46
1016 Words
“It’s right up there with KFC’s recipe as one of the world’s best-kept secrets. Only a handful of the bigwigs at the Institute knew about the theft, and all but two of them are dead now. Even Zuckerman and the secretary don’t know.”
I take a corner too fast, but Mariana doesn’t even notice. She just keeps on staring at me with big eyes and a wide open mouth. Finally, she asks, “How do you know?”
“Because, like I’ve told you before, I’m the s**t, baby.”
We zoom through the dark streets, trees and streetlights flying past, with no noise for miles but the sound of the engine and the radio on low. After a pause, she speaks again. “How do you know about Capo?”
My sigh is extravagant. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m really good at my job before you’ll believe me?”
She slumps down in the seat, drops her face into her hands, and exhales a long, slow breath. It’s several minutes before she speaks again, and when she does, her voice is so low, I almost can’t hear it.
“So…basically…you just saved my life.”
“And Reynard’s,” I point out, trying not to sound smug and completely failing.
“But…” She lowers her hands and gazes blankly out the windshield. “I can’t go back empty-handed. If I return to Capo with nothing—”
“You’re never going back to him, Mariana,” I cut in, my voice hard. She stares at me, looking confused. “You’re gonna let your man handle this, you hear me? Now, do you need to pick up anything at your fleabag safe house before we head to New York?”
She makes a soft, incoherent noise of shock.
I take it as a no and stomp my foot on the gas, headed toward the interstate.
Headed toward home.
17
Mariana
I
don’t know
how long I slept, but when I awaken, morning sun streams through the windshield as Ryan opens the passenger door.
“C’mon, Angel,” he murmurs, hoisting me into his arms. “We’re home.”
I mutter a protest at being handled like luggage, but I’m so exhausted I give up without a fight. I sag against the broad expanse of his chest as he kicks the car door shut behind him.
He chuckles. “You’re heavier than you look.”
I mumble, “And you’re dumber than you look. Another crack about my weight and you’re a dead man.”
“God, I love it when you threaten me with bodily injury.”
My legs dangle over his arm as he walks across a gated parking lot to a squat, brick building with no windows on the first floor. In front of a metal door with no handle, he stops.
“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” he says to the door.
Bewildered, I lift my head and squint at him.
He shrugs. “So I love Mary Poppins. Sue me.”
The door slides open soundlessly, revealing a lighted steel box about five feet wide and eight feet tall. When Ryan walks inside, the door slides shut behind us. With a subtle clang, the box begins to descend.
I say to Ryan’s profile, “Do you live near the center of the earth?”
“Yep,” he answers instantly. “That’s why I’m so hot.”
He slants me a grin. I close my eyes against its brilliance and tuck my head into his neck.
“Where are we?”
“I told you. Home.”
“No, where?”
“The Bronx. Ish.”
“Either it is, or it isn’t.”
“Normally, I’d agree with you, but in this case, there’s a little wiggle room considering we’re not talkin’ horizontal coordinates.”
The elevator stops, the doors open, and Ryan walks out into pitch blackness. He calls out, “Raindrops on roses.”
Overhead lights blink on in orderly rows, revealing a bachelor pad that has probably starred in every male’s fantasy of a bachelor pad since the term was invented.
High ceilings. Exposed brick walls. Polished cement floors. Lots of steel beams and glass surfaces, and a smattering of leather furniture. A television the size of a school bus hangs on the wall, along with black-and-white abstract art suggestive of nude women. Not a single throw pillow or bright color in sight.
“Raindrops on roses?”
“And whiskers on kittens,” he says, nodding.
I look at him. “Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens?”
He beams. “Angel! You know The Sound of Music!”
I gaze around his underground sanctuary that sizzles with machismo and is operated with voice commands taken from Julie Andrews movies, and ponder my predicament.
Only one reasonable explanation comes to mind.
“I’m dead, aren’t I? Just give it to me straight. I was shot sometime yesterday, and now I’m dead. And this is…purgatory?”
He scoffs, “This is heaven, baby!”
“Heaven? I am dubious.”
“That’s a one-hundred-ten-inch ultra-high-definition TV! And that”—he swings me around so I’m pointed in the direction of a large kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel appliances—“is a professional-grade chef’s kitchen complete with a grill, a griddle, a double-walled pizza oven, and an infrared salamander broiler—”
“Maybe purgatory was being too generous.”
Ryan purses his lips and considers me. “I know what you need,” he pronounces, then strides through the living room, past the gargantuan television and arty nudes, past the built-in wine cellar and wet bar, around a wall composed entirely of live succulents in different shades of green, brown, and gray, and into his bedroom.
He stops in front of a bed approximately the size of a train platform. The duvet and sheets are black, as are the pillows. A trio of red candles reside on a black bedside table. A fuzzy black rug sprawls over the floor.
- Writer
