I WILL SLAY YOU
FOUR
“You look like the fem slayer from Red Mist if she were heading out on a business lunch instead of sleeping in a bunker at the guild’s HQ.”
Shay and that goddamn game.
“Yay! I was aiming for ‘deadly with a gun when pushed.’”
He smirks. “You’re a better shot than I am.”
I stick out my index finger, lift my thumb, then pew-pew it at him. “They don’t know that. Yet.”
When he clutches at his chest, I stare at my reflection.
I’m wearing Bianchi high-waisted pants in onyx, sleek enough to look smart, but with a stretch that’ll give me freedom of movement; the slimline Nehru-collared blouse does too. All while hugging my curves.
My eyeliner’s sharper than the average kitchen knife, my makeup pristine, and the black steel-toed shitkickers—as Aunt Star likes to call them—are perfect because they hide beneath the wide-flared bottom of my pants.
I wasn’t aiming for BAMF alert, more “I have as much money as you and I’m not afraid of whatever you’ll throw at me, so fuck off.”
I’ll take it.
“You don’t have to do this, you know?”
“Sure I do.” I catch his eye in the mirror. “You need all the backing you can get.”
“It goes against the grain—”
“Shut up. You know full well that your support is from dirty money. Sometimes, you have to bend the rules to fix them.”
“That’s Russian pragmatism at its finest.”
“It’s not my fault you lack common sense.” I snag my purse and tuck the invitation into it. “Anyway, you might need to join next year.”
“It’s bad enough that I have to be a Rho! Thank fuck I don’t live in. I’d kill someone and fuck up my chances for president before I graduate.”
“You’ll have to schmooze eventually.”
“Not yet.”
“Yes yet,” I push.
It’s a long-term argument with his uncles. They asked him what he wanted. He said the White House. They’re giving it to him… but it’s why we’re at Oakwood—connections.
Uncle Declan, Shay’s Dad, had a word with me this morning before we left for upstate.
“It’s not your job, Victoria, and don’t get me wrong, I know that. But you’re the only one he listens to at the moment. And when you become a Veronian—”
“If.”
He chuckled. “When you become a Veronian, he’ll see that he has to take this seriously.”
“That’s not fair,” I protested. “He does take it seriously. But the morons attending Oakwood don’t make it easy. The Rhos are self-obsessed jerks whose second fascination is scoring. Shay’s not like that.”
Declan grimaced. “I blame his mother for making him a feminist.”
“I heard that!” Aela, Shay’s mom, shouted from the kitchen. “And I’m offended.”
“Be offended. It’s your fault he can’t hang out with morons!”
Aela stuck her head around the door. “Until recently, that wasn’t a bad thing.”
“I’ll try to get him to…” I pulled a face. “I don’t know, attend a party?” When Declan groaned, I snorted. “He is sociable, Uncle Declan. He just doesn’t suffer fools lightly.”
Shay’s harrumph brings me back to our current issue—him. “I can only talk about pussy so much, Victoria.”
“I know,” I soothe with a mocking tut. “It’s such a hard life being a boy.”
His pout tells me he knows I’m teasing but he’ll accept the sympathy. “I’ll try.”
Even that middling concession pains him.
I pat his arm because I empathize—Shay is good people. The Rhos aren’t. “I’ll let you know how I get on.”
“Keep me updated. I want to make sure you’re safe. God only knows what the initiation rituals are.”
If the price of entry was proof of a beating, then… “Murder, probably.”
“How do you find this funny?” he chastises.
“Mostly, I find you funny.”
He flicks his fingers at me. “Go away.”
“Gladly.” I wink then snatch my purse that houses my cell and the lipstick I chose—aptly named “Blood Debt”—as well as the invitation to tonight’s party.
Shay isn’t wrong. I do find these things entertaining. Why wouldn’t I? College is a luxury I was never supposed to experience. This time with him in our shared house—forbidden. Parties and nightclubs and college life were for other people.
I should be married by now. A mother. That was my route.
Why wouldn’t I revel in the unexpected?
And why wouldn’t I show my gratitude for the detour to the people who made it happen?
In all likelihood, the Veronians are only interested in me because of my connection to Shay and the O’Donnellys. They want him. And they believe we’re dating.
We’re not, but that just means they aren’t as clever as they like to think.
And I do enjoy living down to people’s expectations.
My O’Donnelly connection is different. One of my brothers-in-law runs NYC’s streets. Camille’s husband, Brennan, aka Older Brother, is the only O’Donnelly who keeps his nose in the dark and dirty business that is their origin story—the Irish Mob.
Eoghan, aka Other Brother, is too fucked-up from his time in the service to do much more than kill via a sniper’s rifle and be Inessa’s husband.
(Unsurprisingly, it’s the latter they advertise.
I’m sure the rifle will come out at some point to deal with one of Shay’s political rivals, but that’s for the future.)
The rest of “my uncles” are amassing power in several industries, nationwide, as they cleanse their name. Uncle Declan spends most of his time running the various sports teams they purchased so he’d look normal—it started with soccer and they’ve added hockey and basketball to the mix.
The craziest thing I’ve learned through my time in O’Donnelly households?
How easy it is to convince the American public you’re a wholesome family when you have enough cash to whitewash the past.
I’m not sure which connection swung the balance in my favor but here we are—the Veronians have decided they want me.
And I’m not afraid to seize the advantage.
Shay’s still grumbling about psychotic family members and how he’s all alone and out in the cold of normalcy as the door snicks to a close.
I laugh when, almost immediately, a ladybug swoops from out of nowhere and lands on my wrist.
“Hello, little one,” I greet before my cell buzzes and I see Maxim’s texted.
When my hand flies to my throat, the ladybug flutters off.
Maxim: An update?
I hate that my heart quickens.
But that, in itself, is why he fascinates me.
Maxim is the opposite of boring.
He never does or says what I expect him to and always keeps me on my toes.
Just thinking about the shower he took last night has me wanting to squeal.
But that would be childish.
And this whole goddamn thing isn’t solely about helping out Shay—I want to prove my usefulness.
I love my sisters. I do. They’re my rocks. But their paths aren’t mine. I don’t want to just be a mobster’s wife. I want more.
It’s why I get along so well with Shay’s aunts, Savannah, Star, and Aoife. His mom, too. They’re scrappers. And a lot more besides. But they’re proof that I can have a purpose.
Me: Couldn’t wait to hear from me?
My heart’s racing again.
He doesn’t answer.
I keep checking as I head over to Shay’s car. When I slip behind the wheel and my phone syncs with the dash, I tense at the lack of response.
But I have places to be.
So, after selecting my favorite Camden album, I set off.
The second I’m turning at the end of our street, he texts.
*Maxim sends a picture*
Maxim: Dressed to impress?
It’s me.
Head down as I stare at my phone on the way out of the house.
God, what a relief I didn’t freakin’ squeal!
Swallowing, I tell my phone to text:
Me: You asked my guards to take a picture?
Maxim: Maybe I’m here?
I pull onto the side of the road and snag my cell.
There are so many intrusions into my privacy on the daily that it no longer affects me. What does is the notion that he might be here.
Maxim.
In.
Poughkeepsie.
The ache, low down in my core, comes as no surprise.
I’m pretty sure if I checked, I’d find I was wet which, hello, is insane. But he’s always been this fantasy for me. On the periphery of my life. This person who’ll kill to keep me safe. Yet one I can’t touch…
Me: Are you?
Maxim: Do you want me to be?
My toes curl in my boots.
Me: It’s a private function
Maxim: Guests are allowed
Me: How do you know?
Maxim: You’re my business
I squirm.
Me: Are you here?
I was fine going on my own, even knowing that these secret society crazies are, well, that, but…
The passenger door opens.
I don’t jump.
But my head whips to the side and I release a breath as Maxim slides into the passenger seat.
I gape at him. “How did you get in? The doors were locked.”
“I can’t tell you all my secrets.” He tsks, automatically lowers the music, then commands, “Drive.”
The tremor in my fingers is annoying as I drop my cell in the compartment to charge. When I set my hands on the wheel, I clench down so that he can’t see what he does to me.
He remains silent as I set off again, and only when we’re on the freeway does he muse, “Intending to beat a man to death?” When I shoot him a confused look, he continues, “Shitkickers. Not exactly black tie.”
That’s when I take in what he’s wearing.
Black tie to the nth degree.
He’s wearing a vest!
“Is that a pocket watch?”
“Eyes on the road.”
The order makes my toes curl again. “Why are you here?”
“My name is known to some of the members.”
“How do you know who the members are?”
“Because they get drunk in my brothels and boast about it,” he deadpans.
“That defeats the purpose of a secret society.” Irritated, I sniff. “You know what? Never mind. Men are idiots.”
“I agree.”
I scrunch my nose up. “I hate prostitution.”
“I’ve listened to enough of your rants on the subject to understand your feelings,” he says silkily.
“You listened to them?” Okay, so I have a habit of sending him voice notes. He never replies, though, so I figured he ignored them.
“Of course. A happy hooker is a wealthy hooker is a satisfied client.”
“Ew!”
“It’s strange that you don’t mind the other aspects of our business.”
I shrug. “Drugs ruin lives but it’s consensual. As is gambling.”
“That’s a novel way of looking at it.”
“I never claimed to be a saint.”
“Just a philosopher.”