As long as no one knows who I am, I have a shot.
Typically, the people closest to the leading family are picked. Michael, Ferguson’s best friend, became second because of their childhoods spent together.
I hope he’s rotting in Hell for the shit he did to Maeve.
“It’s not all about you,Prince.” Killian sneers, leaning back against the cold fireplace. “Maeve has other things to worry about. Like the Board.”
“I have to make sure the clan is happy,” she ignores Killian.Just one hit…“They will vote for the person they’ll follow. I can’t just put you as second. This is for the clan, to give them a voice. But if you’re one of the three voted in?”No favoritism to be spoken of.“Whoever wins the most of the three specially designed trials, becomes second.”
She makes it sound so easy. “Wins?” I snort. “You mean whoever survives.”
I might not have been born in the clan, but I knew the Games. They weren’t something to mess with, but something to fear.
Three trials, all different, were meant to test the contestants in the criminal underworld by abiding to the clan’s virtues—strength, loyalty, innovation. The reason they’re not done as often is because of the loss of life and property damage. Men are killed for the right to be second, some never to be seen again. To be voted in was as much an honor as it was a death sentence.
“This isn’t an easy life, Hayes.” Maeve sighs. “You know that better than most. You want to stop Bruno and help me? Become second. It’s the only way this works without war breaking out.”
With a second beside her, there was a clear line of leadership should something happen. Given the world we played in, it made sense. The clan will fight, defend, if they saw a future.
“When do you need to respond?”
Killian grabs the document, flipping through the papers with a critical eye. “He wants an answer by the end of next week.”
Maeve rolls her eyes. “Arrogant prick. We’ll tell him the Games are beginning. That’ll give us some time, push off his proposal. He can’t fight against those time constraints.”
“Not if he doesn’t want his family to become targets for one of the trials.” Killian smirks, thoughts full of mayhem.
“We might still do that,” she quips. I’m inclined to agree. Using Roman’s men as target practice for one trial sounds like a fun way to pass the night.
“And you won’t sign that contract. Not until a second is decided?”
Maeve is unpredictable at best. If she wanted to, Collins would be gone. And I wouldn’t survive if Roman got the only woman who owns my heart. Any little bit of light inside my soul would wither and die and I’d become something worse than death—I’d be a shell of who I am.
Shrugging, she pledges, “Unless I am forced under torture or death, you have my word.” It’s an old tradition we used to say to each other before doing our nightly runs as a sort of promise. Some people pray to God. Maeve and I pray to ourselves.
It eases the curl of dread in my stomach.Slightly.
Killian shifts, sliding his hands into his pockets, eyes narrowed. Jerking my head toward the door, I ask, “You going to see Reese tonight? I can do the drops.” Because I’m an asshole and just need to have one last dig at the man.
Maeve gives me a look and I wink. She knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Prick,” she mutters. “I’m going to, after. You’re on Collins duty tonight. I don’t trust all this.” I nod. She’d be wise not to—and honestly? That’s good for me. Gets me access to my viper without looking like a lovestruck fool.
Before she leaves, she glances back at me, black nails tapping the doorframe. “Remember, Hayes. You need to be voted in. Get in with the clan and have your name dropped. It’s the only way that this all works out.”
8
COLLINS
“Donotsign that.”
Storming into Maeve’s office, Killian reclines on the couch to the side, and my oldest sister looks through a stack of papers. I have a sick feeling that they are my contract, by one Roman Bruno, just as he promised.
“Collins,” Maeve greets, glancing up to me, then back to her desk. She’s been like this for months, ever since she took over for Pops.
I don’t know the stress she’s under to handle the clan, the business, the illegal activities, but it’s taking a toll on her. Her cheeks are sunken, and her hair is lackluster. It’s why I’m constantly making sure our chef brings her food.
We might not get along, but I still worry about her. She rarely eats.
