Chapter Four
A curse on the maker of this goddamn dress, and a curse on their entire fucking bloodline.
“ Stop fussing , Sabine,” Zeus snipes from the seat directly across from mine. His expression remains shuttered as he studies his phone, even though I’ve been huffing and puffing and drilling impatient holes into his forehead for the past thirty minutes. When his eyes still don’t leave the screen, I decide to take advantage of his distraction and really drink him in.
Decked out in a bespoke tux of the deepest midnight blue, he looks like absolute sin incarnate and my teeth press greedily into my lower lip.There’s just something about a well-fitted suit on an attractive man.
And coupled with that perfectly styled coif and neatly trimmed beard? He’s back to serving Well Put Together Team Lead , and I’m fucking here for it.
It’s not that I didn’t enjoy last night’s quick peek behind the curtain. I mean, the matching set of fingerprint-shaped bruises across the span of both my hips should tell you just how much I did. But so far today, I can’t get a read on him—at all —and now I’m left blithely wondering whether the whole encounter was just a matter of me finally getting a taste of my own medicine.
No X’s, just O’s.
“ You try sitting down in this thing,” I eventually hiss back, trying and failing for the fiftieth time to adjust my gown’s neckline so that I might be able to take at least one full fucking breath before I perish.
While the dress Dominic delivered to my dorm last weekend is objectively beautiful, I’m convinced its elaborate boning was handcrafted by Lucifer himself. Despite my tits being the reason push-up bras were invented, the bodice is still as immovable and unforgiving as a goddamn steel cage.
“Your father did this on purpose,” I whine when he still doesn’t look at me.
Dionysus chuckles, eyes crinkling with amusement as he watches my continued struggle. He slides his ass down the expensive leather seating, manspreading like the consummate dickhead that he is. One of his deliciously large thighs knocks obnoxiously against mine.
Mmm. Admittedly, another team member of mine who’s looking like he’s been practically gift-wrapped for the masses.
Dio’s tux is a broader-fitting twin to his best friend’s slim-cut fit, and for once, all that perpetually sex-tussled, dirty blond hair of his is slicked back neatly. His jaw’s also remarkably clean of stubble.
I swear, the two of them together are enough to make even the most stoic of angels weep, and for just a heartbeat, a small part of me wonders what might’ve happened if they’d both stayed the night instead of heading back to our Crew’s shared Rox City apartment.
Nah , I tell myself with full confidence, I bet Orbison snores.
Studiously ignoring the small twinge of what if, I roll my eyes at our Enforcer instead.
He grins.
Finally, Zeus straightens, carefully tucking his phone away as he does. “Likely,” he hums, finally deigning to acknowledge the devilry responsible for my ongoing torment.“He needs you uncomfortable, that way, you’ll stay alert and observant for the full duration of the evening.”
I huff, wishing I could slump back and cross my arms like Dio, but mindful of the layer of heavy-duty makeup concealing my expansive back and shoulder tattoos from prying Roxborough eyes.
I know exactly how his father’s twisted mind works.
I am his favorite pet project, after all.
Knox, seeing me start to squirm at the mention of Sebastian, leans over and gently pats my hand .Bless him. I offer the big teddy bear a small but genuine smile.
Before I can muster a clap back, however, Zeus shifts again. This time it’s to cross his legs. Long fingers interlock across one knee, his deep blue gaze sweeping carefully across our group.
I instantly swallow my retort.
Here we go.
It’s been a tense afternoon—to say the least—with my Crew effectively being held hostage on the tarmac while we wait for the Gatekeeper to send through coordinates for this year’s secret Symposium location. He’s the only person with the authority to grant travel and trade rights within neutral Underworld territories, and no one can enter a host city until he gives the green light.
This also happens to be the first time the Junior Council has managed to occupy the same space since being forced to relocate to Roxborough. It’s simply unfortunate the ‘space’ has to be the cabin of a private passenger jet sent by the Gray Man to escort us all to the event like the naughty children we are.
After sweeping the plane’s interior for bugs, Zeus had then made ample use of the temporary incarceration to fill us in on the contents of the mysterious file he’d been sent.Unbeknownst to Dio and I, it hadn’t just been the singularly explosive set of paternity results. He’d also been sent several other documents; some detailing Sebastian’s latest moves on the Governorship, some his endgame bid for the Senate, and some with evidence supporting a recent toe dip into the skin trade.
That last was something that— to our prior knowledge —the Suits had yet to dabble in.
Information , weapons, drugs, prostitution : yes. But never before had we resorted to full-out human trafficking. It just hadn’t been the Gray Men’s ‘style’, or so our Crew’d been led to believe all these years.
Now, of course, we’ve been left with a whole slew of new questions. The most important being: So, just whose style was it?
But also: Who thought we needed to know about it?
Despite all these new unknowns, Zeus seems to think this leak puts us in a slightly better position going into this evening’s foray inside the lion’s den. According to him, any edge over the Gray Man is better than nothing.No matter how small.
I, on the other hand, don’t feel any more confident than I did last week. But if I’m honest, the only thing I am feeling right now is the aftermath of having had my entire rib cage fashionably and torturously rearranged since midday.
And I have several more hours of this misery left to go.
I’ll show you ‘ fussing ’ , mister.
After what feels like an eternity of holding my breath, Zeus finally breaks the expectant silence.
“It’s being held in Themis this year,” he announces, nodding grimly as the entire team sucks in a shocked breath. “Still waiting on the actual final location.”
“ Fuck, ” Knox spits, prompting everyone to turn to him, eyebrows raised in varying states of surprise.Mine are personally hovering right at the jet’s ceiling.
Our giant marshmallow of an Enforcer?
He never swears.
The tips of Knox’s ears immediately turn pink in response, but I can’t blame the slip.
‘ Fuck’ is exactly what we’re all thinking.
While technically a No Man’s Land, the vast majority of Imperium in Imperio factions still consider the city of Themis neutral ground when operating within its limits. That’s because the small, unincorporated territory happens to be home to the ruling seat of Concordia : the lawmakers and peacekeepers for the entire Underworld, and led by the Arbiter herself.
The Symposium being hosted by none other than the Imperium ’s very own Red Court means there’s a very high chance that something truly significant is about to go down.
And in our world, significant is never a good thing.
“It’s certainly contentious. Could be because of a high-profile trial we weren’t already made aware of. But more than likely, the choice to host there is linked in some way to the unclaimed Southern crown.”
Personally, I think the chances of it not being related to the empty throne are practically slim to none. It’s been almost four months since the Green Knight’s mysterious death, and we’re no closer to crowning a new Sovereign than the day he died. A criminal leadership vacuum of this sort of magnitude is a truly special sort of anarchy, and the Arbiter’s intervention would’ve become a necessary evil, sooner rather than later.
Besides, the Underworld is by no means short of gossip merchants. Even in exile, we’ve been able to keep our finger on the pulse. We would’ve definitely heard news of any upcoming Judgements well before tonight.
“Well, I guess the bright side is not even the boss would be crazy enough to pull some shit on the Arbiter’s home turf,” Dio muses, his dark humor a reminder of the probable death sentence now hanging over our Crew like some fucked up Sword of Damocles.
Zeus hums. “As far as we know, the Sinclair kid isn’t aware of his connection to my father. So no, I doubt that’s the sort of bombshell even he’d drop in the middle of a masked event known for its discretion,” he agrees, though I see something like conflict flickering across his expression. “Still, it’s probably best if we keep an eye on him tonight. Maybe run interference if needed. If we’re lucky, Sabine can get to him first after you’re all back in Roxborough.”
His words are loosely disguised as a suggestion, but I still see what the order costs him in the sharp flex of his jaw. Nobody wants to take on the responsibility of protecting a person who may end up being responsible for your own demise. But at the end of the day, Apollo is still Jax’s blood.
He’s also just as much a pawn of Sebastian’s as we are, and if anything, that simple fact will end up being more of a driving factor behind his decisions than a simple DNA report.
Without another word, Zeus rises, buttoning his jacket back over his silk waistcoat before leaving to inform the pilot of our destination. I shift restlessly in my seat as I watch him go, trying in vain to keep my own outfit’s sharp waistline from stabbing into my churning gut.
The seat squeaks loudly beneath me, and I brace myself before glancing sideways at Dionysus, ready for more of his signature teasing. I needn’t have bothered though. The asshole must’ve decided now is as good a time as any to take a nap because his eyes are closed, breaths already evening out.
How he can always manage to completely switch off without so much as a sleep aid, I’ll never know.
Knox, however, is as far from sleep as you can get. He abruptly launches to his feet before sitting straight back down again, large hands clenching atop his thighs in distress. The dark, shaggy mop that normally crowns his head has been carefully tamed into a short tail at his nape, and—like the other two men—both he and Foster are wearing tuxedos designed to compliment the deep, inky blues of my dress.
All part of Sebastian’s game of control, I’m sure.
My gaze flicks from our unsettled Second Enforcer and over to our introverted Security Officer. Foster’s auburn locks are neatly parted to one side, and his sharp cheekbones look remarkably pale. Even after hours together, I’m still a little taken aback to see the pair of black frames perched on his narrow face. Typically, he hates needing glasses, opting only to wear them when he has to spend hours staring at his monitors.
“You alright?” I mouth as soon as his red-rimmed gaze flicks to mine. He doesn’t answer, but he does grant me a small nod. For just a split second, I swear his eyes slide over my chest before darting back up to the small window at his left.
That’s fucking weird, even for Foster.
But further introspection of my Crew mate’s oddball behavior is interrupted by the stern figure of Zeus striding his way back down the narrow aisle.
His shoulders are straight, ticking jawline now set in place.
“Wheels up in five.”
Oh shit.
He’s in battle mode.
Looks like it’s finally time to get this shitshow on the road.
The moment the town car pulls up to the mysterious final location—sent via a second encrypted message after entering Themis—is the moment the rest of my Crew collectively begins to lose their shit. My poker face, on the other hand, has hundreds of practice hours logged, and it slips into place as soon as my heeled toe hits the roped-lined entranceway.
Of course, I don’t manage so much as a step forward before both Enforcers are up and out of the vehicle and crowding my back.I don’t know why they bother; no paparazzi will be greeting our arrival on this red carpet.
Zeus places a firm hand on my hip, and as they begin escorting me up the guided walkway, I swear I can almost hear the internal crises he and Knox are sharing as they unfold in real time.
Foster’s glasses fog as he takes in the building before us and his breathing speeds up.
Dionysus, undeterred by this latest curveball, is instead in his fucking element. “Lady and gents, get ready because shit . Is. About. To. Go. Dooown ,” he trumpets, head tipped back and palms cupped around his mouth like some kind of deranged sportscaster.
Luckily for me, the single saving grace of this accursed gown is that the bodice’s design doesn’t impede the movement of my arms at all. “ Babe ,” D manages to wheeze out when I land a nice jab to the idiot’s ribs. He should know better than to stand so close behind me when my elbows are almost sharp enough to qualify for concealed carry permits.
“Keep it down, jackass ,” I mutter back, though my focus remains locked on the imposing colonial brick monolith now rising before us.
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. Shit is about to go down.
Because as it turns out, tonight’s event is not only being hosted by the Red Court—it’s being hosted at the Red Court.
“Masks on,” Zeus instructs in a perilous tone, and the stark reminder that we’re all about to step into a building teeming with hundreds of Underworld VIPs is more than enough to sober up the entire group, including our resident lord of misrule.
I comply, ready to head toward the main doors, when long fingers reach out to snag my wrist. Crystal blue eyes flash darkly from behind the feathered disguise now covering the upper portion of Zeus’s handsome face. He leans in, warm lips brushing the shell of my ear before delivering a heated, “ Be good .”
The murmured warning sends a lick of arousal down my spine, each hair on the nape of my neck flaring in response.
God. Damn.
I have to tilt my chin away from him, battling against the pleased smirk that’s threatening to take over my mouth.
Was I completely off in my assessment earlier? Was last night not a one-and-done for him, after all?
Wait, no. Fuck .
This is precisely why I don’t do the whole dating thing. I never have to worry about this sort of confusing song and dance when I’m the one who's calling all the shots.
Sadly, the bratty scowl I shoot back at him is wasted, hidden by my own matching half-mask. Regardless, the rebellious intent must still be perfectly evident because he nudges me firmly up the front steps.
The entire perimeter of the massive, copper-colored building swarms with unmasked Concordia guards and officials, all dressed in black attire with logos in their signature red. Directly outside the front entrance, there’s a petite man in a smart, aubergine suit who’s busy greeting each guest before permitting them to step inside.
“Invitation,” Marcus Nielman, 43 , prompts with an impatient flick of his wrist.
Zeus holds out the ornately embossed black card he received on behalf of the junior representatives of the Gray Men syndicate. Sebastian and his Senior Council will enter together, with the more traditional members of the Imperium in Imperio being very big on keeping the younger generations separated and ‘in their place’.
Another terse gesture from Marcus and then we’re joined by a set of guards who usher us onto the second checkpoint. This time, we’re subjected to a biometric eye scan and mandatory equipment check-in sinceno single person is permitted to enter a Symposium event while armed.
Names are never formally exchanged during this entry process, though an identifiable record of each attendee is kept for the weekend on the off chance a guest finds themselves in violation of the Law of Hospitality. So, with no official electronic guest list to pull from later, my presence at these sorts of events becomes more important than ever.
The third and final checkpoint is a secondary weapons pat down.
I’m not sure if it’s just because we’re all a little on edge or if the guys maybe sprinkled extra testosterone on their Wheaties this morning, but both Dionysus and Zeus let out matching growls when the Concordia attendant gets a little handsy while checking my skirts for hidden blades.
“Down boys,” I scold, throwing them a mock glare over my shoulder, though somewhat mystified at their behavior. Albeit not as mystified as poor Niles Whiting, 26 , I'm sure. I shoot the man with his sweaty hands on my exposed thigh what I hope is my best chagrined smile. “My apologies, I haven’t finished house-training them yet. They’re still get a little nervous around crowds.”
Wisely, Niles doesn’t utter a single word in response. His neck does remain a mottled scarlet though, as he hurries through the rest of my full body pat down at double speed.
Finally, when the five of us are each officially cleared for entry, our group is signaled to continue on through to the main atrium.
Soaring domes of stained glass, russet-colored stone blocks, and gothic chandeliers give the red-lit chamber a harsh, almost foreboding atmosphere. There’s absolutely no warmth to the massive, decadent space, despite the fact this year’s event is very much underway and it’s already filled with writhing bodies.
In fact, it’s how I would imagine stumbling onto one of the outer rims of Hell must feel.
Quite fitting, really.
Nobody acknowledges our entrance. Most guests are either entrenched in conversation, covertly watching one of the public displays of debauchery, or are themselves indulging in one of the sundry vices on offer.
Zeus keeps a possessive hand pressed to the small of my back, using it to steer me past a cluster of Victorian fainting-style couches and toward what appears to be an empty space next to one of the eastern wall’s alcoves. Smoke and low chatter ring the elaborately masked heads of the Underworld members occupying them.
No matter my Crew’s heavy feelings on the subject, it doesn’t change the fact that we’re here— formally —on behalf of the Suits, and as their Librarian, it’s still my job to observe, observe, observe . That means my focus needs to remain as sharp as it would during any field mission, and not a single lackey in attendance can escape my notice.
So my face remains carefully neutral as I instinctively trace over each of the men’s faces, absorbing identifying features and ignoring the half-naked Courtesans scattered at their feet and draped across their laps for efficiency’s sake.
They all appear to be middlemen for Southern factions. Mostly Irish, but a few of them I know are tied to the stateside chapter of the British Islington crime firm.
To ensure I don’t miss anybody important, however, I do need to stop and start carefully sectioning off the room in its entirety, which is best done using mental quadrants. Probably why Zeus picked the gap on the eastern wall in the first place; it’ll work well as a starting point, giving me a straight shot of the entrance, the bar, the small curtained stage that’s been raised for the event, as well as the stairs that lead to the upper chambers of the Court.
When I finally reach our designated spot, Dio and Knox take up their posts, immediately bracketing me like a pair of overly muscled bookends. Their matching black half-masks do absolutely nothing to hide their matching intimidating scowls.Zeus, conversely, plants himself directly in front of our group. One hand casually slips into his pocket, his shoulders angling in a subtle offer of privacy.I’m not exactly sure where Foster ended up during my trek.
Having the rest of my Crew close by does help settle some of the acid that’s started eating away at the center of my chest, but my lungs still feel tight at the thought of having to face the Gray Man himself at some point tonight. Knowing I can’t afford to be off my game for even a moment, I pull in a single, fortifying breath—an open invitation for my old friend, the killing calm, to slide on in and join me as my plus one for the evening.
Unfortunately, just standing around like finely dressed wallpaper always feels awkward at these types of hands-on parties. As if having heard my thoughts, Foster chooses that exact moment to re-materialize, silently thrusting a flute of champagne in my direction. I accept it with a bewildered thanks before he’s gone again, melting back into the crowd like a trained spook.
Okay, then .
Obviously, I can’t imbibe, but I’m still oddly grateful he’s given these idle hands of mine something to do, despite his weird behavior.
Zeus eyes my decoy drink, then glances toward a passing server whose tray holds nothing but tall, elegant, crystal-cut glasses.“I’m going to go grab a whiskey so we can keep this looking as casual as possible,” he mutters before he too disappears, this time in the direction of the open bar.
And now that I’m no longer being blocked by his tall, protective figure, I finally get my first real, unimpeded view of this year’s Symposium, in full swing and in all its hedonistic glory.
A tingle of adrenaline skips its merry way across my scalp in anticipation, and I roll my shoulders, ready to begin working. Usually, having to catalog such a large group of people would result in a hefty mental recall cascade effect, just from the sheer volume of faces alone.
In this instance, however, having to first sift through a sea of obscuring masks and elaborate formal wear usually helps slow down the barrage of data. There’s no way I won’t go to bed later without a splitting migraine, but I should hopefully at least make it through to dinner before my brain starts leaking out of my ears.
Well, here goes nothing.