1
LILY
I’m caught.
“Who has access to this room?” my cousin says, his voice muffled but distinctive through the shut door.
My chest tightens and my toes scrunch in my sneakers. I withdraw my hand from the doorknob. I was about to go into the living room of my cousin’s house—it’s been mine too for the nine years since my parents died—but I think that might be a bad idea.
Panic is making my head fuzzy, so much bloody rushing around I can barely see. Honesty is supposed to be the best policy, but when you’ve been stealing from a nineteen-year-old mafia boss still attempting to prove himself in London, that rule is dead. Or you are.
“The two of us, and your father when he was alive, god rest his soul,” my aunt lists.
“Who else even knows about that safe?” my cousin demands. He swears violently, and there’s the sound of heavy, rapid footsteps as he paces around. “It’s hidden behind the portrait. No one should know it’s there, never mind be able to steal from it.”
Me. I know about the safe. I saw my uncle open it once, the code clear as day. It took me too long to realise that the only life I’ve ever known and the only family I have left are a prison. A trap.
But since then, I’ve been gathering notes little by little, saving up to run away.
In my defence, it was only a few months ago that I finished my degree and broached the issue of my getting a job. Turns out, my cousin has a different approach to his father, who was kind in a neglectful sort of way until he was murdered by Westminster a year and a half ago. My cousin had been too busy consolidating his position in the London mafias to actively stop me from finishing my studies. But I was told my only role in the Waltham mafia is to shut up, clean the house, and be traded off in marriage.
And that was when I decided to start stealing from a mafia boss. Fab idea.
Do I have time to get upstairs and gather my belongings, meagre as they are? I don’t have much money yet, but it could be enough? I have an account my parents opened for me too, but my uncle told me there was nothing in it. I could check.
“And Lily,” my aunt adds.
There’s a silence.
“Fetch mythieving little cousin,” he says slowly, voice colder than ice.
I nearly vomit as I tiptoe away, my heart slamming against my ribcage. I’m shaking as I change to as normal a walk as I can manage. Fast, but not suspiciously fast.
No time to go to my room. If my aunt finds me, I’m dead. If my cousin sees me, I’m dead.
I am a dinosaur watching the beautiful streak of light from a meteor. I am a fly surrounded by a sparkling spider’s web. Iam limp salad leftovers from three days ago that you put in the fridge andknewyou were never going to eat.
Down the long corridor of portraits of our ancestors. Through the antechambers where generations of Sullivans have entertained the wealthy and influential members of London’s high society. I move with casual purpose, but my ears are tuned like an oversized bat, listening for my aunt’s cry.
My room is right at the top of the house, but I’m not usually there because mostly I’m cleaning. How long would it take my aunt to find the cash? It’s hidden in my underwear drawer but… I’m scared. I admit, I’m terrified.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Shiiiiiiitttttt.
At the back door, I smile at the guard. “Just going to the park. See you in a bit.”
He nods, as this is a thing that happens. Rarely, but no one has ever bothered to lock down my movements. I have nowhere to go, no friends, and no money, so there’s no need to restrict me.
A desert island prison requires no padlocks.
I increase my pace as I saunter to the main entrance to the mansion’s grounds, and the pedestrian gate. Waltham is in outer London and once was a separate village. Now the Sullivan house is part of a leafy suburb overlooking a park. And as the iron frame bangs closed behind me, I round the wall.
My phone stops buzzing for a second, and I yank it from my pocket.
Missed call from my cousin.
Isolated though I am, I have seen one or two movies. I stare at my little lifeline of a phone. That’s where all my smutty books are stored. It’s how I texted the girls from school—the few who ever wanted to talk to me. And it would give me away to my murderous cousin.
