John orders, "If you didn't bring him, and you don't want him here, then get rid of him. Slit his throat."
Sean lifts his beaten body even higher. He roars, "No. I vouch for this man."
A chilling gasp fills the crowd.
John sarcastically chuckles, "You vouch for him?"
"Yeah. I vouch for him," Sean repeats.
Tension mounts.
I hold my breath, unsure what should happen in this case. No one staring in the face of death has ever vouched for anyone. Especially not anyone as important to the Underworld as Sean O'Malley Sr.'s offspring.
Byrne interjects in a stern but respectful voice, "He hit thirteen. He won the bid."
John snaps his head toward him. "He didn't follow directions."
"I did," Sean argues.
John jabs him in the chest. "You were careless."
"He still hit thirteen," Byrne insists.
The crowd takes over, chanting in a deafening tone, "Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen!"
Another alarm sounds. This time, it rings for five full seconds.
Crap!
Another hush falls over the crowd. I hand my clutch to my assistant, Cassian. I angrily push through the membership, debating over what route to take.
Someone's going to pay, and it better not be me.
Sacred rules exist in the Underworld. Everyone has a job, and if you fail at your duties, people get hurt. Often they die. So there will be consequences for whoever is responsible for this security breach and possibly for me.
This was my event to manage and control.
The Omni, trust me,I tell myself in order to calm my flipping stomach, but it's a lie. Until you get a seat at the table, your every move is watched and judged.
The crowd parts. I touch my ruby-encrusted red mask over my eyes and nose to ensure it's secure. I lift my chin and saunter through the small path and stop in front of Sean. I grab his chin and remark, "You're the spitting image of him."
A brief flick of emotion erupts on his face. It's gone so fast I barely caught it. He asks, "You knew him?"
I shake my head, replying, "No. It was before our time. But my parents did, and I've seen photos."
"Who are your parents?" he questions.
Amused, I almost break out in a smile, then harshly reprimand, "That's not a question for you to ask."
"What question should I ask?" he fires back.
I stare at him for a moment, taking in every characteristic I can see through the swelling and blood. I offer, "They said you have your father's humor. I guess they were right."
He blurts out, "Some say I do."
I nod. "I suppose you do."
I study him further, then step closer. I curl my finger, lean closer, and whisper in his ear, "Do you think your father's position allows you to not abide by the rules?"
