Page 59 of The Masked King

A sliver of ice travels down my spine and makes me shudder. What’s that supposed to mean?

He reaches into his pocket, and for one awful moment, I think he’s going to shoot me, even though he needs me to make him a lot of money as he so eloquently told me a short while ago. Instead, he pulls out a cell phone, unlocks it, and scrolls through his apps, the narrow scar appearing to tighten his top lip like silver cotton pulled taut.

Then he flips the device around so that the screen is facing me.

I stare at the image, unable to make sense of what I’m looking at, the cold dread in my stomach unspooling like a broken cassette tape as the shapes and colors come into focus.

It’s a body.

Or at least it was a body before someone took a chainsaw to it. Now, it resembles a pile of Halloween body parts complete with splatters of fake blood and stringy sinew clinging to exposed bones. The corpse’s head is in the background of the image, empty eyes staring directly at the camera as if accusing the asshole behind the lens of being a sick fucker.

I wish I didn’t recognize him.

I wish I’d never mentioned the name.

Because the massacred body is all that remains of Michael Douglas.

15

ENZO

“I need your help.”

I show up uninvited at Gio and Megan’s penthouse apartment straight from the club that no longer exists. It’s late. I’ve lost track of time and days and calendar dates, but I know I shouldn’t be here when I walk into the unique smell of baby lotion and lavender and sugar frosting, and music through the sound system turned down so low it could be singing a lullaby for the listeners.

Even now, this place evokes images of me and Demi lying on the couch together, Demi’s arms folded across my chest, her chin resting on her hands while she watches me closely. If anyone had told me when I was younger that quiet moments like that could be so perfect, I’d have laughed.

But it’s true.

Nyx was a pleasant interlude. The only reason I’m here now is because she’s in danger, and I’m not one of those assholes who can walk away from a woman in need, especially when the woman had all the right intentions.

“Enzo?” Megan is the first to speak.

She joins me in the living room, powdered sugar dusting her arms and face, her eyes sparkling at my unexpected arrival.

She hugs me tightly and holds my arms while she casts a critical eye over me. “What’s wrong?” She’s astute, I’ll give her that.

“I’ve had a lot going on.” She’ll see straight through a lie, and it’s true enough, I guess. “Long story.”

“Is that secret mafia code for you’ve been drinking yourself into a stupor for the past twelve months?” She drags me into the kitchen, where Gio is frying chorizo and mushrooms in a pan, a bottle of red wine open on the counter.

“I shouldn’t have come. You’re busy, and it’s late.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you from being here?” Megan gestures to a stool. “Sit. And don’t even think about getting up again until you’ve eaten. Do you even have any food in your apartment, or does brandy count as sustenance these days?”

I gaze at Gio for back-up, but he simply shrugs, pulls a wine glass from the rack above his head, and half-fills it with dark red liquid before sliding it my way.

“Don’t look at me,” he says. “I gave up making excuses for you a long while ago.”

“None of that communicating by telepathy either.” Megan points at each of us in turn and returns to a revolving cake stand where she’s decorating a simple white cake with silver ribbon made of frosting and delicate-winged butterflies. “Anything you want to say, you say it out loud.”

I raise my eyebrows at my brother while her back is turned.

“I know what you’re doing,” Megan says like she has eyes in the back of her head. “Start spilling now so that we can enjoy dinner together in peace after.”

“I’m not staying.” I swallow a mouthful of wine.

“Gio, do you want to tell him or shall I?” She gives her husband a sideways glance.