Chapter Eleven
The poor hostess escorting the Gray Man and his Councillors to their seats looks like she’s on the verge of passing out. Since our seating plan puts the Seniors furthest from the door, their path leads them directly past our table. Of course, Sebastian views that as the perfect opportunity to stop and spike the heart rates of his favorite Junior Officers-in-exile.
Even after this many weeks apart, his domineering presence still feels both as familiar and as suffocating as ever. The dark blue eyes that bore into each of us are like ice spears, reminding me of those parts of the ocean so deep no light from the surface can reach them.
Sub-zero and unforgiving.
Next to him, his Second-in-Command Dominic Licata, 49, and the rest of their Council are about as intimidating as the Concordia agents lined up along the edges of the dining hall.
Which is to say: not at all .
Nobody dares breathe as we wait for one of them to break the taut silence between us. It’s Sebastian who finally does, but only after we spend an eon pinned beneath that cold, calculating gaze.
“Jackson. Sabine.” His tone is perfectly neutral, and in true Gray Man fashion, he completely ignores the rest of his Juniors. The Concordia employee takes that as her cue to escape.
I know there’s no way he’d compromise his prized asset by addressing me as the Librarian so publicly—but to my ears our given names still sound like war drums.
The beginning of the end.
A death knell.
Suddenly my throat’s developed a very real craving for a glass of ice water.
“Father,” Zeus acknowledges him, just as evenly, somehow also managing a respectful tip of the chin.
“Sir,” I croak.
He passes a considering look across the men seated around our table before zeroing back in on me. “Join me for dinner, won’t you.”
It’s not an invitation.
Invitations come with the right of refusal.
RSVP: Dearest Gray Man, I must respectfully decline on account of a sudden case of watery bowels.
It’s also only tossed in my direction. Fuck.
My chair scrapes loudly in the ensuing silence, but then Zeus is there—his touch warm and steady as he helps me back to my feet. In the time it takes us to disengage my skirts from the plush seating, Sebastian’s already seated himself at the Senior table, leaving five place settings distinctly empty.
Instead of joining his boss, however, a silent Dominic swoops in for the seat I’ve just vacated. When the remaining Councillors—Sebastian’s main money man, Head Accountant Barlow St. Ives, 51 , and systems analyst, Head Architect Stephen Almani, 45 —step forward and take the empty spots on either side of Knox, the reason for the bizarre table split becomes clear.
The Gray Man is planning a dinner ambush—but I’m the only other Suit getting a front-row seat.
Sweat dots my brow. It’s no more than a few wobbly steps to reach the empty seat that Sebastian indicates—but I may as well be walking a Green Mile on execution day.
At least I’ll look fabulous for my funeral.
Eight weeks ago, I might’ve told you that I was finally starting to build up a small immunity to the Gray Man’s sinister presence. That I was moving about more freely; thinking less and less about the consequences of chasing down scratches for the itch inside my head.
He still unnerved me, yes, but after years of exposure therapy, I could at the very least enter my guardian’s direct line of sight without every single piece of my training flying straight out the window.
Now it seems even just a couple of Sebastian-free months has been more than enough to weaken all those Gray Man antibodies. The void I’d tried inviting out tonight has jilted me, leaving me in no better shape than the broken teen he’d dumped on his son’s doorstep all those years ago.
Zeus eases me into the chair at his father’s right, and I manage to take a single, hiccuping breath before the bodice pinches me in new and exciting places. At this point, I think I’m resigned to just never filling my lungs properly, ever again.
Sebastian catalogs every microsecond of the interaction.
“ Enough , Jackson,” he snaps, not bothering to keep the contempt from coloring his tone.
My throat bobs when a finger trails gently down the back of my arm. But then it withdraws, along with the comforting presence at my back. I glance up through my lashes as he turns to leave. The tension in his jaw alone could haul an eighteen-wheeler the length of an interstate highway.
He knows he has no choice but to leave me to fend for myself out here in these metaphorical woods; the only thing missing is the red cloak.
My, what soulless eyes you have.
“Jackson’s communications on the Roxborough project have been few and far between. Report your progress,” Sebastian’s glacial tones slice through my morbid musings. Gooseflesh prickles the back of my neck and the sweat quietly gathering there begins to chill. I’m suddenly grateful I wore my hair down.
The Roxborough project—s aid so dismissively. As though holding our lives hostage, and forcing me to harvest 300 souls for his organization like I’m some kind of Gangland Grim Reaper is just a little weekend hobby for him.
“Sir, I’ve submitted updated accounts of where I’m at on student and staff numbers. Those haven’t changed,” I say, dry swallowing.
His Senior Council still sits in silent vigil at what should have been the Junior table, while behind us, I hear the soft murmuring of some of the more highly ranked Suits as they arrive and find places to sit. Only a portion of the very upper echelon of the Gray Men are permitted to attend tonight’s Symposium. I concentrate on keeping my breathing even and my focus entirely on him.
“Yes, I’m well aware of your dismal numbers, Sabine,” he chides, holding up a hand to halt the pale-faced waiters who were about to descend on our tables. “Talk to me about the Rox Boys.”
I knew it was coming and yet I can still feel my own pulse through the soles of my feet.
“We got word they had a meeting with two unidentified syndicate members, inside Ace territory. Two Clubs stumbled on the meet, pulled guns on them, and they exchanged fire. Both the goons and the Aces were reported dead at the scene.”
He doesn’t ask who shot whom. The only detail worth his notice is the fact a pair of Strange Aces drew weapons against the boys. “So they’re not working for Patrick, then.”
“Seems unlikely, given how it went down.”
“What do we know about their visitors?”
“This Front Man, Morelli had a New York accent. The Enforcer’s name was Reynolds. Morelli could be from any one of a dozen Northern Mafia families. Neither name lined up together in the Codex.”
I’m not expected to keep a record of every disposable Underworld grunt, otherwise the sheer volume of information I would be forced to parse would be completely untenable. Generally speaking, that means we only keep track of those players likely to survive in the long term, and so tend to restrict data to the middling ranks and up. Like the two Clubs, the Northerners were most likely too low down the Imperium totem pole to warrant an entry.
Sebastian raises a single, sculpted brow.
“They were directly outside a building owned by the Aces. There was surveillance in the alley,” I explain, trying to keep it as close to the truth as possible. The base of my skull throbs with the effort of keeping my voice even and my facial expression locked up like a bank vault.
I watch while he silently presses an index finger to the soft gold metal of one of his signature cufflinks—a familiar tell. It lets me know that the level to which this conversation is annoying him is fast approaching one of actual concern.
My vision crackles along the edges, spidery fingers of adrenaline tap dancing along my spinal cord in warning.
Please don’t ask to see the tape.
Please don’t ask to see the tape.
Please don’t ask to see the tape.
“And what exactly were they meeting about?” he asks instead.
As soon as we get out of here, I swear I’m having Dio stop off at the nearest gas station so I can buy myself some scratch-offs.
“We could only pull bits and pieces of the conversation, which is how we got names, but there really wasn’t a lot there for Brannon to work with. We do know that whoever their boss is, is pleased with them, and that he thought they’d run into more trouble with the Aces.”
I don’t add or the Gray Men .
The cogs are working overtime behind his rimy gaze, and after another breathless wait, he reclines—dark and languid as a panther. He lifts two of his fingers, finally clearing the wait staff to approach. In unison they all rush back in, setting out crystal-cut tumblers and enough top-shelf liquor to fill the giant hourglass outside.
“Champagne?” a ruddy-faced Brian Stellars, 36, offers me from over my shoulder.
“She’ll have water.” Sebastian’s decree only sinks my heart further.
Should have fucking insisted on that one drink before we headed in here.
“So a possible connection with a Northern Mafia,” he muses aloud, as he examines his drink. “Who have you seen them with tonight?”
I down half the glass of iced water Brian serves me in one aggressive gulp, temples pinching with pain. The attendant attempts a polite refill from his carafe, but Sebastian waves him off. And not for the first time, I wonder at the exact manner of my inevitable demise.
Would the autopsy report read Death by Ball Gown or Death by Cottonmouth ?
The single-serving platter of delicately wrapped sashimi that appears in front of me certainly doesn’t do my growing nausea any favors.
Looks I don’t get to order my own food tonight, either.
“I haven’t seen them speak with anybody of note. Just watching and learning the ropes by the looks of it,” I hedge, roughly. It’s up for debate these days as to whether or not he still considers me someone ‘of note’ .
“ If they’re as promising as they look on paper,” he hums, “and so keen to wade right in, then we won’t stop them from getting their feet wet.”
I nod, dumbly. Yes, that’s totally who they are; just an eager set of future prospects.
“I believe it’s time for you to get closer to them, maybe ply them with a little insider knowledge if you have to.”
I tense, waiting for it.
“I trust you will use discretion,” he sniffs. “Turn on the charm— if you can.”
Ouch, there it is. “ Of course, sir.”
A full minute goes by with his disapproving silence bearing down on me. I don’t know if my lungs even inflate.
And then another.
The edges of my periphery start to go gray.
When he’s finally satisfied with my acquiescence, Sebastian turns, eyes blessedly moving away. He takes a measured sip from his tumbler, but he won’t touch any part of the food spread before him. The Gray Man never eats in public.
I pick half-heartedly at a tempura prawn entrée. My normally healthy appetite is being completely strangled by the close proximity of the man next to me. Perhaps keeping my hands occupied and trying to catalog those diners I can still get a good look at might help stave off the creeping noise in my head a little longer.
With each minute that slowly passes in silence, a little more of the strain in my chest eases. My neck and traps start to loosen. I don’t think I’ll be able to fully relax until I’m safely away from here and locked inside my hotel room— several drinks deep —but at least the incessant urge to scream is finally beginning to abate.
I’m sifting through an ancillary table of Strange Aces, each of them Spades by the look of the ink on their necks, when there’s a masculine scream from the front section, followed by raucous laughter. I press my spine against the ornate backrest of my seat, trying not to smirk. Unlike the Sovereignty tables, which are split into their respective factions, the Neutral diners are each seated individually. And by the sounds of it, some unlucky fucker just got stuck sharing a table with the Whitechapel Four.
Of course, just as I feel like I might actually try eating something, Lady Luck decides that’s the moment the Rox Boys are going to manifest directly within the Gray Man’s sightline.
Ares, Hermes, and Hades all flank Apollo as a unit, and I can’t help but admire, yet again, just how well they fit together. Or how effortlessly confident they would appear to anyone who’s never met them, considering both their age and circumstances. I remember my own first Symposium: walking around on eggshells the entire time, convinced I was about to commit some accidental gaffe and have the Peacekeepers chasing me for it later.
But after so many weeks spent familiarizing myself with their body language, I can see there’s a whole new level of tension there. It’s in the stiff set of their shoulders and their matching tense strides.
No doubt they’ve spent the last thirty minutes or so in an emergency debriefing, deciding their next moves. They’re on edge, which means that hopefully they've taken my words to heart and they’ve come in here nursing a healthy dose of caution.
Fuck knows they’ll need to make a habit of it, especially if they want to continue living and working in this world.
Now that I know who their sponsor is— or at least, which Sovereignty they belong to —it’s no surprise that Jessica, our harried hostess, is leading them over to a small table on the opposite side of the hall, nestled amongst the gold-laden seating reserved solely for Northern guests.
Two of the waitstaff approach them, ostensibly to confirm their meal plans.
Unfortunately, they’re just too far away for me to comfortably read their lips, so I slide my eyes to my left, trying to get a current reading on the pH level of Sebastian’s temperament instead. I’m honestly expecting to see nothing there but total indifference, so imagine my surprise when it’s naked disdain that I find simmering from behind the eyes of his rook disguise.
“ Now explain that,” he grits out, so acidly, that it has my stomach plunging to the floor and my gaze cutting back to their table in a heartbeat; wondering what could have possibly gone wrong in the few nanoseconds since I last had eyes on them.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize exactly what has set Sebastian off.
Or rather whom.
My teeth instantly click together in annoyance.
Even from this distance, with their faces hidden by full-coverage, Volto-style masks, there’s no mistaking the duo now standing at the Rox Boy’s table. The unique, white Mallen streak that interrupts the front of one of their dark coifs gives them both away. Because where one goes, the other is never far behind.
The Donato Twins— Gabriel Michale Donato and Raphael Bruno Donato, 25 . Formerly sworn to the Alessi Family of New York, but as of late, loyal to the banner of another much, much more prominent Northerner.
The Underworld’s infamous Golden Boys, otherwise known as Midas’s personal hitmen.
Oh, boys. Just what the fuck have you gotten yourselves into?
My mind spins, trying to land on the most likely scenario in which Rafe Donato, of all fucking people, would be slapping a hand down on Ares’s shoulder like they’re the best of fucking friends.
None of them are good.
Is it possible we weren’t the only ones sent evidence of Apollo’s secret siring? Have they been sent in at Midas’s bidding—to cut down that sapling before it has a chance to take root?
But I can’t voice a single one of these thoughts because Sebastian’s under the impression that’s exactly what it’s been—a secret siring.
When I still don’t answer, the Gray Man’s icy voice penetrates the din, sweeping across both Council tables like a tundra wind.
“Dominic, go and fetch the Boys.”