Vengeful (Villains #2)(34)

The inside of the elevator was polished to a high shine, and as it rose, Marcella leaned against Marcus and considered their reflection. She loved the way they looked together. She loved his strong jaw and his rough hands, loved his steely blue eyes and the way he moaned her name. They were partners in crime. A perfect pair.

“Hello, handsome,” she said, catching his eye.

He smiled. “Hello, gorgeous.”

Yes, she loved her husband.

Probably more than she should.

The elevator doors opened onto a rooftop covered in lights, and music, and laughter. Hutch always knew how to throw a party. Gauzy canopies and sofas piled with cushions, low gold-and-glass tables, servers slipping through the crowd with champagne flutes and canapés, but what drew Marcella’s eye more than any of it was the city beyond. The view was incredible, the National high enough up that it seemed to look down on all of Merit.

Marcus led her through the bustling crowd.

As they moved, she felt the eyes of every man, and half the women, slide over her. Marcella’s dress—made of a thousand pale gold scales—hugged her every curve and shimmered with each step. Her heels and nails were the same pale gold, as was the matching net of wire woven through her black hair, lacing tiny white-gold beads through the glossy updo. The only spots of color were her eyes, a vivid blue framed by black lashes, and her lips, which she’d painted crimson.

Marcus had told her to dress up.

“What’s the point of having beautiful things,” he’d said, “if you don’t put them on display?”

Now he led her to the very center of the roof, to the marble star inlaid in the floor where the boss himself was holding court.

Antony Hutch.

He wasn’t unattractive—lean and strong, with warm brown hair and a constant summer tan—but there was something about him that made Marcella’s skin crawl.

“Tony, you’ve met my wife, Marcella.”

Hutch’s attention, when it landed on her, felt like a damp hand on bare flesh.

“Jesus, Marc,” he said, “does she come with a warning label?”

“She does not,” quipped Marcella.

But Hutch only smiled. “Seriously, though, how could I forget such a beauty?”

He stepped closer. “Is Marc here treating you well? You need anything, you just let me know.”

“Why?” asked Marcella with a smirk. “Are you in the market for a wife?”

Hutch chuckled, and spread his arms. “Unfortunately, I like catching girls more than keeping them.”

“That simply means,” said Marcella, “you haven’t found the right one.”

Hutch laughed, and turned toward Marcus. “You got yourself a keeper.”

Marcus looped his arms around her waist and kissed her temple. “Don’t I know it?”

But his body was already twisting away from her, and soon Marcella found herself pushed to the outside of the circle as the group of men began to talk business.

“We’re looking to expand our hold on the south side.”

“Territory moves are always dangerous.”

“Caprese’s eyes are bigger than his stomach.”

“You could squeeze him out more subtly,” offered Marcella. “Pick up the blocks around him. It wouldn’t be a direct attack—no grounds for retaliation—but the message is clear.”

The conversation crumbled. The men went quiet.

After a pained moment, Marcus simply smiled. “My wife, the business major,” he said blandly.

Marcella felt herself flush as the other men shared a knowing chuckle. Hutch looked at her, his own laugh slack, hollow. “Marcella, we must be boring you. I’m sure you’d be happier with the other wives.”

Marcella’s answer was already poised on her lips, but Marcus cut in first. “Go on, Marce,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Let the men talk.”

She wanted to grab his jaw, dig her nails in until they drew blood. Instead, she smiled. Arranged her face into a mask of serenity. Appearance was everything.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll leave you boys to it.”

She turned away, plucked a champagne flute from a passing server, held the glass so tight her fingers hurt. She felt their eyes follow her across the roof.

What’s the point of having beautiful things, if you don’t put them on display?

She hadn’t realized, at the time, that Marcus had referred to her as a thing. The comment had slid off like a silk gown, pretty and weightless, but— “Marcella!” called a woman in a familiar singsong voice. Her heels were pushing six inches, which was probably why she was sitting down, holding court in a dark red gown. It was the perfect color—Grace was blond, and fair, and the dress stood out like blood on skin.

“Have you been evicted?” asked Theresa, seated as well and sipping a large drink.

“God no,” said Marcella, “they were boring me to tears.”

“Too much shop talk,” said Bethany, bangles clanging as she flicked her wrist. More beauty than brains in that one, thought Marcella, not for the first time.

“They may think they’re kings,” said Grace, “but we’re the power behind the throne.”

A tinkle of laughter sounded nearby.

There was a second group of women, clustered in another corner of the roof, in higher heels and shorter dresses. The girlfriends. The second and third wives. The side pieces. Newer models, Grace would say.