I write:
Victor Sokolov. The Order.
He expected me to be afraid.
I was afraid. But he could not tell.
I close the notebook.
I think about who I can trust.
The chart in my head has two columns. What I know. What I have been told. And underneath both, the question that has been sitting there since the first note slid under my door: Who is keeping me safe and why?
I know the answer.
I’ve known it for a while.
I’m just learning what to do with it.
Amy
The Uber turns onto the street. By Thursday afternoon, it wasn’t a secret where Saint’s house party was located. I immediately know I’ve come to the wrong place or maybe the right place. I’m just not sure which is worse.
The houses surrounding Saint’s are large, but his is the one at the end of the street, and honestly, this doesn’t look like a house.
It looks like a statement.
His house rises above the others in black stone, steel, and glass. Three stories of modern architecture illuminated against the darkness like something cut from the future and dropped into the middle of an old Gothic campus.
The driver slows.
My stomach drops.
Expensive doesn’t begin to cover it. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal flashes of movement inside. Gold light spills across polished concrete terraces. Music pulses faintly through the closed doors, the bass carrying through the night air.
And parked directly in front of the house is Saint’s Lamborghini SVJ.
Matte black.
Low enough to look unreal.
The streetlights slide across the bodywork’s sharp angles. Even I know what it is. You don’t hang around Roman Mancini without learning the language of expensive things. The car looks dangerous standing still.
For a second, I consider asking the driver to keep going. Instead, I thank him as I get out.
The Uber disappears, leaving me standing alone staring at a house that probably costs more than everything I’ve ever owned combined.
The SVJ catches my attention again. Someone is leaning against it.
Tall.
Dark jacket.
Head lowered toward his phone. Elliot. I sent him a text letting him know when I would arrive.
As if sensing me, he glances up. His face breaks into a smile. He pushes away from the car and walks toward me. Elliot seems normal, but I know the truth.
“You actually came,” he says, relieved.
