Chapter Twenty-Three

“Two caipirinhas,” Marcus said to the handsome bartender with a familiar face. “You want one, no?”

I shook my head. “No.” I needed to think clearly.

“I just want to have a little fun,” he explained, though I didn’t ask. “Don’t worry.”

Like that was possible. I was having flashbacks of Keira and a pitcher of lemon martinis, but still I stayed mum as I watched Paolo Striker grab some limes and a couple bottles of alcohol. His slick black hair was pulled toward the nape of his tan neck in a low ponytail that was only about two inches long. Dark wisps fell toward his perfect jawline, and he blew the strands away with a puff as he began shaking the drinks. Even in a sea of gorgeous faces, Paolo was hard to miss.

He was our Dresden Kid.

“This place is beautiful.” I waved toward the palatial setting. “Do you work here a lot?”

“When I’m lucky. Not many weddings in Rio are this nice.” Paolo’s English had a thick Portuguese accent, but I could still understand him. “You American?”

“Yes.” I gestured to Marcus. “He’s Spanish.”

“Spanish? You’re a long way from home.” The bartender cocked an eyebrow. “How do you know the bride and groom?”

Marcus and I exchanged a look. The obvious answer was—we didn’t. We had no intention of even saying hello to the newlyweds. We were here for Paolo. Only now that we were standing in front of him, it seemed it might be complicated to have this conversation in such a crowded place with swanky guests jostling for the bartender’s attention. I watched as Paolo turned his back to us, tossing a few more items into the shaker: some raspberries, a heap of sugar, a splash of something, and who knew what else. He was practically baking a cake.

“It’s a long story…” I looked at Marcus, signaling I needed help.

“Sí, the bride and I go way back,” said Marcus, his words soft around the edges. He was already tipsy from his first drink. “We’ve got a bit of history.” He grinned suggestively, and I smacked his chest. Marcus was lying, but Paolo didn’t know that. And it didn’t take much wedding etiquette to realize that you shouldn’t stand at a reception for a bride in white and hint that the color might not be fitting.

“You’re popular with the ladies, huh?” Paolo sounded unimpressed, looking at me like I should be angry, and I was, but not for the reasons he thought.

I cleared my throat. “It’s not like that.”

Paolo glared like I was a dumb girl being played. Then he handed us the drinks, and Marcus quickly took a long sip. Like he needs any more...

I turned to Paolo, needing to get to the point. “We’re actually hoping to talk to you.”

“Me?” He sounded suspicious.

“You’re Paolo Sousa, right?” I used his real name and watched his jaw twitch; he didn’t like it. Nor should he. His last name was practically a curse word in Brazil.

A few years ago, the Brazilian soccer team (or futbol team, as they say here) made it to the World Cup Championship—an event that ranked with the moon landing in regards to their national pride. Only the night before the big game, their star player collapsed with a seizure so severe he almost swallowed his tongue. But instead of sitting out, the guy played anyway—in very subpar health—and the team lost in a shutout. Paolo’s grandfather was the doctor who had prescribed the athlete painkillers the night before, pills that likely caused his seizure. According to Allen Cross, Department D was hired by the athlete’s corporate sponsor to cover up the fact that the star soccer player was hiding a serious medical condition that adversely mixed with the medication. Without that knowledge, the country blamed Paolo’s grandfather for the team’s loss. They still burned effigies in his name every season.

“It’s Striker now,” Paolo corrected, an edge to his voice. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know about your family situation, and I think I might be able to help you.”

“You don’t say?” He sneered, seeming as interested as if I were selling broken clam shells on a Florida beach.

I turned to Marcus, expecting help, but he was busy “having fun” and gulping his drink. Only when the lavender dance floor lights flashed his way, his black pupils appeared alarmingly small. I pulled his drink away. “I think you’ve had enough.”

He rolled his eyes, or tried to, but his eyeballs jerked to the left in what seemed an involuntary action.

“You okay?” I stiffened.

“I’m fffffine,” he slurred, swaying to the side.

I didn’t have much experience with alcohol, but it seemed like his drinks were hitting him remarkably fast. “Maybe you should sit.”

“It’ssss all right. Talk to Paaaolo.” His speech was slow. Then he put a hand on my shoulder, his off-kilter balance nearly knocking us over. I straightened my posture and shot him a look.

Then I turned my attention back to the bartender, whose expression was flat, like he’d expected the slobbering spectacle—occupational hazard.

“Look, I know about your grandfather.” There was no longer time to build to a revelation while Marcus was swaying. “I know about the soccer game, I know he was set up, and more importantly, I know who did it. I’m here to see if you want payback.”

Paolo’s forehead wrinkled, his head cocked like he believed me about as much as he believed a Nigerian prince was going to deposit a million dollars into his bank account. “You’re here to help me?”

“Yes,” I said, glancing back at Marcus.

He was having a hard time standing upright. His knees were awkwardly turned inward, and his legs were oddly wobbling. I had to talk faster. “Let’s just say I was screwed over by the same people. Me and my sister. Thoroughly screwed. And we’re on a mission to bring them all down in a fiery inferno.”

“Oh, really? What about him?” Paolo nodded his chiseled chin to Marcus, who was reaching out to me for stability, long arms swaying like he was on a tightrope, not on solid ground.

What’s wrong with him? My limited experience with Keira coming home “over served” usually resulted in a fit of vomit. But the way Marcus was acting didn’t feel right.

He only had two drinks.

I had to finish this conversation. “We’re both here to help you. We’re offering you revenge, a way to get back at the people who ruined your family, destroyed your name.” My pulse accelerated as I watched Marcus’s eyes dart around, pupils the size of pinheads. Should I call an ambulance? Did he need to sleep it off? I could call a cab and go back to the hotel. Maybe we could talk to Paolo tomorrow?

“No thank you.” Paolo shot me a cocky smirk. “I don’t think I’m the one who needs help.”

It was his tone that sent ice water luging down my spine. Something was wrong, very wrong. Paolo seemed delighted that Marcus was struggling, but before I could say a word, I heard a thud from behind me.

I spun to find Marcus lying in front of the bar, his body seizing, limbs twitching uncontrollably, and his head thumping rhythmically against the tile floor in a manic fit. “Oh my God! What happened? Are you okay?” I dropped to my knees, cupping his head to hold him still, spit sloshing from his mouth onto my hands.

My eyes swung to the bartender. “Call an ambulance! Help! Somebody!” I shouted, tears fogging my vision.

What do I do?

I needed Keira; she was a nurse, she could fix this. My mind flicked through TV hospital dramas: Do I hold his tongue? Put a pillow under his neck? Turn him on his side? Elevate his feet?

I was completely useless. I kept holding his skull, like if my grip was firm enough I could get him to stop jerking, like I could will him to stop seizing from sheer desperation alone.

Around me, partygoers stopped dancing, and guests stepped away from the bar. Eyes turned to us, but no one moved. “Why are you all standing there? Call someone!” I screeched—to Paolo, to anyone, to everyone. I looked down at Marcus. “Come on! Please, stay with me! Please!” His eyes rolled back into his head, his long lashes fluttering as his body continued to convulse. Is he dying? There was foam in his mouth. I scooped it away. Does he have rabies? What is happening? Where is everyone?

Finally, I heard the sound of a wedding guest on his phone, calling for help, and across the dance floor I saw event staff rushing our way with what looked like a first aid kit. “Marcus! Come on, please! Marcus!”

“His name’s Marcus?” Paolo uttered from behind me, his tone off, like he wasn’t simply unaware of his name before, but like he’d been wrong.

I turned toward him, my back ramrod straight, every gut instinct I had frantically waving a flag. “Yes, that’s his name. Why?”

Paolo peered at the spectacle, his gaze full of not just confusion but something worse. Regret? Guilt?

“I…I thought he was somebody else,” Paolo stuttered.

Before I could respond, security staff shoved me aside. “Miss! What did he take? What is he on?” a man asked in English as he kneeled beside us and opened a medical kit.

“Wha—What?” I asked, my mind racing in two directions: one to save Marcus, the other to question Paolo.

“What did he take?” the man asked again. “We need to know what drugs are in his system if we’re going to help him. What is he on?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head, brow wrinkling. “He just had a couple of…” My voice trailed off as I looked back at Paolo, the man who’d mixed our drinks, who was now inching away, backing from the crowd toward a rear exit.

He only had a couple of drinks, I thought.

I got up and ran after Paolo.