Vengeful (Villains #2)(105)

They weren’t alone in the room.

A thin man in a black suit leaned against the wall between two paintings. His dark hair was slicked back, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. The white walls made the gallery unnaturally bright, but not bright enough to merit shades—meaning they served an alternate purpose.

“I’ve never understood art,” mused Marcella, loud enough for Victor to know she was addressing him. “I’ve been to a hundred galleries, stared at a thousand paintings, waiting to feel inspired or awestruck or enamored—but the only thing I ever really felt was bored.”

As Victor watched, she reached out and pressed one gold nail to the surface of the painting. Under Marcella’s touch, the canvas rotted, and crumbled, pieces drifting to the floor.

“Don’t worry,” she said, turning on one metal heel. “I own the building, and everything in it.” She raised a brow. “Except for you, of course.” She gave him a cursory look. “Do you like art, Mr. Vale? My husband did. He always had a fondness for beautiful things.” Marcella lifted her chin. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

Victor considered her—the willowy limbs, the red lips, the blue eyes framed by thick black lashes. He glanced from her, to the ruins of the painting on the gallery floor, and back. “I think you’re powerful.”

Marcella smiled, clearly pleased with the answer.

Victor sensed a ghost of movement at his back, and glanced over his shoulder to see another man enter the room, one with a goatee and a mischievous smile.

“I believe you’ve already met June,” said Marcella. “In one form or another.”

The man winked, that telltale light in his eyes.

“And this is Jonathan,” said Marcella, flicking her fingers in the direction of the thin man against the wall.

Jonathan didn’t answer, beyond the slight nod of his head.

“So,” said Victor, “instead of art, you’re collecting EOs.”

Marcella’s red lips split into a smile. “Do you know what I wanted to be when I grew up?”

“President?”

Her smile widened. “Powerful.” Her steel heels clicked against the marble as she came toward him. “When you think about it, it’s really all anyone ever wants. Once upon a time, power was determined by lineage—the age of blood. Then it was determined by money—the age of gold. But I think it’s time for a new age, Victor. The age of power itself.”

“Let me guess,” said Victor. “I’m either with you or against you.”

Marcella tsked. “Such black-and-white thinking. I swear, men are so busy looking for enemies, they rarely remember to make friends.” She shook her head. “Why can’t we work together?”

“I work alone.”

Marcella raised a knowing brow. “Now, we both know that’s not true.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Marcella seemed more than happy to hold the stage.

“Money in the right hands can get all kinds of things. Knowledge. Insight. Eli Ever’s files from his time with the Merit PD, perhaps. He and Serena Clarke made quite a pair, but I think you got the better deal with her little sister, Sydney.”

Victor kept his poise, but across the room June stiffened, the color draining from her face. “Marcella—”

But the woman held up a hand, gold nails catching the light.

“I’ve heard about your own talents,” she continued. “I’d like to see them for myself.”

“You want me to audition?”

Her lips twitched. “Call it what you like. I’ve shown you mine. And Jonathan’s. And June’s, for that matter. I think it’s only fair . . .”

Victor needed no further prompting. He flexed his hand toward the thin man in the suit, expecting him to buckle immediately—and was surprised when instead, the air in front of him flashed blue and white with an almost electric crackle. And beyond that, nothing happened. Strange. Victor could feel the other man’s nerves, just as present as before he’d tried to impact them. But in that exact instant, it had been like a short-circuit, almost like lightning trying to strike something grounded.

A forcefield.

Marcella smiled. “Oh, sorry. I should have said, Jonathan’s off-limits.” She looked around. “A little help?”

She hardly raised her voice, but the room began to fill. The six men and women Victor had passed earlier came spilling in.

Marcella smiled.

“I have a reward,” she said, “for whoever brings this man to his knees.”

For a moment, no one moved.

And then, everyone did.

A brick of a man lunged toward him, and Victor took hold of nerves, and twisted violently. The man buckled, screaming, as Victor leveled the two approaching in his wake, then turned toward a woman as she drew a blade.

A conductor’s flick of Victor’s fingers, and she collapsed too.

The fifth went down on his side, curling in against the pain, while the sixth tried to reach for his gun—Victor forced his hand flat to the marble and continued turning the dials up until all six writhed and spasmed on the floor.

He held Marcella’s gaze, waiting for her to say enough, order him to stop. Waiting for any sign of her discomfort. But Marcella only watched the scene unfold, her blue eyes bright, unflinching.