Chapter Twenty-Four

I darted out of Parque Lage and into the night air, thankful that the architecture of the majestic wedding locale was uplit with so many spotlights it might as well have been the middle of the afternoon. I could clearly see Paolo, whose bartender uniform—white button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves and formal black vest—was a stark contrast to the humid tropical setting.

The mansion bordered a botanical garden, the exterior surrounded by vegetation so lush and dense it felt entirely separate from its urban neighborhood. You couldn’t hear a car honk, and the marble walls of the structure were so thick that no trace of the wedding music escaped.

“What did you put in his drink?” I shouted, kicking off my black high heels and stomping toward Paolo.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He was trying to sound innocent, exaggerating his Portuguese accent like it made him sound cute.

“Bullshit! He was fine until you gave him those drinks!” I kept moving toward him, stopping a few paces away. “What. Did you. Put in them?” My words were clipped with rage—at Paolo, at myself. Marcus didn’t want to come here. He thought this plan was a mistake. Now he was lying on the floor, choking on saliva, waiting for an ambulance. This was my fault. If I had just listened to him, to Keira, to anyone…

Paolo shrugged. “Gringo can’t hold his liquor.” He smiled flirtatiously, as if his good looks would have some sort of effect on this situation. Not on me.

“An ambulance is coming right now, and you’re going to help me. Why the hell would you drug him?” I shifted in the direction of the street, my ears straining for the sound of a siren, but I heard nothing. My pulse felt like a stopwatch ticking off the moments I had until it was too late to save Marcus.

“Why would I drug him? That’s your question?” Paolo tilted his head like the answer was obvious.

“Did Department D get to you?” A buzzer went off in my head.

“You could say that. Too bad for your boy. He didn’t look like he was doing so good.” He pretended to pout sympathetically, when really his eyes were thrilled by the fact that he held the keys to save Marcus, and while he enjoyed dangling them in front of me, he had no intention of handing them over.

We’ll see about that…

I barreled at Paolo on impulse, like a hostage deciding to no longer sit quietly and follow directions. I swung a kick to his head, but he shifted, avoiding my blow, then threw a sloppy fist in return. I dodged his attack with my forearms and thrust my elbow at his jaw. The crack of bone made me smile. He attempted a sidekick, but I blocked it easily—he was turning out to be a horrible fighter—and I grabbed his left wrist, stretching out his arm and digging my elbow into a weak spot. He cried out in pain as I prepared to snap his limb, only before I could finish the job, he yanked his arm free and spun back a few steps.

Then he charged, brow low, grunting through his nose. He swung his good arm, flailing with anger, and I dodged it before landing a front kick, my bare foot square on his chest as I shoved him onto his butt.

“You know how to fight,” he growled, skidding on the damp grass.

“You’re catching on to that?” I was winded from the exercise, but not from the challenge. He wouldn’t have lasted a day in my karate studio. My mind brought up images of Tyson, our double black belts. We first met at a tournament, and we fought at least twice a week for more than a year. Tyson could have destroyed this guy. Only he’d never have the chance. To do anything. Tyson’s life was over. At seventeen.

I couldn’t let that happen to Marcus.

“I’m not much of a kickboxer,” Paolo admitted, staying on the ground and discreetly rubbing his arm. He was lucky I didn’t break it; I only needed two more seconds.

“You suck at fighting,” I said, wiping the sweat off my brow, mostly from humidity. “So unless you want me to finish this, tell me what you put in Marcus’s drink.”

Paolo spat, blood mixed with his saliva, which gave me a twinge of satisfaction. “I can fight. I’ve been fighting people my whole life.”

“Maybe that’s your problem, because I came here to help you,” I hissed. “If you had just listened. Department D set up your grandfather, made him look like a quack who prescribed the wrong drugs to an athlete before the big game. Why would you work with them?”

“God, you don’t know shit.” Paolo shook his head, his black hair falling loose from his ponytail. Slowly, he rose on tired legs, dusting the blades of grass that stuck to his black pants. “My grandfather wasn’t incompetent. He didn’t accidentally poison our futbol star.” He looked at me like my intellect deserved his pity. “My grandfather was paid quite well for his services.”

I gasped, too quickly to hold it in, and Paolo looked so irritatingly smug at my reaction that it reminded me of Craig Bernard on a bridge in Venice.

Paolo wasn’t a Dresden Kid. His family wasn’t destroyed by Department D. Allen Cross sent us after a guy whose grandfather intentionally poisoned the country’s most famous athlete, a guy who followed in the family business and just poisoned my boyfriend. How could Cross be so wrong?

I pictured Marcus convulsing. I had to get back; I had to save him. I couldn’t lose anyone else. I charged at Paolo, swinging a straight arm at his head, but he bobbed the blow, landing a lucky punch to my kidney. I winced at the sting and could hear Paolo cough out a laugh. I spun around and nailed him in the cheek with my elbow, then kicked him hard in the gut. He fell back onto the ground. Again.

“You’re a coward! Slipping pills into people’s drinks. You’re pathetic.” I growled, glaring down at him.

I needed answers, no more what ifs. Not anymore. “Department D, they told you to poison Marcus. Who? Specifically?”

“Fine.” He shrugged with the look of a kid caught crawling through the bedroom window. “They don’t pay me that well.” He collapsed onto his back, body stretched out on the grass, his sore arm cradled to his chest and his jaw tight with pain. He was giving up. “I wasn’t trying to poison Marcus. The man said he was Spanish, he said he was a ladies’ man, he fit the profile, looks exactly like him…”

“You were after Antonio.” Light bulbs exploded in my brain.

“I was told the guy drank a lot, had a high tolerance, so I upped the dosage.”

Tolerance? I thought of all the alcohol I’d seen Antonio consume—the beer, champagne, wine, whiskey shots—all the partying Marcus said his brother reveled in. If Paolo was trying to take down Antonio, how much did he pump into Marcus?

“Wha—what did you give him?” My voice shook.

“I work mostly with Benzos and mix in some alcohol to get the job done. Makes ’em look like they partied too hard. But when I heard of the guy’s stamina, I threw in a little Oxy, just to be sure.” Another day at the pharmacy.

Paolo was an assassin.

Cross sent us here.

Everyone tried to talk me out of coming—Keira, Charlotte, Marcus. Why didn’t I listen to them?

“If that wasn’t Antonio Rey,” Paolo asked, “who was it?”

“His brother,” I whispered, barely able to hear my voice as one terrifying word echoed in my head: overdose, overdose, overdose… I had to tell the medics what he took.

“So he is a Rey? Gracias a Dios.” Paolo sounded relieved, like he’d done his job well after all. His face pointed to the stars, long dark hair fanned on the damp grass.

Then he had the nerve to smile. Mission accomplished.

The fire burning in my gut suddenly sizzled across my skin, sweat popping like grease on a skillet.

I slid my feet back into my black high heels, eyes narrowed to slits. If he was after Antonio, that eliminated the Reys from the suspect pool. “Was it Randolph Urban?” I gritted my teeth, not wanting to say the next words. “The Phoenixes?”

“The Phoenixes?” He lifted his head. “I thought they were dead.”

Yeah, so did I. An odd sense of relief washed through me as I realized my parents hadn’t ordered a hit on my boyfriend. It was amazing what I considered good news these days. But that still didn’t answer my question.

“Who. Was it?” I spat for the last time.

“Allen Cross.” He said it like the man asked to borrow his lawn mower.

Then Paolo closed his eyes and stretched back. Discussion over, time for me to run along. He knew I had bigger problems sprawled on a dance floor choking on his tongue. And I did.

Only I couldn’t move.

Allen Cross ordered a hit on Antonio? Allen Cross tried to kill one of us? Allen Cross hired an assassin? A hit man so incompetent that he almost killed Marcus by accident?

Suddenly, the blare of a siren rang out, an ambulance, drawing nearer as if pulling in front of the mansion. Marcus! They’re here! I have to help him! Where is he? How is he?

I turned toward the sound, but my eyes caught on Paolo once more, outstretched on the dewy grass, resting rather peacefully, as if he no longer feared me, as if he knew I had somewhere more important to be and he was positive he’d get away with all of this.

The corners of my mouth twisted up slightly as I stared at him, so confident, so cocky.

Then I padded over to his long body, lifted my high-heeled foot, and stomped down with all my might.

Right on Paolo’s crotch.

…

I’d never been in an ambulance before. The sirens were deafening from inside the van, adding to the noise already crowding my head as I squeezed Marcus’s limp hand. I’d told the doctors that Marcus was suffering from an overdose of alcohol, Benzos (commonly known as Valium), and Oxy (or OxyContin, a painkiller as strong as heroin). They immediately started treatment.

We arrived at the ER, and a tube was inserted down his throat, pumping “activated charcoal” that the doctors said would stop the toxins from speeding through his system. IV fluids were administered through the veins in his arms. His breathing got so shallow at one point that they debated putting him on a ventilator, but thankfully after an hour of observation, his vitals improved. But he wasn’t awake. The doctors didn’t know when he’d come around, but they were no longer saying “if,” which at least pulled my heart rate back down from panic levels. Still, the best-case scenario was that Marcus might open his eyes sometime tomorrow.

“He was lucky,” they said. They’d gotten to him in time. They knew what he was on. They were able to treat him. Usually, with these types of overdoses, the doctors were too late.

I sat by his bed, his hand feeling cold and fragile, machines humming around us. The Brazilian hospital—bleached, boxy, and buzzing with fluorescent lights—looked like any other hospital in America. Only the signs were in Portuguese. Since he was eighteen years old, there was no legal requirement to call his parents. Thank God. But that left me alone, in Rio, dealing with what happened to him, to us.

I was the reason he was here. I was so bent on going after Randolph Urban that I ignored all the warning flares. I’d blindly sent everyone into harm’s way—first, when I sent Marcus after that Dresden Kid alone; and now, when I insisted we come here even after we knew that Department D was on the attack.

I dropped my head low, squeezing his hand tighter as more tears slid down my cheeks. A hospital was a very scary place to be by yourself. The isolation from the outside world, the focus on a singular problem, and the overwhelming sense of helplessness was enough to let the funk rain down like a monsoon. I almost wanted to let it flood me, wash me away forever, then the hospital door creaked open. A middle-aged nurse walked in, tablet in her hands.

“He’s improving,” she said in English, checking his vitals.

I wiped tears from my eyes. Pull it together.

“You should go home,” she said with a gentle smile. “Get some rest. There won’t be any change until morning.”

“What if he wakes up?” My voice cracked, and I wasn’t sure if it was from agony, exhaustion, or fear. Probably all of the above.

“His body’s been through a lot. He won’t be awake for some time. You have until morning, maybe even lunch, at best.”

I stared down at Marcus, crisp white sheets pulled high on his bare chest, tubes in his arms, monitors suctioned to his skin, bags of liquids dripping nearby, computers beeping and charting every inhale of breath, every beat of his heart. I didn’t want to leave him. Not like this. Not alone.

But this wasn’t over. Paolo tried to kill him. Allen Cross tried to kill one of us. I had to warn Keira. The hospital had no cell reception, and I hadn’t felt I could leave Marcus until now. He was too unstable.

I pulled out a burner phone from Marcus’s suit jacket, which the paramedics had removed. Once he was admitted, they handed me his personal belongings like I was his next of kin. I took them.

“You really don’t think he’ll wake up until tomorrow?”

She shook her head, sympathy in her stare. “There’s nothing you can do right now but let the doctors do their jobs. And pray.” It sounded like she repeated that line a lot.

“If I leave, would you call me when he wakes up, like the second anything changes?” I asked.

“Of course.”

I typed my number into her tablet.

“Go home and get some sleep,” she advised.

I nodded, knowing a peaceful night’s slumber was nowhere near my future. Then I followed her out of Marcus’s room and down the elevators.

I exited onto the street and dialed the only number we had programmed—Charlotte.

She answered on the first ring.

“Are you okay?” She sounded terrified. I was only supposed to use the phone if there was an emergency, which there was.

I told her everything, from the fight at the wedding to Marcus in the hospital. Thankfully, Antonio and my sister were safe. They’d checked in less than twenty minutes ago and were currently enjoying flutes of cava on Las Ramblas in Barcelona. She’d spoken to Keira herself, and she promised she’d let them know what happened to Marcus.

Only I hadn’t yet told her the most mind-bending detail.

“Charlotte,” I tried to steady my voice, my grip tightening on the phone. “Allen Cross was behind this. He ordered the hit. I need to know where he is. Right now.”