Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(50)

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I imagine the same reason the Cat in the Hat called his little friends Thing One and Thing Two.”

“Which is why?”

I shrug. “Who knows? It sounded good.”

“Oh-kay.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “But what happened to One? Or, like, Seven?”

I stall in front of Seven, who lurks in front of the library, perking up at the sound of his name.

“Seven,” I tell her, pointing at Seven with my liquor bottle. “One is gone, as are Eight and Ten, but Seven here is worth a dozen men alone, so I haven’t felt the need to replace them.”

Scarlet gives me a peculiar look, like none of this is making sense to her.

“Is this some memory thing, like your brain is wired wrong?” she asks. “Or are you just that much of an *?”

That makes me laugh.

Seven, on the other hand, tenses.

Afraid I’m going to kill her, probably.

Mormon, remember?

He’s still got a few morals left.

“Probably a bit of both,” I admit, slapping Seven on the back, wordlessly telling him to relax. If I were going to kill her, I would’ve done it when she robbed me, or when she pulled a knife on me… twice. Sticks and stones. Words from her sleek lips, no matter how bitter, are definitely going to go down smoother.

Moving past him, I step into the library doorway, seeing Ricardo still sitting there, exactly where I left him.

“Up,” I say, snapping my finger, motioning for him to vacate my chair. He springs to his feet, his gaze finding Scarlet.

She walks into the room right behind me, cursing under her breath. “Shit.”

She regards the guy like a deer caught in headlights and he looks at her like... well, like something he wants to eat. Uh-oh. I admit it, yeah, the woman is delectable, but I’m the big bad wolf in these woods, and he’s going to leave my Red Riding Hood alone.

I motion between them as I drop back down in my chair. “I assume you two know each other.”

“I’ve seen her around,” Ricardo says. “One of Amello’s whores.”

Scarlet makes a face but says nothing, skirting around the guy, giving him a wide berth as she makes her way to where I’m sitting. She’s uncomfortable around him, which means she’s got decent intuition.

“You drink, Ricky?” I ask, motioning toward him with my liquor bottle. “Smoke a little bit, maybe?”

“A bit,” he says.

“Go fix yourself a drink,” I say. “Hang out a while, get to know my guys. They’ll make you feel at home. I have some business to take care of here. I’ll come for you when I’m done.”

He nods in acknowledgment, casting Scarlet a look before disappearing into the hallway. He seems to want to gut her. Huh. Seven trails our visitor right away to the living room.

Scarlet watches them before turning to me. “What, Slick Rick doesn’t get a number?”

“Slick Rick?” I laugh. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“You know he works for George Amello, right?”

“Yep.”

“He’s the one George ordered to kill you,” she says. “He’s supposed to send a message by eliminating you.”

“Yeah, I figured that much,” I say, kicking my feet up on the table as I lounge back in the chair. She looks concerned, like she’s worried for my well-being. It’s cute. Real cute. “So tell me, Scarlet, you come here to kill me, too? Because if so, you might want to come back later, since he beat you to it tonight. You’ll have to wait your turn.”

She blinks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Hell, maybe I have. “Are you insane?”

“Potentially,” I say. “You?”

“Am I insane?”

I nod.

“I’m starting to feel like it,” she mutters, running her hands down her face. “The fact that I thought it was a good idea to come here tells me I probably am.”

“You come to take me up on my offer?”

Hesitating, she approaches the table, glancing down at the puzzle. Her eyes meticulously scan the beginnings of the art, but she doesn’t touch any of the pieces, keeping her hands to herself.

“Did you know Michelangelo never wanted to paint this?” she asks after a moment. “The pope didn’t give him much of a choice. He spent so many hours on his back, struggling, suffering, the conditions so toxic it made him sick. He spent the rest of his life walking with a limp because of it.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” I say, “but I did notice you’re avoiding my question.”

She smiles softly, still gazing at the puzzle. “I know how that feels, having someone powerful controlling you, dictating what you do. But Michelangelo, he got his revenge. The whole thing is filled with blasphemy.”

“I bet,” I say. “Now answer my question.”

“Yes.”

That’s all she says. Yes.

“You’re taking me up on my offer?”

“Pretty sure that’s what yes means.”

I grin. “So, what I’m hearing here is that you want revenge on the * who controlled you… although, I’m guessing the Aristotle prick didn’t make you paint a church. What did he do?”