The city blurs past in conflicting streaks of dark shadows and bright lights. I tear through the industrial district where smokestacks belch poison into the night sky and the tenements where people eke out their existence in the shadows of wealth and power.
The iron gates that separate the underclass from the elite rise before me like some medieval fortress.
I punch the gas and rocket into the upper district, where manicured lawns stretch like green carpets and security cameras track my every move. The houses here aren't homes—they're monuments to excess. Huge mansions that flaunt their wealth.
Nero's residence looms ahead. The bastard built himself a palace fit for an emperor, all gleaming gold and towering columns that scream of his massive ego. Even the fucking fountain in his circular driveway is gold-plated, water cascading over cherubs that probably cost more than most people make in a year.
I slam on the brakes, tires shrieking against pristine cobblestones. Guards rush toward my car before I've even killed the engine.
But I’m ready for them, stepping out with my gun already drawn.
The first guard reaches for his weapon. I put two bullets in his chest before he can even take aim. The second one actually manages to draw, but his shot goes wide as my bullet takes him in the throat. He drops, gurgling blood onto the gold inlaid stones.
The third guard—smarter than his dead friends—throws his hands up in surrender.
“The code,” I bark, aiming between his eyes. “For the security system.”
“I… I can’t?—”
“Wrong answer.” I cock the hammer.
“Okay, okay!” His fingers shake as he punches numbers into the keypad beside the massive golden doors. “Six-five-six-zero-one.”
The locks disengage with a loud click. I shoot the guard in the chest anyway, and he crumples beside his friends.
The back entrance is easier—servant’s quarters always are. I slip through a side door that leads to the kitchens, past marble countertops that cost more than most people's houses.
Everything inside reflects the outside. Golden and crystalized and a show of excess.
I follow the sound of voices and clinking silverware through corridors lined with oil paintings of the Vorone family history. The dining room door stands slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway.
I kick it open and step inside with my gun raised.
Nero sits at the head of a table long enough to seat twenty, cutting into what looks like a perfectly prepared steak. Across from him, a blonde bimbo with huge tits she’s squeezed into a dress picks at her salad with the bored expression of someone used to dining with monsters.
Neither of them even flinches when I enter.
“Where is she?” I demand, my gun trained on Nero.
The egotistical asshole doesn't look up from his meal. He cuts another piece of steak as if he has all the time in the world, chewing thoughtfully then dabbing at his mouth with a cloth napkin.
“Good evening, Caelian,” he says calmly. “I was wondering when you'd arrive. I expected you would.”
“Where the fuck is Nevaeh?” I shift my aim to the blonde, who finally looks up from her salad with wide, startled eyes. “I’ll put a bullet in your girlfriend's fucking head if you don't fucking tell me.”
Nero sets down his fork, his smile cold and triumphant. “You mean your bella ballerina? She's already dead.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Nevaeh
“The key, Nevaeh honey,”says Dad. “No more games.”
He hasn’t put away his pistol. He’s clutching the weapon so casually as the man he just executed bleeds out on the floor.
Mom has the same air of casual indifference, casting aside the ropes she’s untied from my wrists and standing up straighter with an expectant stare.
I look between them both—these strangers who share my blood but it ends there—and feel an ache inside. How could it ever come to this? How could they be so greedy and money hungry this is what it would come to?
