Page 61 of Blood, Bones, and the Bratva Bogeyman

“Yes.” My jaw tightens. “That is the tragedy, and it is why we are hunting so viciously right now.”

The bond thrums between like a taut wire between us. She knows I’m not giving her the whole of it—who else wears the masks, the things we’ve done in the dark—but she knows I won’t lie to her either.

All she has to do is ask.

She stands, her strawberry-blonde hair falling like a veil down her back, and steps close. She plants her hands on the arms of my chair and leans down until her mouth is inches from mine. “You could have told me sooner.”

“I could have,” I admit, not looking away.

“You didn’t.”

“No.”

Her lips touch mine, sharp and steady, promising retribution if I dare keep something like this from her again. “Don’t wait again.”

“I won’t,” I promise.

Pulling her into my lap, our foreheads rest together.

The bond settles like a satisfied animal and for the first time tonight my hands stop shaking.

twenty-five

Cressida

I’mwideawake.

Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be after finding out that my husband is part of one of the most notorious underground secret societies within the mafia?

Floorboards exhale under each step I take, as if the house is rehearsing being alive. The fire in the library has burned to coals, yet the air still holds the scent of smoke and old paper. That sweet-bitter scent stitched into these rooms since the keys landed in Konstantin’s hands.

Bed would make sense, but instead, I’m roaming the halls as I process the shit he’s told me tonight.

Venatori Nocturnus.

Not stories or shadows. Not the bogeymen children whisper about to scare each other quiet.

They’re real.

The law under the laws. Five bloodlines, five men in tailored suits who learned how to sit still long enough to pass as men.

He didn’t name them, but he didn’t need to. The circle has pressed against the air around me for weeks, and nowKonstantin’s truth gives shape to the other silhouettes in the dark.

Tiernan Fitzpatrick.

Battista Tersigni.

Inacio Zaragoza.

And Kingston.

My brother, the drama queen in denial. He claims to hate theatrics but still remembers all his lines.

If he isn’t one of them, I’ll eat my knickers.

The hall widens and a portrait meets me at the landing. A woman in smoke-dark silk with a black ribbon at her throat, her expression schooled like she’s holding back the good part of a secret. The painter gave her eyes that look past you like she’s warning someone to wait their damn turn.

I stop under her frame and tilt my head until the light catches the varnish just enough to see the brushstrokes behind her eyes. “What’s your name?”