Chapter Twelve
If there’s one positive coming out of tonight’s announcement, it’s the validation we did the right thing by digging in our feet against the Aces for all those months. Their nonstop recruiting efforts are now making a hell of a lot more fucking sense; no doubt Trick was looking to throw the four of us on the frontlines with the rest of his Club grunts, guns drawn and ready to bleed out for the cause.
Not our monkeys.
We might’ve dodged that particular bullet, but it doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods just yet. His MC still holds control of Roxborough, which means the City of Sin’s dirty streets are about to run an even darker shade of red. Not to mention, our hands are still plenty full dealing with both our employer as well as the man we thought was Tristan’s sperm donor.
And now we have this new problem to add to the list: Sebastian Grayson .
Tristan’s actual sperm donor.
Allegedly.
Figures that just as we’re managing to carve out a somewhat viable escape plan, we’d find ourselves standing on the sidelines of a motherfucking turf war. And not just any turf war; a once- in-a-generation Underworld leadership spill, Battle Royale style.
A fucking heads-up would’ve been nice.
My brows immediately dip at that, the scowl tugging down my mask with the movement. Although I’m still not convinced it was for one hundred percent altruistic reasons, I guess that’s exactly what Winters was trying to do back there.
Despite how my brothers and I feel about how things went down between us, if what she claims is true, that would be considered her doing us a favor. And she was right: she didn’t owe us a thing.
Even if the sullen voice of my pre-teen self disagrees.
That Callum insists she owes us everything.
This Callum would settle for just exactly why the fuck she’s been hiding from us all these years.
I really shouldn’t care whether or not she’s wrapped up in this Underworld shit. The way she had her pet Suits hovering all around her, she’s clearly already made her bed, all nice and fucking cosy—right?
Like I said: not our fucking circus .
The hostess pulls up beside an empty table, and I almost run into the back of Atlas, so lost in my thoughts. I bristle, pissed at myself for losing focus while walking through the middle of a room full of snakes, and flex my fingers against my thighs.
I have to stop when I feel the shoulders of my suit pull tight.
“Gentlemen,” she gestures.
From the quick glance I take around us, I can see that it’s definitely one of the smaller and more intimate place settings. It looks like some of the tables could seat a dozen or more people. I wonder if that’s because of the size of our party, or if it’s based on hierarchy.
Probably both.
The card on the table reads:
Northern Sovereignty:
The Rox Boys
Sponsored by: The Alessi Family
I grimace as I drop into a seat to Tristan’s left, re-reading the fancy script. Twice.
The Rox Boys. A stupid fucking name that someone at the Academy coined once, years ago, and for some reason it’s stuck.But for once, my irritation is not with the name itself.
Just how much do these mafia fuckers know about our everyday lives?
“Refreshments and menus will be along shortly,” the woman chirps before she’s bustling back toward the dining hall’s massive double doors.
Lake takes a seat with Atlas across from us, leaving two seats empty on opposite sides of the circular table. “Good, I’m fucking starving ,” he complains, rubbing his fingers across his barely-concealed stomach.Warm light from the giant chandeliers above bounces off the bare skin across his chest.
My mouth pulls down as I watch him flick open the lid on his Zippo a few times. He’s so agitated, he’s almost feverish. His eyes haven’t stopped scanning the tables.
When was the last time he took his meds?
Atlas is also taking a moment before the server comes back to absorb everything he can about our immediate surroundings. I follow the path of his watchful glower.
Everything about the room is huge. It’s a large, uninterrupted antechamber that’s attached directly to the main foyer. Almost like a ballroom of sorts. The wall behind me is made from more of that cold, red stone. I’m assuming that’s where the building gets its name.
There’s a service area set up at the back for the waitstaff, along with a well-stocked dry bar. A sea of round tables fills the rest of the space, with the three factions seemingly zoned by the color of their tablecloth. The large section of seating we’ve been assigned to is covered by gold linens. A smaller number of tables positioned closer to the entrance have white coverings instead. The rest are black.
And directly across from us in that black section are several tables whose diners are all wearing black feathered masks. My stomach inverts when I catch sight of white-blonde hair, a visual confirmation that Sabine Winters is indeed tied to a Southern syndicate.
Fuck.
“One o’clock, black table, far corner,” I mutter, keeping my volume low enough that only Tristan will catch my words. As much as we love Lake, I know I need to keep our hyped-up, golden-haired puppy from drawing even more attention by spinning around and seeking her out.
Tristan’s eyes zero in on where Sabine sits beside a solitary figure at one of the tables.
“Do you think that’s him?” he mutters back, again, for my ears alone. Two fingers pluck absently at a set of silverware. I run my eyes across what I can see of his face. He looks composed but he must be feeling off-kilter if he’s openly fidgeting like this.
“The Mayor’s tall, dark hair, yeah? Could be him,” I shrug. I don’t really pay all that much attention to the comings and goings on the other side of the Tethys. We’ve got more than enough bullshit keeping us occupied in Rox City as it is.
“The fucking Gray Man , Callum. And she was dancing with Midas , of all fucking people.”
Yeah, I’m still reeling from that little tidbit myself. Tristan had been giving us a rundown about seeing the King of the fucking North and Sabine when the woman herself had shown up, boy toys in tow.
“I still think maybe he just saw a pretty piece of ass,” I hedge. But seeing her now—sitting down to dinner directly beside who we can only assume is the Gray Man—I’m starting to see the growing unlikelihood of that assumption.
Tristan flicks his chin in frustration. “No, they sounded way too chummy for that. He was asking her all sorts of questions. About Rox Academy. Basically threatened to take her home with him.”
The fuck?
He hadn’t mentioned that earlier. At the look of confusion wrinkling the corners of my mouth, he lifts a shoulder, dropping it heavily. “I don’t fucking know, and that’s what we need to find out. As soon as possible.”
“She’s staying at our hotel. Cyber security there isn’t very slick for an Underworld outfit,” Lake smugly supplies, but there’s still an uncharacteristically pinched edge to his expression. “It wasn’t even a challenge to pull her room number.”
My eyes snap up, jaw clenching. The little shit was eavesdropping, after all. “Why would you need her room number?” I ask, carefully.
He doesn’t even look at me, just spins the empty glass in front of him.
“Stay away from her,” Tristan snaps. “The hotel’s security might be shit, but you won’t get anywhere near her. She’s surrounded by Enforcers.”
Unfortunately, there’s no missing the dangerous glint in Lake’s eye, even behind the modest gold half-mask. And I’m very familiar with that look. It’s a look of challenge, and it always appears right before something reckless follows. “I’m going to go see her,” he announces in a waspish tone.
Tristan’s jaw pops.
“We need a plan first,” I insist, hoping to defuse them, at least long enough to get through this fucking meal. We can’t have the two of them at odds in case Sabine was right—and the Suits do ambush us.
His hands come down, fingers digging into the edge of the table.
“ No ,” I mouth at him, but my warning only makes his face harden further.
Goddamnit.
I’m not going to be able to let him out of my sight for the rest of the night. Otherwise, he’s going to find himself on the end of Blondie’s chokehold and for once, I don’t think it’s going to be the kind of one he’ll enjoy.
“Menus,” Atlas interrupts, tone low and urgent.
My mouth snaps shut, waiting impatiently for the server to get through double-checking our orders. He taps each of our food requests into his tablet, making a special note to follow up on Tristan’s celiac requirements. His partner leaves both a crystal decanter of whiskey and a carafe of water sitting in the center of the table.
But the moment they finally leave, I sense someone else approaching out of the corner of my eye. This annoying fucking mask blocks most of my peripheral, but I’m so keyed up tonight that anyone moving in the general proximity of my brothers has me glancing around defensively.
My already twisted-to-fuck guts somehow squeeze themselves more tightly when I turn my head and clock the identical pair of assholes sauntering right up to our table.
Just five minutes.
That’s all I’d wanted. A breather from all the games and the bullshit.
Five lousy fucking minutes.
“Look, they even saved us a seat,” one of the Donato twins sings out, his gravelly tone rough on my eardrums.
Raphael. The white stripe at the front of his hair is a dead giveaway.
“Honored, boys, really,” Gabriel snarks in his equally grating accent, circling around to take the empty spot between Lake and Tristan.
Raphael slaps a rough hand down on my shoulder, dragging out the last empty seat to my left. Atlas visibly stiffens as he makes a show of settling in between us, stretching his arms out over the backs of our chairs.
“So, what’s good, Rox City?” he asks, flagging down a passing server with a lazy flick of a hand at my shoulder.
“We’re here, we wore the masks. All deliveries have been made. What else do you need?” Tristan’s tone remains dismissive, but there’s a pulsing tick of agitation along his temple. I bump my thigh against his.
“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Gabriel smirks, ordering both himself and his brother a gin. “Can’t a group of friends just sit down and enjoy a nice meal together?”
No. We sure as fuck weren’t friends.
The nicest way to put it would be to say these two Northern clowns were our handlers. They told us whenever our boss said to jump, and we jumped. We didn’t ask questions. We just jumped and hoped to hell it was fucking high enough.
In reality, the Donato brothers held our leashes, and they knew it. If they wanted to, they could whisper in Sandro Alessi’s ear that we weren’t pulling our weight and our hard-fought Underworld meal ticket would be no more.
“Ah, fuck, incoming ,” Raphael mutters darkly, running a hand through his oddly bisected hair. He’s looking over in the direction of the Southern tables as he says it, and when my eyes cautiously follow his, I see there’s a large man now bearing down on us.
A large man whose craggy face is partially covered by black feathers.
You can’t trust any of them.
Gabriel flicks a look back over his shoulder. “Well, that’s our cue,” he chuckles, rising back to his feet. He buttons his jacket closed with one hand.
“Yeah, it’s been fun, boys,” Raphael rasps, viciously squeezing both mine and Atlas’s shoulders before he too slips from his seat.
“I think you know we’ll be in touch,” Gabriel adds with a pointed look, startling the server who just appeared by scooping their matching gin orders off the tray himself.
“Be good now.” His twin salutes us with his glass and a final mocking smile.
The two of them then turn and stalk away right as the Suit arrives. He glares at their backs, watching their leisurely retreat toward the exit.
“Can we help you?” Tristan asks imperiously.
The man’s eyes swing back to our table, assessing my brother’s straightened posture and folded hands. Not exactly sure what it is he’s looking for, but Tristan only gazes back at him expectantly.
He grunts. “The four of you will be having dinner with the Gray Man tonight,” he declares in a no-nonsense tone. His voice sounds like he chews rocks for a living.
Tristan tips his head, subjecting the Suit to his own inspection. “I’m sorry? Are you sure you have the right table?”
The Suit’s weatherbeaten features finally crack with a smirk. “Yeah, kid, I’ve got the right table.”
The man, who didn’t bother to introduce himself, leads us straight to the last section of the hall any of us want to be sitting at right now.
How the fuck do we pretend we have no idea who either of them are?
Tristan and Atlas might have professional poker faces, but I’m always told I wear my mood out for everyone to see. And Lake is a single glance from Sabine away from climbing these red walls.
“The Rox Boys, sir,” our escort says as he starts assigning us to our seats. He puts Atlas on his boss’s left, while Tristan is placed directly across the rounded table from him. A pouting Lake is given the spot to Tristan’s right, and I’m left acting as a human buffer between him and Sabine.
Just fucking great.
“I’ve been hearing good things coming out of Roxborough about you boys,” the Gray Man says languidly by way of greeting. He’s leaning back in his chair, a leg crossed over the other and a glass balanced on his knee.
Sabine is picking idly at a plate of sushi. Her back is straight, but her face is ghost-white.
I’m trying not to stare at her and give our connection away when the Gray Man beats me to it. “I believe you have already met my daughter,” he continues cooly, lifting two fingers in her direction, and if it hadn’t been for Sabine’s offhanded remark about Midas earlier, I think my eyes would have bugged out of my head.
He thinks I’m Sebastian’s daughter rather than a ward.
As it is, I still have to work to keep my jaw hinged shut. Tristan clears his throat in surprise. He offers a polite shake of his head. “I don’t believe so, sir.”
“She’s just started at your Academy,” Grayson prompts, with a feline smile.
“Ah yes, that’s right. Sabine . The mask threw me,” Tristan amends while waving a contrite hand in front of his face. “We’re honored by the invitation, Mr Winters, but we’re unsure why we’re here.”
The bark of laughter that his answer pulls from Grayson immediately flares all the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Mr Winters, yes, well done,” he drawls, taking a sip of a whiskey that probably costs more than my monthly paycheck at the garage. “But no names here. You understand.”
“Apologies, sir. How can we help you?” I croak when Tristan’s mouth only thins.
His eyes gleam. “My organization is always on the lookout for up-and-coming talent. I’ve found that the sister academies in our Twin Cities tend to produce some of the brightest young minds in the state, especially in the business, politics, and science domains.” He takes another measured sip of his drink before returning it to rest on his knee. “I like to persuade as many as I can to come and work for me before they are plucked up by someone else.”
My own gaze desperately wants to slide back to Sabine in accusation, but I keep it fixed on the Gray Man.
I’m only at your Academy to do a job.
Is that what a ‘librarian’ was for? Finding these kids before they were snatched up by one of the out-of-state Ivy Leagues or a Fortune 500 company?
“And I think the four of you are headed for great things,” he finishes, lifting his glass once more. He watches us from over its rim.
“You want us to come work for you?” Tristan asks, injecting just enough incredulity into his voice.
“You already hold quite an advantage over most graduates. They might hear the rumors and tales, but not many come to me with any real working knowledge of our world.”
“Yes, because we already have an employer,” Tristan says carefully.
I watch as Sabine pulls a subtle face in warning, hiding it from her boss by placing a small piece of sashimi in her mouth. I have to drag my focus away from her lips and force myself to examine the rest of her posture instead. She looks like she’s in pain with how stiffly she’s holding herself.
“I gathered as much from your presence here tonight. They sat you with the Northern Sovereignty,” Grayson seethes, the temperature of his voice dropping further with each word. The disappointment seeps from him like ice frosting across the tabletop.
My hackles only rise further.
Shit.
My eyes flick back to Sabine as understanding dawns.
She’s not in pain. She’s….afraid of him.
“We needed to get the Aces off our backs,” I throw out quickly, hoping to appeal to his ego. Everyone knows how much the Suits and the Rox City bikers despise each other. “We didn’t know the Gray Men were an option. We just took the best offer.”
Grayson hums, deep in his throat. His gaze somehow feels both freezing cold and searing hot as it brushes over me, leaving my skin tight and clammy beneath my collar. “I suppose you couldn’t have known better,” he finally concedes.
I didn’t even realize how tensely I was holding myself until his dismissal has my shoulders dropping in what feels suspiciously like relief.
He sniffs. “It’s probably best if you get that sorted then, what with tonight’s announcement.”
“Sir?”
“You’re not going to want to be living in a Southern City without the protection of the South once these Labors begin,” he explains casually, and if we didn’t now know better, it might have sounded sincere. “Sabine holds a wealth of knowledge about our world and has agreed to guide you on my behalf. Her team is stationed in Roxborough for the foreseeable future. I urge you to connect with them before the roster is sent out and targets become set,” he finishes vaguely.
Sabine keeps her eyes fixed on the table before her, but I’m watching her so closely I see the way they flare once behind her mask.
And it’s all the confirmation I need that despite the fact he still hasn’t revealed his relationship to him— or even his name —this man has every intention of dropping Tristan head-fucking-first into this sanctioned shitfight for the Crown.