Chapter 4
The Trickster
B aby Willow Ruby squirms in my arms, a warm bundle swaddled in cashmere that costs more than most people make in a week. Her eyes peer up at me, unfocused yet somehow trusting.
I adjust her head against the crook of my elbow, supporting her neck with careful precision. The weight of her is nothing, barely seven pounds of new life.
“Look at you, natural as anything.” Carolina beams from across the dining table, her fork poised over the remains of her chicken. “She hasn’t made a single peep since you took her.”
I look at my sister-in-law, who shows no sign of having gone into early labor. “She knows I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
Nick snorts into his wine glass. “If only that were true.”
The baby’s tiny fingers flex against the blanket, and I find myself studying her face that carries traces of both parents. Carolina’s wide, expressive eyes, and Nick’s stubborn chin. A nose that belongs to neither, a ghost of our dad’s genetics resurfacing. Science is relentless that way.
Blood remembers, even when we’d rather it forgot. It leaks through time and skin, sneaking into faces that don’t belong to the dead.
“Seriously though,” Carolina continues, setting down her fork and reaching for her water. “You’re practically a baby whisperer, Jack. Ever consider having some of your own?”
The question lands like a small, targeted explosive. Not enough to do real damage, but enough to disturb the careful composure I maintain at these family gatherings. Nick’s eyes flick toward mine, sharp with warning, but I ignore him.
“Not everyone needs to reproduce,” I say, voice even. “Someone has to be the fun uncle who teaches her to hot-wire cars and falsify documents.”
Carolina laughs, the sound bright against the dining room’s dark wood paneling and lime-green walls. The old Knight estate breathes around us, its walls steeped in generations of family power.
Since Nick and Carolina moved into the family mansion, they’ve reshaped it. It’s more modern than opulent now, but still unmistakably Knight. Wealth is our birthright, power our inheritance.
“You joke, but I’m serious,” she persists, leaning forward with that particular intensity she gets when she’s decided to fix something—or someone. “You’d make a good dad.”
“Would I?” I meet her gaze, letting my smile cool several degrees. Willow stirs against my chest, sensing the shift in my muscles. “Based on what evidence, exactly?”
Carolina’s certainty falters momentarily. “Well, you’re patient. You’re protective—”
Nick clears his throat. “Leave him alone, Kitten. Not everyone’s cut out for it.” His eyes meet mine across the table, carrying an entire silent conversation in a single glance.
“Fine, fine.” Carolina raises her hands in mock surrender. “I’ll let it go.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, though we both know she won’t.
Since my sister’s death, Carolina has made it her mission to include me as much as possible. Weekly family dinners, ideas for how I can spend my time, and, of course, a relentless need to give my life meaning.
I know what she’s doing, just like I know she means well. Carolina knows about the Knight superstition, and she’s afraid I’m going to plan my own exit from this world. Give up, like Ruby did.
But that’s not fucking happening, and with my luck, I’d come back like a fucking ghost with all the unfinished business I have.
You wouldn’t know it by looking at the two of them, but Carolina’s only been a Knight for nine months. Nick bought the right to breed her back in December, and what started as a transaction was never supposed to become anything more.
Then they both fell in love, and somehow, she fit. I do care for her, in the way you care for someone who’s become part of your family, whether or not they were born to it.
Willow makes a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a hiccup. Her eyelids flutter, heavy with impending sleep, utterly unaware of the world she’s been born into.
The weight of the Knight name. The responsibilities. The dangers.
“She likes you,” Nick observes.
“She doesn’t know any better,” I retort, but my thumb traces a gentle arc across my niece’s cheek. Born in late August, almost a month early, Willow Ruby Knight is fucking perfect.
When they announced her name is after two aunts she’ll never meet, but that would have spoiled her rotten, it thawed some of the ice around my heart.
Willow was Carolina’s younger sister, who sadly died when she was shot by one of my dad’s goons. And Ruby… well, she’s obviously gone as well. But neither of them are forgotten.
While Willow lives on in Carolina’s charity project, Willow’s Foundation, Ruby lives on in every fiber of my being. I know Nick misses our sister as well, but unlike me, he’s not hung up on vengeance or living with regret.
He’s channelled all his energy into his wife and their daughter. I’m both happy for my brother and hating him at the same time. Being me is fucking complicated.
Nick pushes back from the table and stands, stretching slightly. “Coffee in the study? I want to show you the latest for Sanctuary of Shadows.”
“Sure,” I say, moving to hand Willow back to her mom. “Take your demon child before she drools on my shirt.”
Carolina accepts her daughter with practiced ease. “Such a charmer. It’s a mystery why you’re still single.”
I stand, straightening my cuffs. “The greatest mystery of our time,” I deadpan.
Following Nick toward his study, I pause at the threshold and glance back at the domestic tableau. Carolina humming softly to her daughter, the remains of our family dinner scattered across fine china.
A perfect picture of Knight family prosperity. Stability. Legacy. All of it built on bloodied foundations none of us discuss. But I still feel the echo of screams no one ever acknowledged. This legacy doesn’t just hold us—it cages us.
My skin feels too tight suddenly, like I’m playing a part that no longer fits. Brother. Uncle. The good soldier. Each role is a carefully constructed mask, growing heavier by the day. But not for much longer. Soon, I won’t need to pretend that I’m okay.
Nick unfolds the blueprints across his desk with careful precision, his fingers tracing the perimeter of Governors Island like he’s measuring the boundary of a wound. I wonder what kind of infection we’ll unleash when we cut it open. How many people will beg for more after they bleed.
“The ferry terminal here,” he says, tapping the northern edge, “will be our main entry point. Eight-minute ride from Manhattan.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been on the grounds.”
Thanks to Nick’s pull as head of the family, he got Governors Island shut down from August through mid-November. It’s where Willow’s Foundation is hosting Sanctuary of Shadows—a month-long immersive Halloween experience. It’s theatrical, grotesque, and engineered to mess with people.
Sanctuary of Shadows, or S.O.S. as we’ve ironically started calling it, opens with a massive launch event on October first at 12:01 a.m.
Carolina has worked tirelessly with her team to get this done in just nine months. The ferry terminal will run twenty-four hours a day, and the two-hundred ticket holders per day can enter from midnight to midnight.
The only caveat is, once a guest leaves, they won’t be allowed to come b ack.
Nick drags his finger along a dotted line. “Once they’re off the ferry, guests funnel through this causeway. It’ll be lit by torches and jack-o’-lanterns. We’re going to completely disorient them.”
“Making them feel isolated,” I observe, and something hot and eager shifts beneath my ribs.
Nick continues mapping the layout. “We’ve got the masked staff—no speaking allowed, all communication through gestures or pre-recorded audio. The old military structures are perfect for the haunted zones.”
My pulse quickens at the mention of masked staff. Each detail of the Sanctuary feeds something darker in me, something patient and hungry that’s been waiting since Ruby’s funeral.
“Is the Slaughter Stage ready?” I tap a circular structure near the center of the island so he knows I mean this one specifically.
“Yes,” he confirms, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Everything’s set up for The Black Wedding.”
My fingers still against the paper, heat spreading through my palm at those three words. The Black Wedding. The name alone sends electricity down my spine. “I’m ready, too.”
I’ve been ready since the moment they closed Ruby’s casket. I don’t want a wedding—I want a fucking reckoning.
Nick looks at me as he straightens and lets out a heavy sigh. “Are you sure about this, Jack?” His tone is weary, and I’m pretty sure I detect a note of sadness. “It’s not too late to… let it go.” He scrunches up his nose at the last part.
“I can’t fucking let it go,” I snarl, clenching my hands into fists. “What is it you don’t get? Unlike you, I don’t have a fucking wife or perfect daughter to hide behind. I’m just me—”
“You have us,” he placates. “We’re your family. Don’t make me lose my brother on top of my sister.”
“That’s not fair,” I accuse, stabbing a finger in his direction. “Besides, you’ve already lost me once.” Even if my heart only stopped for a couple of measly minutes, it still counts.
Something crawled in when it restarted. I don’t know what it is, only that i t doesn’t forgive. And it won’t let go until I have my revenge. Maybe then I can sleep through the entire fucking night without waking up bathed in sweat, seeing my sister’s lifeless eyes haunting me.
He slams his fist into the desk, making the wood creak, and all the shit on top of it rattles. “Jack!”
“Nick,” I parrot, not willing to let it go just because it’s more convenient for him. “I need to do this. Now, you can either support me or get the fuck out of my way. Either way, it’s happening.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath the skin. “Are you sure about this?” he asks again. “I need to hear you say it now. While you’re sober for once.”
The words emerge heavy with intention, laden with all he knows but won’t say aloud. This is his final warning, his last attempt to pull me back from the edge.
I study him—my brother, the heir, the chosen one—and feel nothing but a distant fondness, like remembering a photograph of someone I once knew. Whatever bound us as children has thinned to a fragile thread, barely visible in the gathering dark.
“Yes,” I say, the word falling between us like a stone dropped into still water. Final. Unmovable. A declaration of intent. “You know I can’t resist a good gamble.”
Nick holds my gaze a moment longer, then nods once—sharp, resigned. He’s made his choice, just as I’ve made mine. We are Knights, after all. Blood calls to blood. Silence protects silence. And some vows transcend family loyalty.
I look at the window, to my reflection growing sharper as night claims the glass. The darker it gets, the clearer I become. Like I was never meant for daylight.
Not as Nick’s brother or Willow’s uncle, but as what my sister’s death has made me. The architect of retribution, the keeper of accounts, the hand that balances scales tipped by blood and betrayal.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to read the text from Ned.
Ned: I just heard her make plans with that boyfriend of hers. Want m e to stop them?
Me: No. Just leave the key to your apartment under the mat for me.
There’s no need to chase her. She’s already stepped onto the stage—I’m just behind the curtain, waiting for my cue.
Before he can text me back, I say goodbye to both my brother and sister-in-law. Once I’m in my car, I speed toward the Bronx, ready to wait for her return in Ned’s apartment. Well, technically, mine.
I’m the one paying the rent, he’s just the one living there to keep up appearances. And Eve isn’t aware her neighbor works for me.