She lurches upright and snatches the glass from my grasp, downing the rest of the Cabernet Sauvignon in one swallow before signaling to the nearby attendant to bring her another. I shake my head no at the woman, and she backs away.
“Mama,” I gently entreat.
She looks at me with bloodshot, pewter eyes and cups my cheek. “I love you,malýsh. My sweet, handsome boy.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes when I see the pain behind hers. “I love you, too, Mama.”
She nods, smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. “I’m not feeling well.”
I pounce on that as a lifeline to get her out of here. “Maybe you should go home and rest. Antony can send another car to drive us home.”
I’m already texting him to bring the car around and have it waiting out front. It’s only an hour’s drive from the Society compound to our house. Plenty of time for Antony to have another driver come and get us before the gala ends.
“Yes. Rest. That’s what I need. Thank you,malýsh.”
Pulling her chair out, I take her elbow and help her stand on unsteady legs. The side exit door is only a few feet away, but the short distance feels like a mile when the person you’re escorting can barely walk straight.
“Have a good evening, sir. Madam,” one of the guards says as we pass through, the side piece he’s carrying blatantly obvious from the way his dinner jacket bulges on his right side.
The gala is filled with men with guns. Too many rich, influential people here to take a chance of anything happening to one of them.
Once out in the corridor, the noise levels drop considerably. A few people loiter outside the ballroom, talking quietly with others or inspecting the gold-leafed framed artwork that hangs on the walls. All priceless masterpieces from famous artists, of course. There is nothing subtle about the decorations in this place. Every painting, portrait, silk wall covering, drapery, rug, statue and the like are displayed in all their vapid, ostentatious glory.
“Just a little farther,” I say, basically carrying Mama the rest of the way to the car when she becomes nothing but dead weight.
Another servant opens one side of the main double doors. Pungent night air perfumed with the scent of roses washes over my face as soon as we step outside. Antony is already there, waiting, and opens the back passenger door of the Range Rover when he sees us.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Father’s deep baritone barks.
I pass Mama into Antony’s care. “Take her home.”
“Yes, sir.” He gently sets her inside the SUV and buckles her seat belt. She doesn’t even twitch. She’s out cold.
“Nina, don’t you dare leave.”
I block Father from getting to her. “I’m sending her home. She doesn’t feel well.”
Knowing there are eyes on us, he lowers his voice, but the threat comes out loud and clear. “Get her ass back inside right fucking now.”
“Or what?”
He hasn’t raised a fist to her in six months. Not since I broke his hand. When you rear your child to be a weapon, teach him through abuse and degradation how to harness that power, you shouldn’t be surprised when that weapon eventually turns on you.
The brisk evening air does little to extinguish the flame of fury coloring his face. “People will talk,” he grits out through clenched teeth.
I take a step closer. He takes a step back. And I smile internally when I notice how his right hand can’t quite make a full fist. I didn’t just break his hand. I shattered the bones to the point where not even the most renowned surgeon could repair the damage.
“Who gives a shit what they say? Let them talk.” I wait until I hear the tires of the Range Rover crunch across the paver stone before walking away.
Fuck him.
Not wanting to go back to the gala because Aoife isn’t there, I take the elevator up and follow the hall to the end to the storage closet where there’s an access panel and a set of metal stairs thatleads up to the roof. When I open the door, I notice the panel is off and propped against the wall. They must already be up there.
After checking to make sure no one is on the stairs—because accidentally running into Tristan or Hendrix on their way down would be awkward as hell—I use my phone’s flashlight to guide my way as I carefully climb each step. The bolted joints that anchor the stairs to the wall creak loudly as I ascend, and I just hope the noise doesn’t carry.
When I get to the top, there’s an access panel that unlocks the door to the roof. Hoping the code hasn’t changed since last time, I punch in the numbers and breathe a sigh of relief when the light turns green.
Turning off the light on my phone, I slip it into my back pocket and push open the door. A rush of wind hits me when I step out into the night, only to find no one’s out here. Just to make sure, I venture a little farther. This section of the roof is flat, not sloped, with filigree wrought-iron railing running along the side of the deck that meets the edge of the roofline. I scan around, looking for Aoife and the guys. Nothing.Aoife, where are you?
