someone else
was
.

"In the meantime, please allow me to loan you a couple of my escorts," he continues. "In the event you need to step out of the hotel for anything, I'd prefer it if you were accompanied."

"We spend a few days together and I need a bodyguard now?"

"I've worked with thousands of people, Genesis—CEOs, Chairmen, Councils, Trustees—helping them achieve their goals. Unfortunately, there are prices to be paid. Restructuring. Lay-offs. Cutbacks. The men you encountered tonight could be two of any number of people I've offended over the years, inadvertently or otherwise."

"Then why do it?" I ask. "I don't understand. What's the point?"

Power. Money. Greed.

I need to know. I need for him to
admit
something.

"I don't do anything not requested of me. Someone wants his company to reach
Fortune
five hundred status, I make it happen. Another wants to take his corporation public. . . . They all call me. But what I've found over the years is that no one really knows what they want. It's like . . . lottery winners. They're desperate for millions, but they have no idea how the money will affect them. How it will tear their families apart. Put them at risk. And, at the end of it all, when they look back, they wonder if they weren't happier or better off to begin with. People are fickle, Love. I'm just in the business of giving them what they ask for."

"I want to go to Europe." The words escape my lips without hesitation, stunning both of us. "What price do I pay? What do I lose?"

"You lose nothing," he promises.

"There are strings attached to everything from you, Luke. You just said so."   

His fingers trace my neck, caressing, as if they contain the power to heal—to make the bruises, the pain,
everything
, disappear. 

"You were never a business proposition to me," he whispers.

"I don't believe that."

The corners of his lips turn in an almost-smile. "You're not very trusting, are you?"

He clears his throat when I don't respond, eyes tearing from mine. "Did you mean what you said? About Europe?"

I waver, faltering before giving my answer, feeling the electricity, the danger, behind the word. "Yes."

T
WENTY-NINE

The following morning a thick, white envelope slides beneath my door. I lie in bed in my new suite, surrounded by beautiful yellow sunflowers, staring at it, wondering what it means before I dare touch it. I finally throw off the covers and climb out of bed. Pick it up. Rip it open. Collapse onto the sofa.

Plane tickets. Hotel reservations. We're flying to Amsterdam. First class.

Of course we are.

A key.

Elevator.

The penthouse.

He's giving me access to the penthouse.

My fingers curl around it, tucking it safely within a fist. I remove a small blue folder and open it.

A passport.

With my license photo. All of my personal information.

"Jesus," I mutter. Everything is set. "In less than twelve hours."

"You're not going," a voice calls.

"What? Why not?"

"Because," Viola replies, moving in front of me. "This has gone on long enough. Lucien
Castellani
is not going to
see
Europe ever again."

"I don't know what you want me to do. I don't have the information I need. I don't know how to kill him."

Her arms cross, folding together, the colorful tattoo peeking beyond the sleeve of her sweater. "This ends before he leaves."

"You want the job done right, right? You can't rush me. I can't just . . . walk up to him and shoot him. We're barely ever alone. I don't even know where to aim!"

She lunges for me, eyes flaming, wraps her fingers around my neck, searing the already tender bruises from the night before. "You are
not
going to ruin this for me," she says, teeth clenched.

"If you kill me now, you'll ruin it for yourself," I choke.

"Will I?" She exhales. Her fingers loosen. "Don't let him get to you, Genesis. He's tricking you. All of his promises? His gifts? They mean
nothing
. He will take everything you have, and he will throw you away."

"Is that what he did to you?"

Her eyes narrow, expression hardening. "Something was taken from me—something I am
desperate
to get back. . . . That's all you need to know."

T
HIRTY

Luke
Castellani
is silent. I hear nothing for the next thirty-six hours. There are no messages. No mysterious packages. Notes slipped beneath my door. My only visitors are maids and hotel staffers delivering meals and fresh towels. The flat screen becomes my gateway to the outside world, and I drown myself in kitchen renovation shows, bathroom makeovers, and police drama marathons. But mostly I worry. I worry Luke is gone. That he left for Europe without me. That he somehow discovered who I am and why I'm here. I wonder where he is. What he's doing. Why he hasn't contacted me.

Apart from him I realize how attached I've become. Every second without him like coming off a high. Difficult at first, with an ensuing sense of clarity. Who I am. What I have to do. What will make it happen.

The following morning, before climbing out of bed or drawing back the curtains, I grab a hotel memo pad and ink pen off the nightstand. And, by the light of the sconces framing the bed, I draw. First the outline of a body, then every characteristic Mara taught me. Every possibility. Emotions. Disappointment. Selfishness. Jealousy. Malice. Resentment. Lust.

Because I can't kill him if I don't know what drives him.

In one column, I list everything I know:

No family. No wife or kids.

If he's not lying.

The most powerful demon walking the Earth.

Not his words.

A businessman. An investor of people.

Has everything, but isn't satisfied.

In another column, I focus on personality, what he's like: Confident. Polite. Witty. Reserved. Apologetic.

Protective, but not possessive. In control. He's never lost his temper. I've seen no malicious behavior. He's been nothing but gracious and generous. But Viola . . . she hates him. The Council believes he deserves to die. Mara swears he can't be trusted. There has to be something I'm not seeing. A side of him I'm not exposed to.

And that creeping voice in the back of my head persists, desperate to be heard:

Even if you figure out what Lucien
Castellani
wants, will you be able to pull the trigger?

When the phone finally rings late in the afternoon on that second day, I try not to jump to answer it, or sound relieved when I hear his voice on the other end.

"I was starting to think you left without me," I tease.

He laughs. It's light, musical.
Happy
. "I'm sorry. I've been tied up in meetings."

"I'm glad you called."

"Me too. I've missed you."

The words ring with genuine surprise, the tiniest flutters rippling through my body. Already I'm craving him, more time with him.

Don't do this. Don't let anything get in the way of what you have to do.

Because if I'm not stronger than him, if I'm not smarter, faster, this is all for nothing. I clear my throat, guarded. "What can I do for you?"

Another laugh. "What makes you think I'm calling for a favor?"

"I haven't heard a word from you in two days. Are you saying you called to check up on me?"

"All right. Guilty. I need a favor. I have a business dinner tonight. It's nothing formal, but I'd like to make an impression, and that means I need a beautiful, charming woman on my arm."

"I think you've managed fine without me so far," I point out, twirling the phone cord around my finger.

"True. But imagine the damage I could do with you by my side."

"What time?"

There's a smile in his voice. "I'll be at your room by seven."

Dinner.

I stand frozen in front of a barren closet—nothing to wear. And my winter coat is gone, already on its way to some landfill on the outskirts. I check the clock again, seconds slipping away. I can't go shopping
and
get ready.

And so I reach for the phone and dial zero. I
am
VIP, after all.

*          *          *

At three minutes past seven Luke
Castellani
knocks on my door. I grab my purse and the black pea coat, tags freshly snipped, from the edge of the bed.

"You look stunning, Love," he says, planting a soft kiss on my cheek.

The hotel operator remained true to her word, sending several dress and coat samples to my suite within the hour. I refuse to think about the sheer number of beverages, trays of food, dessert menus, I would've delivered to earn that money in a previous life—a life not too long ago, even.