I brace for my computer to blow up again, but it stays lit.
Whoever built the Underworld's digital perimeter didn't just slam a door in my face. They stood on the other side and whispered my name through the keyhole.
I lean back in my chair and roll my neck once, twice, letting the ache slide down into my shoulders. I glance out the window.
The Chicago traffic hums below. I stare at it until the wall radiator roars like a bomb, then returnto my project.
Six monitors glow in front of me, each one waiting for my next move.
I tap my fingers on the desk, then stop myself.
I open a new window and start running a trace back through the access denial, hunting for a breadcrumb I can yank into daylight. The minute I do, the same looping red warning flashes on a side screen. Not as text this time but as a pulsing block in the shape of a heartbeat.
Cute.
They're watching in real time.
I tilt my beer bottle to my mouth, swallow, then set it down with a soft thunk. The doorbell rings, and I freeze.
I'm not used to unannounced visitors who ring the bell. Sean normally knocks or uses the code for the keypad. Valentina has it as well.
The bell rings again, sharper, impatient.
I stand, cross the hallway, and check the peephole.
Brenna.
My chest tightens in a way I don't appreciate. I haven't seen or talked to her since I married Valentina and all hell broke loose. I cautiously open the door.
She stands in the corridor wearing black leggings, a loose sweatshirt, hair twisted up like she threw it there on the drive over. No makeup, no jewelry. Just Brenna, raw edges and all, eyes bright with the kind of hurt that makes you want to punch a wall on her behalf.
"Hey," I say, voice rougher than I intend.
She brushes past me. "I'm not here for small talk, Brax."
"Good. I'm not in a small-talk mood."
She turns in my living room, arms folded, gaze slicing me. In a pained voice, she says, "Did I do something to you?"
I shut the door and lean my shoulder into it. "What do you mean?"
Her laugh cracks out, humorless. "Don't do that. Not today."
I scrub a hand over my face. "Brenna?—"
"You didn't tell me about Valentina. Then you get married and stop talking to me."
My instincts flare, the same ones that made me survive alleys and cages and rings. I keep my expression blank. "Finn's not talking to me."
"So I get punished, too?"
I sigh. "I'm sorry. I thought you would be mad, too."
Her eyes flash. "Oh, I'm mad all right. I'm pissed you got married, didn't invite me, and still haven't even introduced me to your wife."
"She's an Abruzzo. Or didn't you get the memo?" I tease, but it's in bad taste and comes out stale.
"That's bullshit, and you know it." She steps closer, voice shaking but sharp. "You walked into our lives as a kid with nothing but street dirt under your nails, and I treated you like blood before you even had the name. You slept under my roof. You ate at my table. You called me family. And now I hear through the grapevine that you got married and couldn't spare me one damn sentence?"
