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“This,” he spits, thrusting a finger at my stomach, “is a declaration of war.”

“Calm down,” Lex says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We don’t know enough, Wick. Father said this was about testing weak links. Maybe he wanted to see if the Barons are as loyal as everyone thinks.Ifhe’s even telling the truth,” everyone in the room knows that Ashby could be lying, “that means whichever William this is, he could be undermining Maddox as well. We need evidence. We needfacts.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is a fucking disaster.” Pace stops muttering and looks up, resting his hands on his hips. “Obviously we have to kill him.”

“Which one?” Lex asks.

Wicker is quick to offer a solution. “All fucking three of them, and their King, too.”

I can feel the energy of the room ramping up, teetering on the edge of spiraling out of control.

And then a knock sounds on the door behind me.

Three raps. Then two.

Pace looks at me, jerking his head to the door, and I emit a relieved sigh when I swing it open, revealing a jittery Ballsack. “Oh, thank God.” Then I see his face, the dark set of concern marring his features. My heart skips a beat, dread building in my stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“We have a problem.” His gaze goes from mine to the men behind me. “There’s an FBI agent waiting for you at the front gate.”

5

Pace

It’sloud with the sounds of summer when we walk down the drive toward the gate. The sun is low, the sky a blaze of oranges, and the cicadas are screaming—along with the crickets and the frogs. The palace grounds have a certain scent in the summertime, wet and ripe. It’s the roses and wisteria, but also the musty scent of the moat and the surrounding trees.

It’s such a fucking ridiculous place.

I stand by the fact that we don’t need a goddamn castle to raise a kid in. Some people in South Side and West End probably raise their kids in shoeboxes, and they do fine. Hell, Verity herself was raised in a shack behind that ratty gym. It’s stupid for three people and a baby to live in a place like this. It’s too big to ever be a home. Too many nooks and crannies. Too many linear feet for an intruder to gain access to.

That said, as we approach the large wrought iron gate, I can’t deny that the palace has its benefits. The man waiting there has a large ledger tucked beneath one arm. The other lifts a cigarette to his lips, and the pull he takes is hard and aggressive, like he’strying to get as much nicotine as he can out of the single draw before he tosses it to the ground, stamping it out.

“Ashby,” he greets us, voice like gravel despite the fact he’s fairly young. Maybe in his early thirties. “Ashby, and Ashby. Shouldn’t there be one more of you?”

“No,” I say, the three of us reaching the gate.

He’s dressed in a dark suit. Behind him, a nondescript sedan is idling, no one in the passenger seat.

So he’s working this alone, then.

“Agent Knight,” he says, smoothly pulling the bottom of his blazer aside to flash the badge. Beside it is a gun in a holster. “Mind if I come in and talk for a minute?”

“You’re fucking right, we mind.” My words to the agent are firm and without politeness.

Lex inhales deeply. “You’ll have to excuse my brother. He’s not a fan of your profession.”

“Who is?” Agent Knight covers his badge once again. “I’m here about?—”

Wicker clucks his tongue. “What are we, idiots? We know why you’re here.”

Stella. Although, it could be other things. Like the man we’ve got locked down in the dungeon. Or Danner, who hasn’t been seen in weeks. Or Chuck.

Shit. We’ve been busy.

“If you want through these gates,” I tell him, “get a warrant.”

“East End never changes, does it?” He scans each of us, eyes lingering on Wicker’s head. “Even after all these years, it still smells like hair gel and bullshit.”

“If you want to smell our hair gel,” I say, slowly, so there’s no confusion, “get a warrant.”