Damnit. Will I ever get any sleep tonight?
“We’ll convene in the morning. For right now, the hundred-million-dollar price stands.” I pause as I remember my sister’s reaction to being drugged and kidnapped. “Approach her with extreme caution.”
Percy clears his throat behind us as we head back to our bedroom.
“Yes, Percy? You have something to say?”
“Enzo … Dr. Nilczek said his body—” Percy swallows audibly. “He said she tore his arm off and ate him.”
Without looking back to see his expression, I nod. “That’s right.”
“But Enzo was our best. What if—”
Aron cuts him off. “We’ll be fine. Enzo underestimated Emily. We won’t make that mistake.”
We leave Percy with that thought as we shut the bedroom door and go back to bed.
Before Aron’s return as my co-don, we used the adjoining servants’ suite for Cinder and her guard, Gia. It allowed us to keep up the appearance that Cinder and I were dating while giving Aron and I some much-needed time together. Now that our secret is out, we don’t have any reason to let our guards use the suite. The rooms sit empty, and I wonder if we’ll ever get the time to renovate them into a panic suite or private gym.
With Emily on the loose—and on the warpath—I worry we’ll never get the chance.
Chapter 13
Aron
We have one more day until our plan goes into effect. One more day until the underworld goes up in flames.
As I had predicted, the Empire is in shambles following the kidnapping of Lucinda and Emily. They’re disorganized, scrambling to find a new leader in the void.
Strangely enough, our spies keeping tabs on the Empire haven’t seen the first sign of Emily’s return. I would have thought she’d go straight back there to coordinate her revenge, but no one has seen her since the video call last night.
That’s more disconcerting than if Emily were organizing the Empire’s full force to strike. What could that insane sister of ours be up to?
Since the strike against the Empire is soon, the mansion is almost empty. Most of the Syndicate officers, enforcers, and assassins are mobilizing this morning. We’ve allowed the families of our associates to move into the now vacant rooms. A handful of trained guards remain to watch over them in case someone from the Empire gets the bright idea to storm the mansion.
Speaking of storms, the rain outside refuses to let up. It pours down in sheets, and the thunder and lightning punctuate each thought with blinding and deafening forces.
“It’s like God knows what we’re planning, and He doesn’t approve.” Matt stands at our office window, watching the storm.
“You really think He’s okay with us planning the mass slaughter of our enemies?”
“He could at least pretend to be on our side in this,” he says, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “It would ease some nerves around here.”
Since we’re alone, I walk up behind Matt and wrap my arms around his waist. “Maybe the storm is a warning to the Empire. Maybe it’s got them quaking in their boots.”
Matt leans into my touch. “Some of them might be. The new blood. But not the defectors.”
“They’ll get their comeuppance.”
We stand like that for a few minutes, sharing our warmth. It’s nice, but I know it can’t last.
Since our plan requires synchronization, we have Holly and Hank forwarding our texts across the entire Royal Syndicate phone system. Any orders are dispersed in an instant.
The twins have been working overtime for the past few days. In addition to acting as our electronic messenger pigeons, they’ve also been draining the Empire bank accounts on a massive level. If anyone in the Empire so much as tries to purchase a pack of cigarettes using one of their cards, it’ll be declined. Those funds get funneled into our coffers, which helps pay for any tools our associates need for the coming attacks.
This newfound bankruptcy is irritating the Empire members. They’re striking out, hitting known Syndicate-owned businesses and warehouses. We’re well enough defended that their attacks have little to no effect, but it’s still annoying to deal with.
Without Emily or Lucinda’s guidance, the Empire is, as I predicted, floundering. Their feeble attempts at posturing fall flat. Interestingly enough, our spies can’t identify anyone claiming to be in charge, nor any frontrunners for the position. We keep hoping the Empire will fizzle out without much more bloodshed, but it’s hanging on like a pitbull that got ahold of a juicy bone. Refuses to let go, refuses to die, just snarling at us, snapping at us, and baring its teeth.
