Page 7 of Perfect Vengeance

The sounds of her best friends bickering made the stabbing pain in her forehead and temples worsen. There was only one remedy.

She pushed from the door, kicking the black duffel aside, then stormed through the living room. Her friends’ voices followed her as she beelined for the kitchen.

“Where’s she going?” Annabelle asked as Gina blew past.

“Duh,” Kinsey said. “Where she always goes when she’s pissed off and needs to calm her nerves.”

“Let her go,” Margo interjected. “She’s on a mission.”

They’d all used the murder weapon—the Dodge—to quick-change into sneakers and warm-up suits to cover their black stealth garb. Now, Gina’s sneakers squeaked as she stepped onto the kitchen tile and flipped on the lights.

She charged to the pantry and snapped open the folding doors with a loud whack. She grabbed one of several slim, red foil-covered boxes from a lower shelf and tore off the wrapper. The box’s cover came next, and she flung it onto the kitchen’s island. A tall copper pepper mill toppled and clattered as it smacked onto the black granite counter.

The heavenly scent of deep, rich chocolate flooded her nose. With shaking fingers, she plucked out a chocolate-covered lychee nut from the plastic tray and shoved it into her mouth, barely chewing it before swallowing, then stuffing in three more. She squeezed her eyes shut, savoring the smooth, creamy chocolate slithering down her throat and contrasting with the juicy, sweet tartness of the lychee. After a few more seconds, the ability to think clearly returned. Marginally, that was.

During their post-op briefings, they normally discussed how the op went and ways they could improve their tactics, and all while counting the money they’d stolen. Tonight there would be no money counting and no post-op briefing. Postmortem, maybe. On top of which, now there was that other teensy, weensy little problem crawling up their asses.

Assaulting an FBI agent and abandoning him in a freezing cold alleyway.

He’d probably be okay. He was breathing fine, and she could clearly feel his pulse—after she’d stopped freaking out. Still, they never should have left him there. Guilt and more worry gnawed at her insides. She’d be going straight to hell when she died. Maybe sooner.

She snapped open her eyes and glanced longingly into the pantry, three shelves of which were fully stocked with every grade and variety of chocolate known to womankind. Within twenty-four hours, she’d have to restock at least one entire shelf. It was her cross to bear. When her life turned into a chaotic mess, she gorged on chocolate.

Gina grabbed another box of chocolate-covered lychees, anticipating with dire certainty the need for a second fix long before the sun peeked over the horizon.

With the two boxes of chocolates balanced in her hand, she turned to face her friends for what would surely be their most depressing post-rip-off briefing yet. At the doorway between the kitchen and shabby chic–inspired living room, she paused and looked at each of her friends’ worried faces, feeling even more like crap because this whole crazy scheme had been her idea from the beginning.

One minute they’d been laughing and drinking martinis while watching the old Robin Hood movie with Errol Flynn, and the next they were plotting how to steal from the mob and give the money to their favorite charity. One thing had led to another, and here they were two years later with their first notch in the failure column. Add to that a vehicular hit-and-run—on a federal agent, no less—and they were batting oh-for-three tonight.

Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them back. She’d learned the hard way that relationships didn’t last and were a waste of time. People she loved always left. But these women had become the closest thing to family she had, and she’d really screwed things up.

Could things possibly get any worse?

She mentally chastised herself for even thinking such a stupid question. Things could always get worse. The FBI can make it worse. She knew that from firsthand experience. If the FBI hadn’t arrested her father, Franco wouldn’t have murdered him.

The blinking red light on Gina’s answering machine caught her eye, and she frowned. She’d recently broken it off with Paul, a stockbroker at the Wall Street investment firm where she worked, so the message wouldn’t be from him. The only other person she’d ever given her home number to besides Margo, Kinsey, and Annabelle was Linda Hernandez of the Manhattan Women’s Crisis Center.

She gripped the boxes of chocolate tighter. This couldn’t be good. With a sinking feeling, she pushed the button and listened as Linda’s urgent message echoed off the kitchen walls.

Gina, this is Linda. Marilyn’s husband found the safe house and beat her up pretty badly. Her nose is broken along with two ribs. He was about to start in on the children when the police showed up and arrested him. He won’t stop until he gets Marilyn back or kills her and the kids. Please, if you were successful in getting that large donation you mentioned, call me right away. It doesn’t matter how late it is.

She didn’t need to copy down the number Linda recited. She knew it by heart. Linda had been her contact with the Center and the grateful recipient of the anonymous cash Gina and her friends provided to abused women and their children to help them escape and make a better life. A life that cost money.

Setting up an entire family in another city was an expensive endeavor. New ID, a place to live, a car, cash for food and other necessary supplies. Freedom from abuse wasn’t free, and it didn’t come cheap.

The corner of one of the boxes dug into her palm where she’d crushed it with her fingers. She glanced into the living room where the other women sat in a row on the sofa. From the gloomy looks on their faces, they’d heard every word of Linda’s message.

“That settles it.” One by one, she locked eyes with each of her friends. “I’m going back.”

“Back?” Kinsey leaned forward. “Where? You can’t mean Rocco’s.” Her striking amber-brown eyes widened.

“Yes. To Rocco’s. Not tonight, but soon.” She strode into the living room and perched on the rolled arm of the love seat. “You heard the message. Marilyn needs that money more than ever, and she needs it yesterday.”

“You’re crazy.” Annabelle shook her head, making her shoulder-length, curly red hair shimmer. “Rocco might be waiting. He might even set a trap.”

“I doubt it.” Gina popped another lychee into her mouth, then held out the box to her friends. “Want any?” She knew they didn’t. They’d never understood the chocolate-lychee fetish she took to addictive levels. Not even Kinsey, whom she’d first met at a chocolate tasting event put on by her family’s international cacao company.

“Yuck.” Kinsey’s perfect, twenty-six-year-old’s complexion crinkled as she grimaced. “Chocolate-covered raspberries maybe, but not that weird-ass nut-fruit.”