Chapter 11 Maddox
MADDOX
I don’t like interacting with people on the best of days. On the worst of days, taking a cyanide pill would be more pleasurable.
Which is why, as I usually do, I start a one-hour timer for the mix and mingle that follows each monthly Order assembly.
Any less, and I’ll be in trouble. Any more, and someone would end up dying.
The room is buzzing with medici, high saints, and any lower-ranked members who are considered the elite in the big world: tech moguls, CEOs, judges, politicians, multibillionaires.
It doesn’t matter who I speak to, they don’t look all too impressed with talking to me either. They don’t know me as the man Shepherd calls if he wants someone moved out of the way. All they see is the washed-up son of a high saint. A talentless hack.
Four years ago these people were begging to get a piece from me to hang up in their office. Now they wouldn’t take it even if I were giving it to them for free.
I’m grabbing a drink from the bar when Spencer’s distinct voice catches my attention.
A girl is walking away from him, giggling while a friend of mine stares my brother down—my brother, who should be walking around serving food and drinks, not pissing off the heir of one of the most ruthless Mafia families in the country.
I cross the room in case I need to help Spencer pick his organs off the floor.
“Breathe in my sister’s direction, and you’ll find out what your kneecaps look like on a platter, Spencer,” Angelo growls out at Spencer, who’s grinning like a bloody fool.
Angelo Zaccardi could break my brother’s spine with his pinky while sipping a glass of bourbon. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s done it before. His family didn’t make it to where they are through their kindness.
He and Theo Sutherland are the only acolytes whose company I’ve enjoyed since befriending them almost nineteen years ago. They’re two of the very few people aware of the part I play in the Order. Turns out we all like bouncing ideas off each other to see how creative we can get with murder.
“Keep it in your pants for two hours, will you?” I tell Spencer off. Everyone is getting on my last nerve tonight.
My brother grins. “Junior has been locked up for seven days already.”
“I didn’t need to know that,” I mutter at the same time Angelo says in disbelief, “You named him Junior?”
“Unsurprising,” Theo mutters. How Sutherland’s been elected a high saint when he’s a bitter bastard on the best of days has always been a mystery to me.
Theo’s family has held their position within the Order for almost two centuries. House Sutherland’s reelection is a sure thing.
“Yup.” Spencer shrugs. “I’m still tossing up between that or Lord Hardwick.”
I shake my head. It’s a wonder how we grew up under the same roof.
“You know they have me cleaning up the candle wax after this,” Spencer complains to no one in particular.
“And the toilets.”
He frowns. “I’ve only been put down for after-party and chamber floors.”
“Then I suggest you recheck your schedule.”
“Dude, you’re fucking with me.” He glares at me in disbelief. “I have practice tomorrow morning. At this rate I won’t be finished until the ass crack of dawn—and I had plans after this.”
“You should’ve thought of that before making hookup arrangements during the assembly.”
Spencer looks at me like I just kicked a puppy. But something behind me makes him change his tune.
“Never mind.” Spencer slaps my back. “You’ve got a bigger fish to fry.”
The little fuck disappears and drags Angelo with him before I can ask him to explain. My mother’s ear-piercing voice is all the answer I need.
The torment continues.
“There he is,” she singsongs, so sickly sweet it turns my taste buds sour.
She waltzes through the crowd in her stiletto court heels, blond hair back in a low bun, wearing a satin peplum dress worthy of the Duchess of Cambridge.
Half the room knows her to be the venomous snake she is. The other half thinks she’s a goddess made into flesh. Me, on the other hand? The five-inch scar on my back knows Annabel Shaw for who she really is: the woman who helped turn me into a serial killer.
I still remember the look of disdain she gave me the first and only time I went crawling to her, bloody and bruised, with my back torn open after Roland decided to carry out his teachings.
She didn’t wipe my wounds or offer any words of support that a child might expect from their mother.
The woman who gave birth to me threw me a towel and told me to wipe the trail of blood that dirtied her floor.
I may not fully blame her for being a horrific mother after what she’s endured under Roland, but I do fault her for turning her pain into a weapon to inflict on others.
She glides toward me, my betrothed in tow. I toss my whiskey back without tasting it. I need to see if the bartender has absinthe. If not, bleach will do.
“Mads,” Abi greets with faux endearment.
I throw up a little every time she calls me that. She keeps her eyes trained somewhere in my general vicinity and never directly on me, like she’s scared I’m going to shiv her when she least expects it.
She stiffly ambles up to my side and loops her arm around mine, just barely touching me. I’ve had broken bones that hurt less than the pain I’m feeling from staying still. She plants a timid kiss on my cheek, and it’s even more of an effort not to recoil.
Mother dearest glances around like she’s making sure someone saw the most unconvincing show of affection in history. Her eyes snap down to my left hand, and the lack of reaction is enough indication that she approves of my ring.
I got it from the Dollar Tree. I plan on making someone choke on it in the foreseeable future.
“Maddox,” Eric Hopkins—heir to House Hopkins and overgrown boarding school twat—booms, clapping me on the shoulder like we’re old friends.
I would say that our friendship is akin to how close Icarus was to the sun. In other words, it’s on my bucket list to set him on fire.
“Aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes,” he says loud enough for the whole room to hear. “When’s the wedding?”
Mother interjects before I can say never. “We’re finalizing a date at the moment. But you can expect an invitation soon for the start of next year.”
Excuse me?
When the fuck was anyone going to tell me about this? I was led to believe that it would happen between eighty months to never from now.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Being tied to that woman for an eternity sounds like a death sentence.
But I wouldn’t just be tying myself to Abi; I’d be entrenching my position within the Order.
Playing hitman keeps me on the sidelines just enough to stay out of the political limelight.
With Abi, I’ll be marrying into the Order. There would be no chance of escape.
What’s the alternative? What if our sperm donor gets Shepherd to take Spencer under his wing?
My brother would never survive that training. I barely did. Getting beaten because I was too slow to block a kick. Starved for my insolence. Degraded for the barest sign of weakness.
Before making my first kill, I hesitated for half a second. A heartbeat of doubt before slitting a man’s throat. I was sixteen. Forty-eight hours in a pitch-black room with no bed, food, or water was my punishment.
Shepherd may not have carried out the torture himself, but he was the one who gave the order.
It was all a mind game. Strip away their armor, then give them just enough to need you again. He brought me unimaginable pain, then held my hand as he took me to an art museum and told me the history behind each piece. He’s the one who bought my first slab of clay.
Images flash of my brother losing the light in his eyes as he takes his first life. Killing isn’t for everyone, and Spencer is more likely to adopt a fly as a pet and teach it tricks than end its life.
I have to figure out a way out of this ridiculous marriage without ruining his life in the process.
Abi looks woefully unsurprised by our wedding revelation. I narrow my eyes at her, and she freezes.
Oh, spare me the dramatics.
“The grand magistrate has confirmed his attendance,” Mother boasts.
I grind my molars, hating the phantom pains that flare up from the scars along my back every time I’m in the general vicinity of either of the two people who sired me.
Eric turns his attention to me. “Where’s the venue?”
The man is fishing, and he’s not even decent enough to do it discreetly.
Mother blabbers on with her answer as I bite back a yawn. I’ve had six hours of sleep in the past forty-eight hours. Shepherd, the faculty, and my latest painting have left me running on steam, and I haven’t had a chance to sit down to watch Reyna’s latest assignment.
The video has been sitting on my laptop, waiting for me to press play. It’s all I’ve been able to think about. As painful as it’s been, I’ve managed to refrain from watching it until I’ve done enough of the cliffside painting that I’ve earned it. Finally, tonight’s the night.
My phone’s silent timer goes off.
I clap my hands together, startling my betrothed. “Well, I wish I could say this catch-up has been lovely. But we all know it never is. I’m off.”
“Going so soon?” Mother inquires, a silent threat to stay put.
“Not soon enough.” If I heed her warning, I’m going to turn Eric into Reyna’s next short film.
Just as I’m about to leave, Abi sinks her nails into my arm. Like a damn deer in headlights, she flushes white and releases me.
Right.
Most people bid their would-be spouses farewell. I look at her. Then my mother. Then back at Abi’s hopeful face. My gaze drops down to her lips, and it’s an effort not to curl mine into a scowl because another pair comes into mind.
Reyna’s.
Abi must see my inner turmoil, because she takes one for the team and leans over to brush a kiss on my cheek that I can barely feel.
I pull away and storm out of the room like hell is on my heels—I’m ignoring Roland’s calls for me. I don’t have the mental capacity or the energy to speak with him.
Reyna’s video is sitting on my laptop, waiting for me. No god—or evil—is about to keep me from it.