CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
RENA
M y breaths pant out around me, deafeningly loud and harmonizing with the chants from the chapel’s ghosts—gossip of sin and scandal, those crooned in confidence and those boasted with conviction. This isn’t a graze-your-fingers-over-rosary-beads confessional. It’s a temple for last rites.
I have no religious background. No allegiance to any sort of deity. No deep knowledge of the history either. But the stained-glass crucifixion I’m glaring at proposes a sordid tale of bygone credence and squandered devotion. I’m aware there is more to the story—a resurrection not depicted in the snippet before me. This is simply the carnage.
But speared and bloody, staked on a mound of skulls, is a chilling route to freedom. No matter the end of the story.
Even the spicy musk that wafts through the air supports that stance. My nose burns with the scents of funeral processions and wakes. The fragrance of lamentation. I chomp on a butterscotch candy, mashing it into pieces to soak in the soothing taste and smell.
Gage sits beside me in this forgotten chapel, a tiny prep room behind the sanctuary in which my final test will transpire. His elbows rest on his knees, his shoulders hunched, his beefy muscles battling his black button-up for their own liberation. And his features seem doleful as he studies the same artistic depiction I’ve been captivated by.
His sonorous tenor rockets through me, even though he’s attempting to manage a hushed tone. “There was a time I wanted to disappear in order to preserve something that meant the world to me. Years ago. Someone talked me out of it for all the wrong reasons—which isn’t the fucking point. I followed the plan. Did what was necessary to keep everything intact, and it got me killed. From that life anyway.”
Gage has always been edgy yet sweet and protective over me. But he’s never shared. And since I’m due inside that sanctuary at any minute, I’m not exactly sure what he’s getting at.
So, I keep it simple. “I’m sorry. You deserved better.”
He shakes his head and blows out a ragged breath. “That death led to all of you, so I win.” He swallows, clenching his fists. “Ty is the strongest man I’ve ever known. The best. But if something happened to you …” His amber eyes coast over to mine, the unwavering determination he always exudes shooting from them while simultaneously cushioned with veneration and compassion for my husband. “I’ll bust you the fuck out of here right now. Say the word.”
His anxiety is palpable, cloaking me in dread. But I’m not sure he’s even thinking clearly. He already confirmed that Ty and Liam are here by tracking their dots. An eleventh-hour escape in which we all make it out hardly seems feasible. Still, Gage’s fierce love and loyalty to Ty, me, and this family I’m a part of is endearing. That much more to fight for.
I grip his bicep, which is larger than my head, and lean against him. “I’m good. I mean, they’re letting me have my gun, so how bad can it be?”
“I’m not sure that’s a positive. Either way, that room changes people,” he contends.
The truth of that rings through the dank air. I feel it. But I don’t need to be sheltered anymore. I’m ready to face whatever this is and hopefully move on with my life—a life I dreamed about, no matter how convoluted it’s turned out to be.
“I’m okay with that, as long as all of you are with me on the other side,” I assure him.
“Always.” He plants a kiss in my hair, gives me a squeeze, and clears his throat. “It’s time.”
Gage was instructed not to escort me into the room, which he claims is unusual, so I think that’s the reason he’s jittery. He has to wait in here. Idly standing by through someone’s struggles—or trials—is often harder than enduring them.
With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I pluck the envelope off the seat beside me and glide it through my fingers while he walks me over to the door.
“You have a minute to read the card, and then you need to ready your weapon, ditch your backpack, and walk inside,” he reminds me. “I’ll be right over here.”
Once he’s far enough away that he can’t read it—as mandated by the first card I got when we arrived—I tear into the envelope, my heart thrashing against my rib cage for the deliverance that is indisputably being ripped from my grasp.
Final Task: Rena
Kill the traitor.
For every sentence you speak, someone dies. Therefore, you are only granted one.
Everyone is armed. Time is ticking.
On the flip side of the cardstock, the bylaws are listed, but I shove the card into the pocket of my body-hugging black jumpsuit without much consideration. They won’t be relevant unless I pass. And it seems in order to do so, I’ll be adding murder to my résumé.
My throat is instantly dry as visions of Gage morphing into a green Hulk, tucking me under his arm, and crashing through the stone walls of this ancient cathedral flit through my mind. I glance back at him to exchange a tentative smile, knowing that route would surely get us all killed. Better to let the room change me. They’ll meet me on the other side.
Embracing my Noire roots, I retrieve my CZ Scorpion Micro from my bag, drop my backpack to the floor, flip open the brace, and let my fingers dance over the stock in a disconcerting familiarity. I’ve shot this gun thousands of times at our range, but never at something living and breathing. In a battle, I’d aim and fire without question. But this paints me as an executioner. Although I guess since the target is armed, I could also be the one condemned.
A chill burrows into my marrow, which has little to do with the blustery spring Chicago night. The church setting is fitting for the end-of-times vibe we’re working with. My free hand curls around the bar on the door, swinging it open with a piercing squeak, and I strut inside with a gangster confidence that is on loan from my brothers, who have shown me what it means to own our world.
The first thing that catches my attention isn’t the round oak table that Gage told me about or the chairs surrounding it in a half-moon arrangement. It’s the large black-sand hourglass resting upon it.
Marking time.
Or the lack of it.
And the nonexistent, plaguing tick that the grains can’t deliver thunders through my bones anyway.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The oak table is where the knights convene, but it’s empty. The clack of my heels reverberates off the weathered wood planks, the marble altar, the stained-glass story depicted on the windows—a daunting echo that would be a badass drumbeat at the start of a slasher film. That has my gut clambering up to my bile-coated esophagus because as I wade deeper into the eerie space, it’s clear this is a real-life horror.
Evident in every goddamn face peering back at me.
In the pews sit three.
Ty. Axel. Jax.
I whip my head around, desperate to find someone else here. Someone who isn’t mine. A traitor, a monster, a person I’d be willing to kill. Someone who deserves to die.
But there’s no one. Just an old pipe organ—muzzled, like me—and a beloved congregation, sentenced to death at my hand.
I try to plod forward, to take a few more steps toward them, but their blank expressions tell me they don’t know why they’ve been summoned here. And certainly not what I’ve been ordered to do. No one utters a sound, and the silence cuts through me like a blade. A spear.
Freedom gained on a mound of skulls.
Are they gagged too?
A tremor seizes my knees, matching the violent shudder from my chest. I drop to a squat, unable to fathom how we get out of this. Blood flow assails my eardrums as my breaths whistle from my lungs, my pulse thrums in the tips of my fingers, and my joints ache against the grip on my weapon.
Creaks and groans of the antique pews resound—telltale notes of the men who hold my heart squirming at the sight of my agony. But I can’t look at them.
The tears cascading down my cheeks storm furiously. For a fleeting beat, my mind scurries for rationalization, and my heart forages for hope, but my soul cracks and bleeds and burns. This illusive house of prayer offers counterfeit atonement.
Everything we endured was for a prize of defeat.
Maybe this is how my parents felt when the flames engulfed them, the licking blaze taunting them as they grappled with the inevitable. Clawing for a pardoning that would never arrive .
Time is ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The drippings of my torment—of this utter mindfuck—splash to those weathered floorboards, puddling into the long scratches and dents in the wood so that instantly, the tattered past glimmers due to present anguish. Beauty preserved in the imperfections. In affliction.
Perhaps it’s my mind’s old habit of ignoring pain, but I am wholly enamored by that characteristic. This is a house dedicated to the surreptitious endeavors of multiple billionaires—an organization that rules all, that dictates who lives and dies—and yet nothing has been restored. Why?
Reverence.
Scars build character, flaunt perseverance, sing of life and history. The marking of mettle and gallantry. A treasure.
For KORT, that’s their meeting ground.
For me, the men in the pews.
There’s a way out. I just have to fucking think through it. People who honor ancestry and all its stains wouldn’t confine me in this room, write me into their chronicles, and order me to kill my husband. What sense would that make? He’s the reason I’m being tried. It would be blasphemy—an unnecessary blemish, not a valued one.
So, Ty is out.
My gaze flashes back to the table—to the thinning black sand.
Time is ticking. Tick. Tick.
Going after the Noires makes sense, but why bring Jax and Axel here with the intent of only killing one? Maybe it’s another head game for Axel. Like when he unknowingly killed my mother while taking out my father. That would make Jax the target, but that doesn’t quite align either.
A traitor.
I pop up and stride into the center of the cathedral with resolute determination. The vaulted ceilings and amber lighting cast a sinister shadow on the three of them.
We all sense the cage, but as my eyes lock on to each of them, it’s evident that no one has gathered the key. And, obviously, none of us are permitted to speak. But what isn’t clear is what they’ve been told.
All the color is drained from Axel’s face. He must believe I’m in danger. Or that Jax is. And Jax is sweating. Strands of his blue hair are wet and stuck to his forehead. Maybe they’ve been issued a similar directive—to shoot the traitor. Like a Hunger Games challenge where we eventually just take each other out? No. That can’t be right.
Because Ty is surveying me, like he’s waiting on bated breath for my next move. My one sentence?
We latch on to one another. Wordless pleas and comfort, screams and hugs, all exchanged through a simple glance.
True north. One direction. If that’s to the depths of Hell because, today, we’ll leave this world together, so be it. He promised to love me in the next life, so …
Although I was really freaking excited about this one.
My lip quivers, but a jarring creak splits our moment. I turn toward the double doors opposite from where I entered to find an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair ushering some others into the sanctuary—Wells and Ivy among them. Neither of them spares me a glance though. They immediately flip two chairs from the half-moon configuration to face the back wall and sit.
“Good evening,” the salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman greets, standing behind the center seat and flipping the hourglass on its side—a pause in time. “I realize you can’t respond. I’m Jared Austen, leader of The Order and one of the five KORT chairs. We aren’t here to interfere. You may proceed with your task, but we felt it would be better to have a front-row seat rather than watch on screens. Ivanna and Wells have been instructed to face away so as not to impact your verdict. They’ll be viewing on their phones, but due to our bylaws, all knights must be present in order to convene at The Table.”
So much weirdness in one simple statement. And he appears to be normal. Kind eyes, gray suit, clean-cut. But, hey , we wanted the good seats for the execution.
And he flips the hourglass back up .
Time is ticking once again. Tick. Tick.
Should I use my one sentence to ask a question? What would that even be?
While I can’t claim to have ever been a loyal resident in the moral-high-ground neighborhood and I’ve seen enough movies and slice-of-life sitcoms to realize that I don’t have a firm grasp on what most people’s reality is, I’m confident this bunch is loony tunes.
Panic bubbles up at the base of my sternum, an itch to bolt flaring in my veins. They’ve trapped me, for sure. Trapped all of us. Even Ivy and Wells seem helpless, facing the wall while the other three have a view of the entire scene, guns out, eyes peeled.
The other three. The one who now consumes the center seat is Jared Austen, and the one on the far right is too young to be my father. So, my sperm donor, Johnny Balzano, occupies the far-left side of the table. Beer belly. Dark eyes. And a leer that has my teeth grinding. The bastard killed my mother—robbed the world of music and laughter and childlike dreams.
His wickedness charred her blueberry fields. And forever changed my family.
It all slams into me—the heartache, the emptiness, the singed memories.
Jax’s panic-induced nightmares that he was on fire.
He’d wake up, hysterically patting himself down, and afterward, we’d snuggle up with either Axel or Ryker, crying for Mom. Sometimes, Maddox and Cash would crash on the floor because although they didn’t shout it, they were scorched too. We didn’t have the burns or scars, but those flames swallowed all of us.
Axel may have poured the gasoline, but it was scattered as a gift to my mother. A burn for growth, so a healthier life could flourish.
But the man who authored my existence was willing to turn it all to ashes.
My eyes brim with an ire I’ve never harbored before. A sweltering heat strangles me like an oppressive, humid blanket—thick air and dewy skin .
And dear ol’ Dad bellows, “Cat got your tongue, dear? Your eyes are saying it all, but you should save your energy to solve your quandary, don’t you think?”
The first words spoken to his daughter are a gibe?
“We aren’t in here to taunt, Johnny,” Wells snipes with a venomous bite to his words. And pride swells in my chest. Ivy and Wells would never let anything happen to Ty, me, or my brothers. Either they’re in the dark or this is a riddle.
“Another instance of us being expected to be soft because we’re testing one of yours ,” Balzano hisses.
“The test requires silence,” Ivy asserts. “If you can’t be quiet, you’ll be asked to leave.”
“Precisely,” the final guy on the far right agrees with a sigh. “Let’s all adhere to the arranged stipulations and allow this to play out.” He raises a hand in the air. “I’m Payne Logan, by the way. Sorry for the interruption.”
Balzano chuckles. “Fine. I’ve got nothing to say to any of them anyway. Thankfully, this won’t take much longer.”
Time is ticking. Black grains are thinning.
One sentence.
Tick.
My brows furrow as I spin to gauge the responses of Axel, Jax, and Ty, all of whom seem as irate as I am. Rigid jaws and wooden spines. But mute, like me.
I whip the card out of my pocket. The bylaws are facing up when I first pull it out.
KORT: A knighthood that serves without a king.
Bylaws must be agreed upon and adhered to once your trial is passed. A more thorough document will be provided at that time.
The welfare of KORT must always be of foremost importance. If there is a conflict of interest between one of the five empires and KORT, matters are always resolved in favor of KORT.
KORT may only convene at The Table when all knights are present and accounted for.
Anyone interfering with KORT holdings is considered a threat and will be neutralized for the sake of the kingdom.
Unauthorized dealings are strictly prohibited. All business affairs—joint or private—are to be registered with KORT.
All soldiers of empires must be registered and reviewed for clearance. Unreported members are prohibited.
Immoral treatment of innocents is strictly forbidden.
Casual romantic relationships are never permissible. Anything surpassing a one-night stand is to be submitted to KORT, upon which a vetting process will begin.
Marriage is to be handled with reverence. Affairs—emotional or otherwise—are unacceptable.
Confidentiality is expected in all KORT matters. Discussion of business, trials, members, or associations with parties not affiliated with our organization is never acceptable without seeking prior approval first.
Several words and phrases jump off the page at me.
Affair.
Unauthorized dealings.
Unreported members.
Immoral treatment of innocent s.
Flipping the card back over, I study the highlights of my assignment. Kill the traitor. One sentence. Everyone is armed.
Pearls of sweat bead on my hairline and in the creases of my palms. My breathing is shallow and staggered. And my heartbeat pounds ferociously, bashing against my sternum and ribs, temples and toes.
As my panic swarms, the opening notes of “Me and Bobby McGee” trill into the eerie quietude, jerking me out of my gloomy tornado. My head snaps up in the direction of the music. Ty is fiddling with his phone, purposely avoiding eye contact with me, which is good because Jared Austen admonishes him in the same beat.
“I suppose we weren’t explicit in stating no background music or sound effects, but it should have been understood, Tytan.”
Ty raises his hand in apology and shuts off the song as Balzano starts mumbling about the Cabrini and O’Reilly crews interfering and Payne Logan hushes him again.
But Ty’s message is all I hear.
We’ve got nothing left to lose.
Maybe some would suggest I weigh my options longer, utilize every second available, search for a stalling tactic. Make damn sure that I’m not about to lodge a bullet in the wrong person. But that’s not me.
I fucking leap.
Within the span of one solitary chord of freedom—a single black grain—I cock my gun and shout my one-sentence declaration, four words that will only resonate with the men in the pews.
“I smell kettle corn.”