I shake my head. The prick doesn’t demand a thing from my staff.
Calmly, I close the door and eye the old man.
“They’ve closed the case on Bishop, internally, that is.”
Kenji told me, but I school my expression into nonchalance.
“Ruled it a heart attack based on the coroner’s report. You said it was business when you went over there?”
I nod.
“And he was already unconscious on the floor?”
I nod again.
“You took the girl because you were trying to keep any evidence of EV out of his home for when police were called? The Eight were impressed by your quick thinking. Bishop’s security and staff aren’t privileged to his involvement with EV, so it was only a matter of time before they called local law enforcement as opposed to our own cleanup team.”
Yes. It’s true. Most affluent men keep their wives, business partners, staff, and security in the dark about their involvement in a secret society. It wouldn’t be so secret if they told anyone. Edmond and Stefan are some of the only outsiders privy to my membership. Even then, I don’t burden them with it all. I can’t.
“All girls were returned to EV this morning, and because of the incident with Bishop and continued questioning from Chicago PD and media, they’ve decided to take a week off from the Market. Instead, they are going to do something … different.” He leans back, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’s somehow magically relaxed.
I don’t mean to show interest, but this is the first I’m hearing about the canceled Market. Different? I try to catch every word. My head tilts slightly, and I wrestle with my body wanting todrift forward, to ask. Staring at him, I study his countenance, the way his expression shifts from annoyed about paint colors to purely sadistic, as if this was the news he’s been waiting to tell me for two days.
I nod once to coax him to continue. What are they going to be doing? Grandfather does a poor job hiding that he’s purposely toying with me. His eyes dart to me then back out the window several times, and he rustles around in his pockets to keep the long stretch of silence dragged out.
Finally, he budges. Turning, he rubs his hands together and says, “A live show. They’ve decided to make the Market girls dance live. A secure connection will be set up, and Chicago’s chapter will stream to every EV location around North America. Girls will be paired and the other locations will vote by way of guard coin who they like best. The girl who earns the most is safe. The girl who earns the least is placed into the pot for the Culling.”
My brow furrows.
“They’ve done a live show once before, the year before you became a member. Needed to clear out some girls due to age and appeal—they weren’t bringing in enough money with the Market. So, three ladies were Culled. The point is … we get a show this Friday,andwe get to save money.”
How so?
My grandfather can’t help himself. “Local members aren’t allowed to vote. The EV members want to appeal to those outside our local chapter.”
My heart races. Can’t contribute? Can’t bid or … whatever they’re calling it? The girls who lose are just placed in a random draw to be culled out? Shipped off to someplace worse. It’s more of a grotesque dance-off soaked in power and degradation, and instead of applause the losers bleed.
No.
This is a showcase of obedience, and not for the girls—they’re already humiliated without a choice. This is for the members. This is a stark reminder that the Eight own Chicago, and Graves … He’s not happy about Bishop. Yes, they might accept the coroner’s report, the man I paid off to lie about the cause of death, but they’re making a statement with this.
“You know …” My grandfather turns to study me, the glint in his eyes shifting from gleaming to predatory. “Bishop was slated to take Mr. Howel’s spot in the Eight since he retired back to New York.”
I shrug, but mull over that fact. It doesn’t surprise me they were interested in him, but this is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. The opportunity I need to make bigger moves.
Smirking, I mirror my grandfather and tuck my hands into both my pockets.
He frowns. “I’ve already told Graves it’s time for a DuPont.”
I roll my shoulders back.A DuPontwillsit on the Eight, for reasons you’ll never see coming.
“I’ve bled for this place more than half the bastards sitting in those chairs.”
Shit.
He continues. “Most of them have hidden behind masks and tradition, letting us powerful members do the work, clean up their messes, and keep their secrets. I’ve fed the machine, dumped money in.” He points at me. “Given them fresh blood. I’ve earned my seat. I demand it.”
It’d be a heartwarming speech if I cared. I don’t.
