Chapter 11
Julian
I watched from the shadows near the Hera building as Violet and Jeremiah approached the Chapel of Saints, their figures sharp against the slanting afternoon light.
My jaw clenched. What the hell were they doing there? The chapel wasn't on the way back to the lecture halls, dorms, or the library. It wasn't near the dining hall, either. There was no reason for them to be visiting the chapel right now, unless….
Fuck. Violet could be onto something. Something that could get her in real trouble with the Club.
My pulse kicked up as she disappeared through the heavy oak doors, Jeremiah at her side. I stayed perfectly still, counting seconds in my head. A minute. Two minutes. Three.
That’s enough.
I pushed off the wall, ready to step in. If Violet was down in the ossuary right now, if she'd somehow figured out how to open the tunnel entrance, I needed to know. Needed to intercept before she went too far, saw too much.
But just as I started toward the chapel, the doors swung open again, and Violet and Jeremiah emerged together.
I stopped, melting back into the shadows.
They hadn't found the entrance. If they had, they would’ve been down there much longer, exploring the tunnel all the way up to the Dionysus estate.
This little visit was probably just Cavanagh being an eager tour guide, showing off some campus history after their library study session.
Nothing to worry about.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Roman.
I stepped further into the shadows before answering. “Yeah?”
“Where are you right now?” he asked.
“On campus. Why?”
“The Council picked you for a job down in the city.”
I frowned. “I thought they wanted me on this Violet surveillance gig.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s just a part-time thing, isn’t it?” He paused, and I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You don’t need to obsess over the girl twenty-four-seven.”
Too late for that.
“Besides, she can’t do much damage in a few hours,” Roman continued. “And you told us she hasn't done anything noteworthy so far anyway.”
Yeah. Because I'd lied.
I'd been bullshitting to the others about Violet’s activities for days now. Omitting the Google searches, the meetings with her friends, the way she'd been systematically piecing together information about the night her sister died.
I told myself it was strategic; that I needed to control the situation before escalating it to the Council.
That if they knew how much digging she was doing, they'd take her off my hands and deal with her themselves.
And I couldn't let that happen. Not because she wasn't a threat.
She absolutely was. But because she was my threat to handle. My assignment. My responsibility.
Mine.
The truth was far simpler. I just didn't want anyone else touching her. Not the Council's enforcers, not another Reaper, not even Roman with his cold efficiency. The thought of someone else deciding her fate made something dark and possessive coil in my chest.
So I’d lied. And I'd keep lying for as long as I could get away with it.
“What's the job?” I asked.
“It’s about Darien Harcourt. You know who he is, right?"
I scoffed. “The governor of New York? Yeah, Roman, I've heard of him.”
“Don't be an ass. You know what I mean. He’s one of us,” he said. “I’m sure you also recall his running mate, Justin Maier. Now the lieutenant governor.”
“Yup. Also one of us.”
“That’s right. Harcourt is campaigning for re-election in 2026 with Maier as his running mate again. But our eyes and ears have recently picked up on some weapons-grade sabotage and betrayal. From none other than Maier.”
My brows shot up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Traitorous little prick has been selling secrets to the Russians.”
My nose wrinkled. “As in the mob?”
“No. Russian government.”
“Ah.” My brows lifted. “So we’re talking about a traitor to the country, not just to the Club.”
“Yeah. And it gets worse. Once our guys realized he was up to some shady shit, they tapped his phone, and now we know that he’s not just doing it for the extra money,” Roman said.
“He’s setting it up so that the treason will be discovered, but Harcourt will take the fall for it.
After that, Maier will completely disavow Harcourt.
Act like he’s totally shocked and dismayed. Never saw it coming, yada-yada.”
“Let me guess. He’ll then run on his own platform and become governor while Harcourt rots in prison?”
“Bingo. And from there, he’ll run for the presidency,” Roman said. “While operating as Moscow’s puppet in return for their help with the election, of course. At least, that’s his grand plan. Too much hubris to realize we’d catch him, obviously.”
“Jesus.” I rubbed my jaw. “All this foreign interference shit makes it sound like a full-on CIA operation. Not a Reaper job.”
Roman let out a bark of dry, humorless laughter. “I know. Usually we wouldn’t get involved with something on this level. But Maier betrayed Harcourt, and when you cross one of us—”
“You cross all of us,” I finished for him.
“Exactly. So we’re handling it ourselves.”
“Got it.”
“Maier has a thumb drive in his apartment safe,” he went on. “That’s the forged evidence against Harcourt. You get the drive, and you deal with him.”
“I’m on it. I just need the details.”
“Sending the file right now. Get back to me when the job’s done.”
The call ended, and I looked back up to see Violet still heading across the quad. The way her perfect ass and hips swayed slightly when she walked made me want to follow her, pull her into the nearest dark corner, and show her exactly who she belonged to.
Something suddenly twisted in my chest as I recalled the way she'd looked at that frat asshole Kane Sutherland earlier. The smile she'd given him. The way she’d let his palm linger on that handshake for a second too long.
My hands curled into fists. That shit needed to be shut down. Kane was a distraction. A complication. And I didn't share.
But first, I had work to do.
I turned and headed toward the parking lot where I'd left my car, already running through the logistics in my head. One-hour drive down to Manhattan. One hour for the job. One hour back.
I could be done before dinner. Easy.
The drive into the city ate the leftover light and spat me out into a smear of tail-lights and glass towers. I parked four blocks from Maier's building; far enough that no cameras would connect my plates to what was about to happen.
The Arlington was exactly what you'd expect from the Upper East Side. Marble lobby. Crystal chandeliers. Doormen in suits that cost more than most people's monthly rent. The kind of place where they could tell if you belonged just by looking at your shoes.
I had the right shoes, but I wasn't going through the front. Too risky. The service alley was quieter—delivery bays, dumpsters, the ugly side of all the infrastructure that kept everything functioning.
I pulled a small device from my coat pocket, no bigger than a thumb drive, and placed it near the loading dock's electrical panel.
High-frequency interference. Cameras would stutter, alarms would throw false negatives, and IT would spend an hour chasing ghosts before they figured out what happened.
The cameras above me flickered, then went dark. After that, the service entrance lock surrendered, and the door sighed open for me. Behind it was a back corridor that smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaner and courier cologne.
I lowered my hood when I reached the service elevator. No point looking suspicious now. Just a well-dressed man with resident-level confidence.
Ten paces down the polished corridor of the sixth floor, a brass plate announced the apartment number I’d read in the file. 604. I squared my shoulders, smoothed my coat, and rapped on the door.
Justin Maier opened up a moment later, confusion flickering across his face before I smiled. Bright. Disarming.
“Sorry to disturb you at home, Mr. Maier, but Governor Harcourt asked me to bring you these documents. He needs your opinion right away.” I held up an empty folder. “He also mentioned a PAC file you have for him? I’m supposed to collect it.”
Maier raised a brow, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “And you are?”
“Julian. New intern at the campaign office.”
“Right.” His eyes narrowed. “Can I see some ID?”
“Of course.”
I showed him my driver's license, and his entire demeanor shifted when he saw the name.
“Valcourt.” Relief washed over his face, and he took a closer look at me. “So you’re a—”
“A fellow member, yes,” I said, flashing him another friendly smile.
“I actually went to college with your dad back in the day,” he said, shoulders visibly relaxing. “Damien Valcourt.”
“That's actually my uncle.” I smiled wider. "He's mentioned you before. Says you're the next governor of New York.”
Flattery. It worked every time.
Maier stepped aside. “You better come in for that file,” he said, ushering me past him. “Sorry about the whole ID thing. I had no idea you were a fellow DC member, and the guys at the front desk are meant to call ahead to let me know about visitors.”
“They said they were going to do that, but then a huge flower delivery came in. I guess they got caught up with that.”
"Ah." He turned to lead me deeper into the apartment. “So if you're interning at the campaign office, you must’ve just graduated from BHU last semester?”
“No, I'm still a senior.”
He whipped around. “But that means—”
I already had my gun out, suppressor attached. “Yeah. It means I'm still a Reaper.”
As the last word left my mouth, I shot him in the shoulder.
He went down hard, a strangled scream dying in his throat as he hit the marble floor. Blood bloomed across his shirt.
“Still paying my dues,” I went on calmly, closing the distance between us. “But you remember how that works, don't you? Fellow member and all.”
Maier clutched his shoulder, face white with shock and agony. He opened his mouth, and I aimed the gun at his forehead. “Scream again and the next one goes through your skull.”