“What about his daughter?” someone asks. “Lavinia?”
“She says she stopped being a Lucia the day her father sold her to Daniel Payne.” He says this without irony, like he doesn’t wear an LDZ ring on his finger, like he didn’t have a stake in Payne’s grand schemes. “Another member of his bloodline will have to step forward to claim it, and we all know the other sister is dead.” He nods at me. “Isn’t that right, King?”
“That’s correct.”
I don’t blame him for confirming. Sometimes the dead don’t stay that way in our city.
Reicht cuts in, “We’re pushing eminent domain. The city needs that land. Condos, a park, something that doesn’t look like the devil himself took a flaming shit on North Side.”
A few others in the circle murmur agreement. I say nothing. I’m the only Royal in the room. The younger Kings think these gatherings are for fossils. They’re busy running their frats, their rackets, their pretty little wars. Nights are meant for fights and fucking. They’ll learn soon enough that real power is decided in mahogany rooms like this one, not in the ring.
The mayor’s gaze swings to the police chief. “Chief, any update on the missing women?”
Beside me, Arianette stiffens while Chief Harlan sinks deeper into the oxblood wingback, belly straining against his dress blues. “No new kidnappings. No fresh bodies. I think we’ve got the right man locked up.”
Eugene Warren.
My son and Simon Perilini swear the Duke’s fraternity president is innocent. Even with our strained relationship, I believe them.Something about Warren seems too easy, and nothing about this situation is easy.
“Has Warren told you where the remaining girls are?” President Stillwell asks, voice flat. “Dead or alive?”
The chief’s jaw works around a mouthful of cashews. “He won’t speak. Claims it’s a setup.”
“Maybe it is,” I say, loud enough for the room to still. “I’m not seeing a lot of evidence to support that he’s the killer.”
Warren was in an intimate relationship with two of the girls prior to them being snatched off the street. But fucking a cutslut or a Princess's handmaiden doesn’t mean murder when every frat on Greek Row runs the same parties.
The chief’s eyes slide past me, settling on Arianette. She stands at my elbow like a dark, silent bird, hand resting lightly on the back of my chair. The room has been watching her all night, trying to get a read on my new bride.
She’d performed well, smiling and shaking hands when required. As she said, Hexley trained her for this type of event. But I kept her close enough that even the most foolish wouldn’t pry too deeply. Well, until now.
“What about you, Baroness?” the chief asks, syrupy with false courtesy. “You’re the only living witness we have. Was Warren the man who kidnapped you and left you for dead?”
The air shifts, and every head turns.
Arianette’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly against the leather. I feel the tremor travel through her arm into mine. I move before I think, my hand dropping to cover hers, thumb brushing the frantic pulse at her wrist. She curls her fingers around two of mine, anchoring.
“I don’t know who did it,” she says, voice soft but clear, steady. Simple. Good.
“We’ve been through this–” I start, but my bride continues. Christ.
“I only know that it was a demon,” she announces, “with horns and hooves. It lives underground, seeped in rot.”
Silence stretches, thick as the cigar haze. I squeeze her hand once, hard.
The mayor clears his throat, suddenly fascinated by his bourbon. The chief’s smile thins. “Sounds like your kind of depravity, King.”
Nervous laughter bounces between the group, and I cut him a hard look, saying, “Which is exactly why you know it’s not.”
“True,” the mayor says, aware that we’re in dangerous territory. “Discretion has always been a defining part of Beta Rho.”
Our eyes meet, and that little part of me that expects to be exposed tickles at the back of my spine. Do they know who the man is behind the mask? What I’ve done to earn it? I hold his gaze through one blink, then two, and the conversation fractures toward safer topics: weather, the upcoming holidays. But I feel the weight of new eyes on us, measuring, calculating. Arianette stays close, the heat of her arm brushing mine every time she breathes.
They want to know what clues she holds in her pretty little head, but not as much as I do.
I set the club soda on a passing tray, the crystal ringing like a bell no one else hears.
“Excuse us,” I say to the room at large, voice smooth and final. No one argues with a Royal when he decides the conversation is over.
