Chapter 15
VAUGHN
“Yo, Marcus.”
I keep glaring at my phone. She started to type a message after I shut this shit down, then ended up not sending it.
Fuck. I’m far too invested in—
“Marcus.”
I scowl as I snap my eyes up. Carson is grinning at me with the glint in his eyes he always gets when he’s trying to stir the pot or be the cause of chaos and violence like the fucking unhinged instigator that he is.
Calling me “Marcus” instead of “Marquis” is his juvenile way of trying to get under my skin.
The annoying fucking thing is, it works.
Not because I’m upset that he’s not calling me “The Marquis”, obviously. It’s a pretty outdated moniker, and I only care about it being used in formal Syndicate settings or ceremonies. I mean, tradition is important, and has it’s place.
No, it works because it tells me he’s actively trying to be a dickhead. For some reason, that annoys the fuck out of me.
“Have you ever considered growing up past the age of eleven?”
Carson taps his chin thoughtfully.
“Depends. Do eleven-year-olds get boners? Like, could I still fuck?”
I stare at him. “Yes, officers, this conversation right here,” I say deadpan.
My friend grins at me. “I was just trying to get under your skin.”
“Yeah, I got that,” I mutter. “Do you want notes?”
“Always.”
I glare at him. “It worked.”
“Oh, good,” he beams. “Still got it. “So it really is that you’ve just been a mopey fuck since the initiation, not that my high level of humor has slipped.”
I shoot him a look. “I haven’t been mopey. I’ve been busy.”
“But not with your own Acolyte.”
I arch a brow. Carson smirks.
“Come on,” he drawls, latching onto it like a cat with its claws on a mouse. “You thought I wouldn’t notice? Yours passed. She was standing there at the end—not in the clothes she came in, I should add. We’re really just glossing over the part where she looked naked, wrapped in your coat? Hmm?”
“My initiate,” I growl, “is no longer under consideration for the Syndicate.”
She can’t be. Even though she broke so fucking sweetly, and I’ve spent every waking second since that night thinking about her snug cunt and shattered tears…
No.
Carson’s face twists into the world’s most insincere "sad" expression.
“Aww, did she not like the way you play, Marcus?”
I remind myself daily how lucky it is that Carson and I are such old friends.
Lucky for him, that is.
“Were you too rough with your new toy?” He winces dramatically. “Did you break her?”
I don’t give him any more fuel: he feeds off this shit.
And not that he brought it up or even has any clue about it, but my decision to cut Evelina loose has fuck-all to do with the fact that she whimpered some other motherfuckers name after I made her come in her sleep.
It doesn’t, and I will die on that hill.
But we’re still going to wear your fucking skin, Ethan….
When it’s clear I’m not going to answer, Carson pouts, scowling and turning away.
“Speaking of initiates,” I say mildly, “you weren’t even supposed to have one the other night. And yet…”
He glances at me, his eyes glinting dangerously.
“Careful, Bancroft.”
“I’m not asking as a teasing friend, but as your Marquis,” I murmur.
His jaw tightens.
“In that case, Marcus,” he drawls, effortlessly sliding back into his role as charmingly infuriating smug rich boy. “All I will say is there was a security concern, and so plans were changed.”
I eye him. “And your initiate…”
“Walked out with her clothes on,” he growls, the smile gone from his face.
He brings a hand up and rakes his fingers through his hair, his sleeve sliding up to reveal a glimpse of the snake tattoo that coils from his wrist all the way to his chest. “More than one can say about yours, wouldn’t you agree? ”
Before I can respond, the wall behind me slides open with the distinctive sound of stone scraping against stone.
On this side, the wall just looks like part of one of the hallways that meander through Blackbriar Hall, complete with an oil portrait of the former governor of some forgotten township in pre-colonial America, and a random suit of armor standing by.
The other side of the door, however, like so many of the secret passages and rooms in this house, is something else.
Gideon steps out of the shadows of the passageway that leads to the torture chamber, and into the hallway where Carson and I are talking. His brow furrows.
“What’s the holdup? They’re both about to crack down there.” He lifts a shoulder. “Or, if you want me to keep pushing, that can easily be arranged—”
“No, I’m coming,” I growl. “We were just…discussing something.”
Carson grins. “Yeah. I was giving him a hard time about his initiate coming back to the main hall missing her clothes.”
Gideon’s brow cocks almost imperceptibly as he looks between me and Carson, shrugging.
“So? Initiations can get rough. Conway’s initiate came back without his shirt.”
Thank you, Gideon. Unlike Carson, he doesn’t sustain himself on being a needling little prick all the time.
Carson sighs. “Yes, because Conway’s initiate wasn’t fond of fire, and his ordeal ended with his shirt going up in flames. So I hear.” He grins savagely and turns to me. “Is that what happened with yours, Bancroft? Did all her clothes just…burn off ?”
Gideon glares at Carson. “Do you have any concept of chain of command?”
Carson sighs, rolling his eyes and looping an arm over my shoulder.
“Yes, but I also have a spine, and don't enjoy kissing asses when that ass happens to belong to one of my oldest friends. But go ahead, Wick. Those boots aren’t going to lick themselves. Oh, and while you’re down there—hey back off, asshat!
” He lurches away, ducking behind me as Gideon lunges at him with balled fists. “Marcus! Help me!”
I sigh and shake him off. “Can you behave?”
“I anticipate historians pondering that very question in a hundred years, at the base of my statue, obviously.”
I roll my eyes and turn to Gideon. “All right, let’s go see our guests.”
“Fine,” he mutters, glaring at Carson. “But Bozo the fucking clown stays here.”
“No fair,” Carson sighs, gesturing to the open secret passage. “All the blood and guts and torture and fun shit is in there!”
“Torturing people in order to get information rather than just to inflict pain is an art, not a game,” Gideon says quietly.
“Uh, okay, cool, Patrick Bateman,” Carson mutters. “Remind me not to ask you your thoughts on the latest Phil Collins record, you fucking psycho.”
Gideo sighs heavily and glances at me. “He’s just going to fuck up all the work we’ve done to get to this point.”
“I won’t say a word,” Carson pleads. “Scout's honor. I just want to watch.”
“And I’m the psycho…” Gideon mutters.
“Wick,” I sigh, putting a hand heavily on his shoulder. “I really don’t think it’s an either/or situation.”
He smirks. “Fine. But Looney Tunes here shuts the fuck up.”
Carson makes a big show of zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key before we all head down the secret passage.
At the end, the hallway turns a sharp ninety degrees.
Then it goes down two small flights of stairs, broken up with a landing with a locked door that leads to… well, I honestly don’t even know.
I bought this house when I took over from my predecessor, étienne Veyrac.
It’s a little…isolated, being a four-hour drive or an hour by helicopter from midtown Manhattan, tucked up here in the Adirondack mountains of upstate New York.
I still have a place in the city, of course, but I also like it up here, and I fell in love with the place the second I laid eyes on it.
I like how it's removed from everything. I also like that it’s riddled with secret passages, hidden doorways, and rooms. There's whole sections of the house that don’t exist on the official blueprints.
The “torture chamber”, obviously, wasn’t originally built by the Carnegie family as an actual torture chamber.
It was a kitchen of some kind with rooms attached to it, almost a whole apartment hidden under the east wing.
I discovered the spot in the first few weeks of living here.
But there are plenty of other secrets in this house I haven’t had time to explore yet, like the door we just passed.
Neither of the older men tied to chairs in the middle of the former kitchen is whimpering or begging when I walk in. They just regard me unemotionally, even though they’ve spent the last twelve hours down here getting beaten and tortured, and probably pissing their pants.
“Mr. Stone. Mr. Beaumont. I’m so glad you could finally make the trip to visit me in my new home.”
The two men still don’t say a word, and keep their heads held high.
I respect that. I'd respect it even more if these two weren’t part of an old-guard faction within the Syndicate that’s plotting a coup against me.
“I hope you’ve been enjoying your stay.” I smile thinly, eying them both.
Jameson Beaumont, arrogant loudmouth that he is, finally speaks.
“Now listen here, Vaughn—”
He grunts, his head whipping sideways when Sebastian, who’s been leaning against the wall, walks over and backhands him across the mouth. Blood sprays from his split lip, and he curses.
“Let’s try this again,” I murmur. “How has your stay been so far?”
“Mr. Bancroft,” Gordon Stone says, looking tired, his voice rough, but his shoulders still straight. “If I may speak?”
“Be my guest.”
He dips his chin. “I know there are Veyrac loyalists still in our ranks trying to undermine your efforts to lead our organization. But with all due respect—”
“Due respect,” Carson mutters, “would mean not plotting against dear Marcus here. By which, of course, I mean the Marquis.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I glare at Carson, who grins sheepishly and shrugs his shoulders. Then I turn back to Gordon. “Keep going.”
“There’s a coup brewing against you, make no mistake,” he growls. “But I swear on my life that I have nothing to do with it.” His brow knits. “If I may?”
I nod. “Go right ahead.”