Chapter 6
Six
Journal Entry
The Society gala
Thirteen years old
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tucked at a table in a corner of the ballroom, I frantically search the crowd. We’ve been here for over an hour, and Aoife hasn’t shown up. As soon as that thought finishes, I spot Constantine and Hendrix walk in, then disappear again in the crowd. Tristan isn’t with them. Neither is Aoife.
“You’re getting on my damn nerves,” Aleksei says when I keep fidgeting.
I can’t help it. There’s this weird energy permeating the room, like an ominous whisper that won’t shut up.
“Where is she?”
The annual gala is one of the few times I get to see Aoife every year. I’ve been planning for months what to say to her tonight. I just need to pick the right moment to get her alone. Don’t need a repeat of what happened last year.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” Aleksei removes the baggie filled with rolled joints from his pocket. “I’m going out back,” he says as invitation for me to join him.
I wave him off. He knows I don’t smoke. I tried once. I didn’t like how it made me feel.
“Suit yourself.”
Senator Worthington grabs my father’s attention, and Aleksei takes that opportunity to sneak away. My heart soars when I see a flash of blonde hair, and immediate disappointment settles in when the blonde girl isn’t Aoife but Serena, the senator’s daughter.
“Where is Aleksei going?” Mama’s words are drawn out and barely comprehensible.
Because she’s drunk.
Inebriation or passed out are constant states for her to be in these days. It reminds me too much of Helena Amato. And it makes me angry that my mother thinks that oblivion is the only recourse she has now. It means she’s given up.
I rescue the wineglass from her hand when she droops forward. “He went to get some fresh air.”
She lurches upright and snatches the glass from my grasp, downing the rest of the Cabernet Sauvignon in one swallow before signaling to the nearby attendant to bring her another. I shake my head no at the woman, and she backs away.
“Mama,” I gently entreat.
She looks at me with bloodshot, pewter eyes and cups my cheek. “I love you, malysh. My sweet, handsome boy.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes when I see the pain behind hers. “I love you, too, Mama.”
She nods, smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. “I’m not feeling well.”
I pounce on that as a lifeline to get her out of here. “Maybe you should go home and rest. Antony can send another car to drive us home.”
I’m already texting him to bring the car around and have it waiting out front. It’s only an hour’s drive from the Society compound to our house. Plenty of time for Antony to have another driver come and get us before the gala ends.
“Yes. Rest. That’s what I need. Thank you, malysh.”
Pulling her chair out, I take her elbow and help her stand on unsteady legs. The side exit door is only a few feet away, but the short distance feels like a mile when the person you’re escorting can barely walk straight.
“Have a good evening, sir. Madam,” one of the guards says as we pass through, the side piece he’s carrying blatantly obvious from the way his dinner jacket bulges on his right side.
The gala is filled with men with guns. Too many rich, influential people here to take a chance of anything happening to one of them.
Once out in the corridor, the noise levels drop considerably.
A few people loiter outside the ballroom, talking quietly with others or inspecting the gold-leafed framed artwork that hangs on the walls.
All priceless masterpieces from famous artists, of course.
There is nothing subtle about the decorations in this place.
Every painting, portrait, silk wall covering, drapery, rug, statue and the like are displayed in all their vapid, ostentatious glory.
“Just a little farther,” I say, basically carrying Mama the rest of the way to the car when she becomes nothing but dead weight.
Another servant opens one side of the main double doors. Pungent night air perfumed with the scent of roses washes over my face as soon as we step outside. Antony is already there, waiting, and opens the back passenger door of the Range Rover when he sees us.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Father’s deep baritone barks.
I pass Mama into Antony’s care. “Take her home.”
“Yes, sir.” He gently sets her inside the SUV and buckles her seat belt. She doesn’t even twitch. She’s out cold.
“Nina, don’t you dare leave.”
I block Father from getting to her. “I’m sending her home. She doesn’t feel well.”
Knowing there are eyes on us, he lowers his voice, but the threat comes out loud and clear. “Get her ass back inside right fucking now.”
“Or what?”
He hasn’t raised a fist to her in six months. Not since I broke his hand. When you rear your child to be a weapon, teach him through abuse and degradation how to harness that power, you shouldn’t be surprised when that weapon eventually turns on you.
The brisk evening air does little to extinguish the flame of fury coloring his face. “People will talk,” he grits out through clenched teeth.
I take a step closer. He takes a step back. And I smile internally when I notice how his right hand can’t quite make a full fist. I didn’t just break his hand. I shattered the bones to the point where not even the most renowned surgeon could repair the damage.
“Who gives a shit what they say? Let them talk.” I wait until I hear the tires of the Range Rover crunch across the paver stone before walking away.
Fuck him.
Not wanting to go back to the gala because Aoife isn’t there, I take the elevator up and follow the hall to the end to the storage closet where there’s an access panel and a set of metal stairs that leads up to the roof.
When I open the door, I notice the panel is off and propped against the wall. They must already be up there.
After checking to make sure no one is on the stairs—because accidentally running into Tristan or Hendrix on their way down would be awkward as hell—I use my phone’s flashlight to guide my way as I carefully climb each step.
The bolted joints that anchor the stairs to the wall creak loudly as I ascend, and I just hope the noise doesn’t carry.
When I get to the top, there’s an access panel that unlocks the door to the roof. Hoping the code hasn’t changed since last time, I punch in the numbers and breathe a sigh of relief when the light turns green.
Turning off the light on my phone, I slip it into my back pocket and push open the door.
A rush of wind hits me when I step out into the night, only to find no one’s out here.
Just to make sure, I venture a little farther.
This section of the roof is flat, not sloped, with filigree wrought-iron railing running along the side of the deck that meets the edge of the roofline.
I scan around, looking for Aoife and the guys. Nothing. Aoife, where are you?
With heavy disappointment, I sullenly take in the view that on any other night would be a majestic sight.
Bracing the railing, I look down. Parts of the property glow under the landscaping lights strategically placed around the mansion, demarcating the silhouettes of the various guards patrolling the perimeter.
It’s just another reminder that I’m trapped in a gilded cage.
To an outsider, I live in a big house, come from a wealthy family, and want for nothing.
I get to enjoy the luxuries most people could only dream about.
But that’s the illusion of a gilded cage.
In reality, I’m a prisoner, stripped of my freedoms and my right to choose.
I look forward to the day when I break free.
Tipping my face to the wind, I glance up.
The stars scattered across the inky black sky overhead appear so much closer from up here, as if I could reach out and touch them.
One of Mama’s favorite movies is It’s a Wonderful Life.
I watch it with her every Christmas Eve.
She knows the dialogue by heart and recites the lines as the movie plays.
I find that I enjoy listening to her more than I like watching the movie.
There’s this scene in the beginning where George tells Mary, his wife, that he would lasso the moon for her.
Mama says it’s very romantic. Maybe I can do something like that for Aoife.
Not lasso the moon but pluck the stars out of the sky.
People always say wish upon a star. I could scoop up the stars and give Aoife a jar filled with wishes.
The access door slams shut, and I turn around. Tristan and I lock eyes, but I can’t maintain the connection for long and focus on his chin, another trick Mama taught me.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Hendrix says in that snotty, highbrow British accent that makes me want to roll my damn eyes. He wasn’t even born in the UK He’s from New York.
Constantine watches me warily from the door, his dark gaze like twin blackholes that blot out any light.
Out of the three of them, he’s the more dangerous one.
Death, the Society now calls him. When I look at him, I see a reflection of the darkness that now resides within my brother—Aleksei, not Tristan.
“Where’s Aoife?” I ask, growing concerned when she doesn’t appear with them.
“None of your fucking business,” Hendrix is quick to reply.
Constantine doesn’t say anything. He can’t anymore. There were whispers at his initiation several months ago about what happened to him. What his father, Gabriel, did.
Not intimidated, even though it’s three against one, I ask again, “Where is she? Why isn’t she here?”
It’s required of all Society members to attend the annual gala. James Fitzpatrick is the head of the Council, so he would definitely be here tonight, but I didn’t see him or Caroline in the ballroom either. Suddenly, that weird energy I had been feeling starts to make sense.
The tension grows as wide as the silence between us until Tristan slices through it with two words that rip my heart open.
“She’s gone.”