9. Camilla Marccione

Camilla Marccione

Saxon

C amilla Marccione looks better than ever. A hair under six feet, svelte, curvy. Long, glossy black hair cascading in waves down past her breasts, which are high and proud and prominent in the red bandage dress she's wearing. In four-inch black stilettos, she'd be taller than me if I was standing up. Her eyes are so brown they appear black. She's in partial profile, her right side to me, lit by the pool of light from above. Her left side, I can't see. On purpose, I imagine. Her hair is draped over her left shoulder, curtained in front of the left side of her face.

Beside me, Terra is tense, vibrating—terrified? Angry? Jealous? Insecure? No fuckin' clue.

I only see Camilla and Luka, but I know better. I'd bet my last dollar that there's a bunch of dudes out of sight with night vision and high-powered rifles.

I lower the gun. "Can't hold that against you," I say to Luka. "When a Marccione makes you an offer, you accept or you die."

Camilla smiles—it's a cold thing that doesn't reach her eyes. "We aren't going to have trouble, are we, Saxon?"

"Depends on what you actually want," I say. "Kill me, torture me, all that fun stuff? Sure. I'll go along with it. If you plan on harming on hair on her head?" I jerk my head at Terra. "Then yeah, we'll have a major fuckin' problem."

"Didn't you hear Luka?" Camilla rests a hand on his shoulder—her nails are an inch long and as bloodred as her dress. "I just want to talk."

"Coulda just called. Didn't have to involve Luka."

"Perhaps," she says. "But this way, he gets a lot of money, the car you gave him, freedom from the Cabal, a job with me, and all the pussy he could ever want, while I get his invaluable services, and the look of shock on your face, which, I must say, is very nearly priceless, to me."

"I already get all the pussy I want," Luka says.

"All the free pussy, I should have said." She traces a long fingernail along his jaw. "And let me tell you, Luka, I run prime pussy."

"I hear you also run the best blow," Luka says, hope in his voice.

At Camilla's snapped fingers, a man materializes out of the shadows, a locking silver suitcase in each hand. he tosses both on the hood of the Range Rover, inputs a code into one, pops the locks, and opens it. Does the same to the other. Luka wanders over, reaches into one, and pulls out a stack of cash, tosses it back in with a nod. The other contains cocaine—he flips a knife out, stabs a brick, and snorts right off the blade, tossing his head back.

He shakes his head. "Whooo! This shit is pure , baby. I am your man, Camilla. Whatever you need. Just keep me knee-deep in pussy and blow." Luka clicks both cases closed and vanishes.

Leaving us alone with Camilla, who taps her fingernails on the hood of the car— ticktickticktick … ticktickticktic k.

The man who brought the cases remains behind Camilla, hands clasped behind his back, a handgun in a shoulder holster visible beneath his open blazer.

Camilla regards me—her gaze is like a lizard's, cold, alien, and unreadable. "I do not trust you, Saxon Cabot. This is an issue."

"I don't trust you either, but here we are. You came to me. Say what you want to say and let's go back to our separate lives. I have no quarrel with you or the Marccione family, and I want none."

"It's not that simple, unfortunately." She lifts an eyebrow at Terra. "You. Out."

"Camilla," I growl, voice full of warning. "I had one rule."

"Oh relax. I won't hurt her." She lifts one delicate shoulder. "As long as she cooperates, and you follow along like a good boy."

Terra looks at me, fear in her eyes. "Saxon?"

I close my eyes briefly. Let out a breath. "Best if you go with her. The Camilla I knew always kept her word. Just…be calm. Keep your shit in check, okay? Don't piss her off."

"There's just her and the one guy," She whispers. "Can't you, like, do some James Bond shit?"

I shake my head. "He's the one you see. I guarantee you, there's more we can't see. Probably with rifles trained on my fucking forehead. One wrong move and I've got a new hole in my skull."

Camilla gives me the lizard smile again. "You always were a smart boy." Another look at Terra. "I have no reason to hurt you, darling. Come along with me, and we'll compare notes on Saxon. I've got a nice rosé chilling in the car. You're just insurance that Saxon does what I want. He's a tricky one, you see. He might decide to do some, as you put it, James Bond shit." She closes one eye in a sultry wink. "I have excellent hearing."

I squeeze Terra's hand. "Not a lot of choices here, honey. Discretion really is the better part of valor, and right now, she's got the drop on us. Best to take our chances with Camilla. Find out what she wants and just hope it's not my balls on a silver platter."

"She better not," Terra says. "I happen to like your balls quite a lot. They're pretty."

Camilla laughs, a genuine burst of amusement with a real smile that transforms her, for a moment, into the Camilla I used to know. "He really does have a lovely set of balls, doesn't he?" Camilla snaps her fingers, and a pair of LED headlights flick on. "Come, darling. Time is wasting, and time is money, and I hate wasting money."

Terra slowly climbs out of the car, casually keeping her right hand in her jacket pocket.

Camilla glances at her with a droll eye roll. "Keep the gun, if it makes you feel better."

Terra just shrugs. "Fine, I will."

Camilla, to my surprise, gets behind the wheel of the car herself—a huge, black Cadillac SUV, the latest model. Terra climbs into the passenger seat, and then Camilla reverses.

Camilla's goon gets in beside me. Gestures. "Follow."

I point my gun at him. "I don't think so. Out."

He doesn't move, just stares at me.

"Get the fuck out of my car, now, if you like having two working knees." I thumb back the hammer and angle the barrel at his left kneecap. Hold his eyes, let the ice and the rage boiling in my veins bleed into my eyes.

"Orders are to ride with you."

"I don't give a fuck what your orders are. Fuck off, dickhead."

He still doesn't move, and my patience, such as it ever is, evaporates. BAMBAM . I put a round in each kneecap, and he screams—not that I can hear very well, what with my ears ringing. He's sobbing, screaming. I shove open my door, stomp around the hood, yank open his door, and haul him out, tossing him to the ground.

"Learn to read people, fuckface. Lucky for you I'm a changed man, or those rounds would be in your fuckin' skull." I lodge a kick in his gut, just because I'm pissed off and he's a disposable lackey.

I nudge the door shut with my hip on the way past, get back behind the wheel, and head out after Camilla, who has backed out of the supposedly abandoned warehouse and turned around to face the exit.

She leads the way through Jersey City to the tunnel and Manhattan—a place I do not fucking miss at all. We pull into an alleyway up on the Upper West Side, where she parks and descends gracefully, doing that inherently sexy ass wiggle to tug her skirt hem down, and then, with a smirk at me, makes a show of adjusting her boobs in my direction.

Okay, yes, I watched. And appreciated—seems she got a very unnecessary boob job in the intervening years, or at least a lift or something because I swear they're bigger and perkier than when I was—professionally, under compulsion—stalking her.

But even so, Terra's are better. A fact that I have the opportunity to appreciate because Terra didn't miss Camilla's little show for my benefit. She rolls her eyes at me and does her own comically overdone production of boob-adjustment, jumping and wiggling and shoving, all while making ridiculous faces. I can't help sputtering a laugh at how expertly she's taking the piss out of Camilla—an impressive feat of nonchalance in an otherwise deadly serious situation.

Camilla's left eye twitches—a telltale sign of annoyance.

I swipe my hand at my throat in a "cut it out" gesture.

Terra, instead of cutting it out, doubles down: she yanks the cups of her bustier down and flashes me, shaking her chest at me…and then at Camilla.

Who closes her eyes in longsuffering annoyance before turning away.

I should not get a semi. I shouldn't. But…I do. Just from a quick glimpse of those incredible tits of hers. Fuck, the things I want to do to them. I scrub my face, close my eyes, and think of Sister Theresa—the nun who taught calculus at the elite private Catholic academy my brothers and I attended until Sol went off to Harvard and the CIA, and Si and I ran away. She was roughly six thousand years old, had a face like a cross between a deformed pug and a pumice stone, a voice like a toad, and the personality of a cactus.

Yep, that does it—hard-on gone.

I grab a spare mag from my bag of goodies, and then another Glock and mag. Exit the car and angle for Terra.

The Manhattan summer night air is warm, a fact for which I'm grateful, seeing as I'm shirtless. I wrap my arm around Terra's waist and tuck her against my side.

"Thought I told you not to fuck with Camilla," I murmur in her ear. "Not that I'm complaining. I enjoyed the hell outta the show."

"Hers, mine, or both?" She asks, voice arch and wry.

"This a test?"

"Yes."

I laugh. "At least you're honest about it," I say. "There ain't no point in denying that Camilla's got a nice pair of tits, but honey, truthfully, they don't hold a candle to yours."

"Good answer," she says, grinning up at me. "But really, I'm not jealous. I was just fucking with you. I was just so annoyed by her little act that I couldn't help myself. I know I shouldn't provoke her, but god , she did she have to wiggle them at you like that? Hell no. I ain't takin' that shit sitting down."

"A- hem . Can we?" Camilla gestures at a door. "If we're done discussing breasts."

"Sure, let's get this shitshow on the road," I say. "By the way, Camilla, since we're discussing boobs…did you get work done on yours?"

Camilla stops dead in her tracks, pivoting slowly to face me. "Watch yourself, Saxon, dear."

"What happened to not provoking her?" Terra stage-whispers. "I thought we were afraid of her?"

"Wary, not afraid," I answer. "And it's an honest question."

"A question a gentleman does not ask a lady," Camilla says.

"Well, then, good thing I never claimed to be a gentleman."

Camilla's expression is hard as stone, and I think I can read her well enough to know I may have hit a sore spot. "You wouldn't ask that question, even in jest, if you knew what I went through after you threw me to the wolves."

I step forward into her space. "Threw you to the wolves? The fuck are you talking about? I nearly fuckin' died protecting your ass. I fucked over the goddamn Cabal for you. Took half a dozen bullets for you. Got your ass to a hospital when I was fuckin' bleeding out myself. So fuck you and your ‘threw you to the wolves' bullshit."

She tosses her hair back, revealing the left side of her face. I make no outward reaction, but…Jesus.

I heard they fucked her up, but god damn .

The ricochet scar is bad enough, a wicked, keloid thing going from below her eye and beside her nose up to her temple. It nearly took her eye, and she's lucky as fuck it didn't kill her. But the scarring is hard to look at. The skin is rumpled, twisted, and shiny—burned? All over her cheek, jaw, and the side of her face.

"Take a good look, Saxon. That taxi didn't take me to a hospital, it took me to my family. My father. My brothers."

"I heard rumors."

"Whatever rumors you heard are nothing compared to what I endured."

"And I'm sorry for that, Camilla. Truly. But I was dying. Getting you into a cab was the best I could do. What your fucked up family did to you can't be put at my feet."

She stares at me. "Says you." She yanks open the door. "I'm not discussing this outside. Come in."

We follow her through the door and into a smoky, low-ceilinged room, dimly lit by battery-operated faux candle votives on small round tables, electronic dance music thudding from everywhere and nowhere. Men play cards at the tables, puff on cigars and cigarettes, throw back whiskey, and sip beer. Totally naked women parade through the room, winding between tables carrying huge trays laden with bottles of whiskey, pitchers of beer, cartons of cigarettes and wooden boxes of cigars. Occasionally, a card player will lift a hand and one of the women will go to him, bending to offer him the tray. Often as not, the man will take a bottle or a cigarette, and cop a fondle. It seems to be expected since none of the women react. Other naked women walk around the room as well, these not laden with trays. Whenever a player folds, usually with a curse and an angry toss of his cards onto the table, the nearest nude female struts over to him, pulls him to his feet and leads him to a short, narrow hallway and into a room.

"Effective way to keep 'em coming back even when they lose," I remark.

"Exactly. Takes the sting out of losing their money." Camilla glances at Terra. "Does it shock you?"

Terra snorts. "Hardly."

"The girls who work in here have all volunteered, you should know." Camilla examines her fingernails. "Working the card clubs is a coveted thing for my girls. The pay is exorbitant."

"So you're a madam?" Terra asks.

"I am many things," Camilla answers. "Come. I have a room upstairs."

We follow her up a hidden flight of stairs, at the top of which is a door guarded by two men in suits, each wielding compact submachine guns. One of them opens the door as Camilla approaches. The room on the other side is a private lounge, once decorated for masculine tastes—wood-paneled walls, thick plush carpet, and heavy gold accents. Camilla has softened it with tasteful artwork and an elegant leather couch, but the battleship of a desk still screams "mafia kingpin."

She indicates the couch and seats herself behind the desk. She swivels in the chair and pours a couple of fingers of whiskey from a cut crystal decanter, swiveling back to face us.

"What did you do with Anthony?" She asks me.

"Kneecapped him and left him at Luka's."

She frowns. "Why? He was following orders."

"I don't do babysitters, and he wasn't listening."

"That was uncalled for, Saxon. I'm quite put out. He was one of my favorite boy toys. Talented tongue, well-endowed, and loyal."

"He'll live. He just won't be running any errands for a while. Hobbling errands, maybe."

"Not funny."

"It's a little funny. You should know me better, Camilla. I'm playing along, for now. Don't make the mistake of thinking I've softened."

"I heard you didn't kill any of the Cabal men who have come after you."

"It's true. I took a vow not to kill." I give her the cold, hard stare that has left many others shitting their pants. "There's a lot you can do, short of killing a person. I think you know this."

She regards me without expression. "Interesting. The Cabal's most feared assassin has taken a vow not to kill. And he has a little woman in tow."

"Don't patronize me, bitch. I'll kick your ass, gun or no gun." Terra's glare could burn a hole in a brick wall.

Camilla ignores her. Focuses on me. "You should have let them kill me, or you should have killed me yourself. You did me no favors."

"I never once killed an innocent person. Every mark I ever eliminated had a fuckin' ocean of blood on their hands."

"I have blood on my hands, Saxon."

"Yeah, now. Not then."

"I've wished you killed me many times over the years. I've hated you. Thought about ways of torturing you before I killed you."

"Wasn't me who did that to you," I say, flicking a finger at her face.

"No, it was my own father." She holds her hair back and turns her head to the side, revealing that the scarring extends down her neck and under her dress. "Poured boiling salt water on me. On the open wound."

"Fuck me," I growl. "Why? Jesus."

"Because of you."

"Again, I'm sorry. But how is that my fault?"

Her mask cracks. "Because I wouldn't give you up! I knew where you were. I knew that…that woman took you and squirreled you away in Las Vegas. I don't know who she works for, but whoever he is, my father didn't dare move against him. The Cabal doesn't dare, either. I protected you, Saxon."

"You're not making any sense. If no one would move against my employer, why did you protect me?"

"I loved you!" She yells. "I wouldn't say a word. Not to give you up, not to say that what happened between us wasn't real. He wanted me to say that you took advantage of me. I wouldn't say you did."

"You should've just told him what he wanted to hear. Saved your own ass."

The mask cracks more: pain lines her features; rage is a rictus. "You know what my brothers did?" She jerks her dress down, baring her breasts.

The burn scars extend down her left side, halting abruptly. Her breasts are, objectively, perfect. A little too much so.

"What am I supposed to be seeing, Camilla?"

"I had to have them surgically reconstructed." She leaves her dress down, palms flat on the table. "My brothers carved them up, Saxon. Sawed off my nipples. They wanted to cut my clit off, but Father stopped them. I'm not sure why. Perhaps he drew a line somewhere, who knows? I have no sensation in my breasts at all, now. None, zero. Because of you."

Terra leans forward, elbows on knees. "Camilla, that's fucking awful. But—"

"SHUT UP! I've waited years to sit across from Saxon and tell him this. So you…you just…" She reaches into a drawer, pulls out a small handgun, and fires a shot— BAM . The round smacks into the wall beside Terra's head. "You shut up. You don't factor in this."

Terra sits back without a sound, but her face is pale and her hands shake.

"They tied me to a bed and let their friends run a train on me," Camilla whispers. "Left me tied to that bed for days, raping me." She licks her lips, and bites her lip. "Then they told the Cabal where I was. And then they did the same. I was tied to that bed for a week . I endured a hell you cannot ever imagine."

"Jesus fucking Christ," I whisper.

"Because of you."

"Why didn't you just give me up?"

"I did, but it didn't matter by then. They knew I was going to run away with you. I…I wish we had." She whispers this. Presses the side of her pistol barrel to her forehead. "You put me in a cab owned by my father and sent me to them. I still had your cum inside me. They couldn't punish you, so they punished me."

Terra pulls her gun out of her jacket pocket, places it on my lap, walks around the desk, spins Camilla's chair ninety degrees, and pulls her into a hug. Camilla doesn't fight it, and doesn't react for a long time. Terra just holds her.

For an uncomfortably long time, they remain like that, until Camilla abruptly and violently shoves Terra away, angrily dashing at her eyes with her wrist.

"Don't," She hisses. "Do fucking not ."

Terra sinks to her knees. "It's not your fault. Nor is it his."

"I already killed them," Camilla says. "If I could, I'd bring them back to life just so I can kill them again."

"I know," Terra says.

"Oh? You do?" Camilla's voice is dangerous. "Do tell."

"I was raped as a child by my dad's friends. Later, my friend killed them, all three of them. I was angry at him for not letting me do it. And the man who raped me as an adult…" she halts, voice quavering. "Well, he got off away too easy. Wrecked his motorcycle and died instantly. I had plans for him. I dreamed about cutting off his dick and feeding it to him piece by piece."

Camilla nods seriously. "That's what I did to my brothers. Well, I didn't feed it to them. I just cut them off, shoved them into their mouths, and duct-taped their mouths shut. I sent them to a pig farm I know of and had them fed, alive, to the hogs. The men who raped me? Well. They suffered far, far worse for far longer. Cabal men, my father's men, all of them. I bided my time. And then I killed my father and took over. With my brothers out of the way, the family business was mine. And I used every resource I had to track down the men who hurt me. Every single one. I personally tortured them until they begged for death, and I didn't give it to them. Especially the Cabal men. They were…the things they did to me…I did it to them. Except, since I don't have a dick to fuck them with, I used a hot curling iron."

"Fucking hell," I mutter, shuddering.

"Eyeballs, mouth, asshole. I cut their dickholes bigger and fucked them there, too."

Terra looks nauseas. Even I feel a little queasy.

"I get it, Camilla." I shake my head. "I'm sorry. Truly, I'm sorry. I thought putting you in the cab would get you help. I had no way of knowing—"

"I know!" She screams, standing up and pacing around the desk, stopping in front of me, gun in hand dangling at her thigh. "I fucking know . Why do you think you're not dead? I could have had you killed at your father and mother's funeral. Or at Luka's. Or any point along the way. I've watched you closely, waiting for the moment you left that club."

"What do you want , Camilla? I can't…" I shrug, gazing up at her. "I can't take your pain away. You wanna torture me too? Fine. Let Terra go and you can do what you want to me. I won't fight."

"I don't want that anymore, you idiot." She turns away, suddenly calm and icy again. She opens the door and peeks her head out. "Send someone for Anthony and get him help. See that he recovers fully. And send me…Alex. He'll have to fill in until Anthony is better."

She goes back to the desk. Sits. Sips whiskey, and places the gun back in the drawer. "There is something I want from you, though."

"Name it. If I can give it to you or do it, as long as it doesn't cause harm or fear to Terra, or involve my brothers or the Club, I'll do it." I pause. "I won't kill anyone, either."

"Jarrod Timothy Carmichael." She eyes me. "He works for the Cabal. He was your replacement, initially, but he rose quickly through the ranks partially by virtue of being extraordinarily ruthless even by Cabal standards, but also because off who his father is."

"I've heard the name," I say, noncommittal.

"He's been tasked with bringing you in for some unique Cabal justice." The lizard smile again. "I'm sure you're aware of the five-million-dollar bounty? Well, that's not a Cabal bounty, that's a Jarrod bounty. He has a personal vendetta against you, apparently."

I shrug. "Never met the man, to my knowledge."

"That's all I know about his involvement with you." She taps a single fingernail on the desk.

"And how does Jarrod factor in for you?" I ask, even though I have a suspicion as to the answer.

"He's the only one I haven't exacted my punishment on," she answers, verifying my suspicion. "He was the meanest and most violent of them all. A real sadistic fuck. Many of my girls are poached from Cabal operations. They come to me gladly and willingly, just to get away from him, in particular. The stories I've heard of him from the girls would give you nightmares."

"I don't doubt it. What's your proposition?"

"I know where he is, but I can't get to him. I'm not in a place where I can afford to start a war with the Cabal. But I need him to pay. And you need him off your scent. Eliminate him, and the operations against you will dry up. No one wants to go after you—the legend of Saxon Cabot still rings powerfully in Cabal circles, apparently. But they're more afraid of Jarrod than you, which should say something. If he's out of the way, the Cabal may very well just give up, as long as you keep your head down."

"Then the Cabal has changed from my time," I say. "They'd never let anyone get away with what I did to them."

She smiles, a real one, this time. Pleased, and proud. "They have bigger fish to fry. Namely, me. I'm days away from closing a deal with the Morenos. An alliance, of sorts. We split up the East Coast and cut the Cabal out entirely."

"A dangerous move. They can bring in resources from elsewhere. Their presence here is only a part of their total operation."

"I'm working on deals with the Russians and the Japanese, as well as several South American cartels. I'm not trying to take over, see. I just want to fuck the Cabal. I want to fuck them right up the ass, one revenue stream at a time. I'm taking their women. I'm taking their arms deals. I'm taking their drugs. With your help, I'll take Jarrod, their precious little criminal prodigy. Help me fuck them, Saxon. That's what I want. Help me fuck the Cabal in the ass. With the biggest, spikiest dick possible." She opens the same drawer the gun is in and withdraws something that makes my asshole pucker in fear.

A 12-inch black dildo…that has had nails embedded in it all up and down its thick prodigious length.

"I made this especially for Jarrod. I'm saving it for him. Deliver him to me, alive."

"Or?" I ask.

She frowns. "Or? Or nothing. It behooves you to do so. He wants you dead. Give him to me, and your problems are solved. You don't even have to risk breaking your vow—I'll do the wet work. I'm not threatening you, I'm asking for your help."

"This isn't a 'do what I'm asking or you die' situation?"

She shrugs. "Would you like it to be? I can arrange that, if you like. Your little girlfriend can stay here, safe and sound, while you work your Viking magic."

I growl. "I hate that nickname. It's fucking stupid."

"The Bloody Viking? I think it has a certain ring to it."

Terra snickers. "They call you that? That's badass."

"It's stupid. I'm not even Scandinavian."

"I didn't come up with it," she says, shrugging.

"No, I know. It's just one of those stupid things. I got caught in a bad situation. A hit went wrong, and I ran out of ammo and was outnumbered. So, I hacked my way out with a fire ax." I touch my scar. "It's how I got this. Knife versus axe—I won, but barely. I was shirtless, barefoot, covered in blood, and wielding an axe." I shrug. "Thus, the Bloody Viking."

"How'd you lose your shoes?" Terra asks.

"The hit was at a beachfront resort in Mexico. I was posing as a tourist."

I wave a hand, dismissing the topic. "Where is Jarrod?"

"A compound in Vermont. Heavily guarded. Remote and isolated."

"How remote can you get in Vermont?" Terra asks.

"You'd be surprised," Camilla answers.

I sigh. "You could have just asked, Camilla. There was no need for all this drama."

"I told you—I've waited years to have this talk with you. And besides, if I'd, what, sent you an email? Showed up at the club asking for you? How would you have reacted?"

I sigh again, nodding with a shrug. "A fair point. I am sorry, Camilla. If I'd known your dad owned that cab…" I scrub my face. "I wondered how they got you. How they knew."

"I hated you for a long time," she says. "It was easier to hate you than people I'd already killed. Sometimes I wish I'd waited. Drawn it out longer. Eventually, I came to realize it wasn't your fault. I've been to therapy, you see."

Terra snorts, a failed attempt to stifle laughter. "Sorry, sorry. But…You just sat here and told us you fed your brothers to feral hogs. And then you went totherapy?"

"I didn't tell the therapist everything , of course. Doctor-client confidentiality can only go so far. But the hate was…it was consuming me. I can't run this stupid empire if I'm consumed by hate, so yes, I'm seeing a therapist."

Terra blows out a breath. "Now that , I understand."

"I can refer you to mine," Camilla says. "She does Zoom appointments. There are no overnight miracles, but she is amazing. I'm still horribly demented, of course. You don't go through what I did and come out fine after a few therapy sessions. But it's a work in progress."

"I may just take you up on that," Terra says.

A knock on the door interrupts things. "Enter," Camilla calls.

A young man enters. He's young and handsome, wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt, with a gun on his left shoulder. "You asked for me, ma'am?"

"Alexander, yes. Anthony has suffered an…unfortunate incident. So, until he's healed, you're in his place. Can you handle that?"

He nods. "Yes, ma'am. It would be an honor. How can I serve you?"

Her smile is wicked. "Come here."

Alex walks over and stands behind the desk. Camilla slowly and sultrily hikes the hem of her dress up, revealing a lack of underwear and a shaved-bare pussy. "Are you hungry, Alex?"

"Yes, Ma'am." He drops to his knees and begins servicing her, eagerly. nosily.

I drop my gaze. "I just need a location."

Camilla slides a piece of paper across her desk. "Here. If you need manpower, my men are at your disposal. I would appreciate you returning as many of them to me alive as possible."

I grab the paper and retreat. "And Terra can stay here? Or… somewhere? Safe?"

"Fuck you, no." Terra snatches her gun back from me and pockets it. "You aren't goin' anywhere without me, buster."

Camilla lets out a moan, grabbing Alex's head with both hands.

"Let's argue about this elsewhere," I suggest.

"Good plan," Terra mutters.

We leave the study—one of the guards precedes us down the stairs and shows us to a different lounge area away from the noise and smoke and crowd. It's well-lit, and modern, with white leather couches and a glass coffee table, black-and-white framed photographs on the walls, and a kitchenette. The only out-of-place piece is the long glass-topped display case full of handguns, assault rifles, machetes, night vision goggles, sniper rifles, and grenade launchers.

"Miss Marccione bids you take whatever you need. The mark will be at the location for at least seventy-two hours, according to our information. I'm to provide you with whatever you need."

I glance at Terra—she's swaying on her feet. "We need food and then we need to be left alone to catch some sleep."

"What would you like? We have a full kitchen."

I glance at Terra, who lights up. "I'd kill for a cheeseburger and fries. And a diet Coke."

"Same thing," I say.

The guard nods once and leaves, and just like that, we're alone again.