Chapter 46
CHAPTER
FORTY-SIX
“You are simply ravishing,” Graham murmurs.
I send him back one of his trademark winks. “You clean up pretty well yourself, thief.”
He cups my face with both hands, eyes darkening as he leans in, my favorite errant lock of hair brushing against my forehead.
We’re promptly yanked apart.
“Disgusting,” Black Eye grunts, tightening my handcuffs until I’m sure they’ll leave a mark on my wrists. “Do your job and watch him,” he snaps at the man guarding Graham.
The man, let’s call him Damon—he looks like a Damon—grabs Graham’s arms and pulls him further away from me.
We’re standing in the hall outside our rooms, presumably waiting for some sort of cue to head to Manon’s party.
I should also probably mention the two men flanking Black Eye, looming like they’re ready to pounce, as if I’ve put them on edge.
Oops.
If someone’s going to die tonight, it’s not going to be me. I will stubbornly hang onto this tentative future of mine with my fingernails, if I have to. Why give up now when I’ve finally begun living again?
It’s just like Raffaele said: I’ve always been uncommonly good at survival. Time to finally use that for good.
We can hear the muffled swell of an orchestra from here, which is exactly the level of dramatics I’ve come to expect from Manon at this point.
The dress, although comfortable, provided no room for me to hide the phone or even a makeshift weapon.
Not that the paper the invitation came on was large enough to fashion a shiv, anyway.
Damon dips his head like someone’s talking into his ear piece.
“C’mon, pretty boy,” he grunts and pushes Graham down the hall toward the stairs. “You first.”
His eyes meet mine over his shoulder and narrow on the men beside me. I give a tiny, reassuring nod, despite the rising tide of nerves drowning my emotions. Being separated was not part of my plan.
Time to think three steps ahead.
“Where are they taking him?” I start, trying for one of the New Guys.
Black Eye holds up a hand. “Don’t—she’s slippery.”
I smile to myself. What an unexpected compliment—I’ll add it to my list.
“What are you grinning about?” he barks, releasing the bruising grip he had on my arm and pacing to face me.
Intrigued, I crack another smile, laughing as if I’d just thought of the funniest joke.
He backhands me in response. I let myself stumble, giving a whimper and a teary-eyed plea to other men.
“Nice try,” Black Eye grunts.
One of the other men steps in. “Boss said not to kill her.”
Ah, my Protector. A man with a sliver of surviving conscience that I can manipulate to my gain.
“Yeah,” he replies, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t rough her up first.”
My lower lip trembles and I glance at my Protector. He’s at least 6’3”, with a buzzcut and a ramrod stance that tells me he was recently in the military. His face hardens as Black Eye retrieves a pair of spiked brass knuckles from one of his pockets.
The third man, who hasn’t moved an inch, looks as if he can’t be bothered by this entire situation. Maybe we’re interrupting his dinner.
My Protector comes to my side when Black Eye approaches. All my senses, tingling and at the ready, sharpen. I flex my fingers and stretch my neck.
Contrary to the movies, it all happens relatively fast.
Black Eye lunges. My Protector intercepts. I use the scuffle to my advantage, falling onto Black Eye and retrieving the key from his pack pocket. The men begin to fight, taller swinging first, and I pretend to stagger backward while my fingers work.
“I’m so sorry—” I say as I ram into the third man, who realizes too late that the handcuffs are on the floor and my hand is on his gun.
One, two, three shots.
They collapse in a bloody heap with resounding thuds.
Lethal? No.
Maiming? Yes.
I decided they’re not worth lengthening my ledger. My budding conscience is already struggling enough with these demanding circumstances.
They’re each incapacitated, crimson pooling around the knees. All except for Black Eye. He’s groaning, barely cognizant as I take his gun, his brass knuckles, his ear piece, and cuff his hands behind his back. He gives a shout from the twisting motion, but I’m unsure which injury I’ve disturbed.
All this whining will surely attract attention.
Sighing, I haul him upright and use the butt of his handgun to slam the base of his skull with great force. He wobbles and slumps. I push him off, his head banging against the floor.
Whoops.
All the men are left weaponless, their arms tied behind them one way or another, though I had to get creative with a jacket or two. They’re going to be walking with crutches for a while. I steal the other two ear pieces and smash them under my heel. A girl can never be too careful.
Armed with brass knuckles tucked into my bra, a loaded Glock 17 and a dream, I make the descent down the stairs.
Manon’s ballroom is sumptuous, tall windows draped in thick velvet, candlelit chandeliers dripping with wax, an ocean of attendees dressed in black.
I slink down the shadows of the empty balcony, wishing I wasn’t wearing a color that sticks out so obviously from the rest. Perhaps the dress itself was a precaution.
Thankfully, no guests linger up here, where the sconces are dark and there are no servers with glasses of champagne.
I have the perfect vantage point. I can see the groups that have formed—as no one appears overjoyed to mingle—the men with ear pieces lingering on the outskirts, the lack of gun outlines bulging under any of the guests’ tuxes or dresses.
They must have required guests to disarm before entering. My fingers practically itch to find that armory and outfit myself from head to toe.
In the corner, the music from the small orchestra swells.
Guests turn to the far wall.
Curtains, which I’d previously thought led to more windows, part with two dramatic swoops. The music halts. Conversation drops to eerie silence.
I crouch beside the railing where I can see two massive double doors swing wide.
From the dark hall, the glint of Manon’s cane peeks into the ballroom. Then her feet, clad in flats with a metal toe, followed by a crisp pantsuit that could rival one of Graham’s.
Whispers erupt through the ballroom. The crowd splits down the middle, absorbing Manon into the center, flanked by two burly guards. She scowls at each and every one of them, evidently displeased by whatever’s being said.
I watch a group of men turn and make their way out of the ballroom, heads shaking.
Manon flicks her wrist.
The doors slam shut, blocked by more guards.
“Gentlemen,” she calls.
Guests recede around her like oil and vinegar, allowing her to approach.
“It is considered rude to exit a soirée without bidding the hostess goodbye,” Manon says, her voice carrying all the way to the balcony.
A man with silver hair steps to the front of his group. “We came to pay our respects to the Consultant,” he all-but spits. “This is a waste of our time.”
Her back faces me, but I can see her shoulders tense. “If you desire to pay your respects, then, by all means.” She extends her hand that carries the signet ring.
He laughs. The men behind him join in.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly, it seems,” Manon replies coolly, tossing her cane to the other hand.
He’s still smiling, wiping his eyes like he’s laughed so hard he’s cried. “The great man we’re all at the mercy of—the one we’re all supposed to fear and obey—is nothing but a crippled little girl?—”
I’m not sure if he meant to finish his sentence.
One second he’s mocking her, the next he’s sprawled on the floor, the back of his skull broken open. Manon’s gun—a gold-plated, black powder revolver that I can’t help but admire—is still smoking once everyone else has processed what they witnessed. I didn’t even see her draw it.
I don’t think he did, either.
The group of men, now splattered with blood and gore, bow their heads and kiss her ring the moment she extends it again.
If she wasn’t trying to murder me, I’d be impressed.
She turns to the rest of them, their chins dipping in a ripple, as if no one wants to risk a repeat. The body behind her is dragged away, leaving a thick trail of crimson streaking the polished floors. Her show of force was clearly effective.
“Now,” Manon begins again after she’s tucked her gun back behind her suit jacket. “I have gathered you all here this evening to reveal myself to you—my faithful colleagues, or, as some might say—co-conspirators.”
Nervous laughter echoes through the guests.
I roll my eyes. Criminal humor.
“Why now?” she asks.
No one dares meet her gaze.
My pulse thunders in my ears. I search the crowd, the hall where she came from. Graham is nowhere to be found.
Manon’s mouth twists into a maroon smile. “Because I’ve decided to bring all of you in on a once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity. Only the most generous of you will be able to gain entrance into a grievously underutilized market.”
I frown at the top of her head. Did I walk into a timeshare presentation?
She taps her cane—thud, thud, thud.
First I hear the scrape of shoes. Footsteps. Two figures emerge from where Manon appeared, men with the same Czech Special Forces tattoos as Josef scrawled across bald skulls.
My knuckles blanch around the grip of my gun.
Held in between them, half-conscious and bloodied until nearly unrecognizable, Graham Baudelaire is dragged to his sister’s feet at the center of the ballroom. He’s unceremoniously dropped, and he groans in response, falling on his hands and knees.
I want to vomit. I want to scream.
Mostly, I want to kill someone. Preferably her.
Manon grips his hair, yanking him upright until he’s sitting back on his thighs. His dress shirt is unbuttoned, showcasing a zebra pattern of weeping cuts.
“I would like you all to meet my brother,” she starts, “the man who can give us the ISA on a silver platter.”