The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(22)

Rio came awake with a gasp and a jerk that brought her head up. Before she could focus on where she was, a quick physical inventory commanded her full attention: She had a screaming pain in the back of her skull, a gag was in her mouth, and she couldn’t move her arms or her legs— She was in a chair. She was tied to a straight-backed chair with her hands behind her and her ankles locked in place.

And there was water falling in front of her.

Water? Wait . . . was that a fountain?

As she blinked to get her eyes to work properly, the inconceivable became improbable . . . which then transitioned into the yes-that’sactual: It appeared that there was, in fact, a white marble fountain about five feet in front of all her going-nowhere, and the details were getting clearer by the moment. From its wide basin to the stylized, carved carp in the center that was standing on its tail and arcing water out of its mouth, the fixture seemed like the kind of thing that belonged in a castle or museum.

What do you know, the rest of the room was just as fancy, great lengths of lemon-yellow silk pulled shut over what she guessed were tall, thin windows, the floor a black-and-white chessboard of marble squares, the walls covered with painted murals of pastoral scenes.

But what did the decor matter. Whether she was in a Versailleswannabe or a trap house, she needed to get out of here.

Pulling at her hands, straining to kick her legs free, she got a catalogue of all kinds of pain. She had a sharpshooter in her neck, like her head had been slumped mostly to the left, and her shoulders were screaming, as were the tops of her thighs. Everything below the knee was numb on both sides, and it was a toss-up whether that was good or bad. Probably bad, because she was going to have to make a run for it and she knew if she couldn’t feel her feet, that wasn’t going to go well.

Twisting her wrists, she got nowhere, and her ankles were so immobile, it was like they were going to have to be surgically removed from the spindles of the— “You’re awake.”

Rio’s eyes flared. Mozart?

The voice was coming from directly behind her; except when she went to look over her shoulder, she saw nothing but more of the decorations. Glancing in the other direction, the same was true—and she had the sense he was stepping out of her view, keeping himself hidden.

Like he always did.

A hand snaked around in front of her face and removed the gag. “I’m sorry if your Uber lift was a little rough.”

Rio took a huge breath. And then another.

“It wasn’t the ride,” she said hoarsely. “And if you’d wanted to meet me, I could have just come over.”

“But then you’d know where I live.”

They were going to kill her. Even seeing this one room of Mozart’s house was too much for his hyper-privacy routine.

“Ever hear of a blindfold?” Her words were slurring, and she deliberately let them run together. “Or if you don’t want to out your address, we could have met somewhere neutral.”

“I prefer to have people come to me.”

“No you don’t. You refuse to meet with anyone in person.”

“Well, let’s just say your unique charms seduced me.”

Staying out of her sight, he moved around, hard-soled shoes sounding sharp over the hard stone floor. As the man paced, she searched for anything with a reflective surface. The fountain wasn’t any help, but there was an ornate fireplace set with unburned birch logs—and on its mantel, there was a fancy golden clock that was operational. By tilting her head, she could almost catch a reflection in the circular glass that covered the face.

She didn’t get very far with an ID, though.

“So you’ve created a problem for me,” Mozart murmured.

“And you’ve given me two concussions. Are we even?”

“No, I’m afraid we’re not. Mickie wasn’t worth much as a human being, but he was very useful to me.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“I never thought you were a liar.”

“That’s because I’m not lying.”

It was a relief not to have to pretend about anything concerning Mickie. She wasn’t sure she was up to keeping newly created falsehoods straight. The old ones, about who she really was and what she was doing on the streets, were like the route home to her apartment. So well-trod, they were rote even when she wasn’t thinking too clearly.

“I went to see him at his place, got there and he was dead.”

“I don’t believe you.”

As she tried to find some plausible deniability even though she was speaking the truth, she pictured Mickie on that soiled sofa of his, looking like Al Bundy had tripped and fallen into a Jordan Peele movie.

More with Mozart’s pacing. “You’re an ambitious woman.”

“Can you let me go now?”

“I looked into your background. I didn’t find anything.”

Just her constructed identity that was nothing special. “Some people don’t lead interesting lives.”

“You’ve done good work for me.”

“I know. And unless you kill me for something I didn’t do, I’m going to continue working for you.”

“If you’d wanted his job, you could have asked.”

“I’ve been doing his job anyway. Killing him would have just been more work.”