Page 3

Two

Sebastian

She hasn’t changed one goddamn bit. Still the same stuck-up princess who made my sister’s life hell. As I’m operating without Brotherhood support, I haven’t managed to install cameras in Ophelia’s salon, much less the Calder mansion. But I did set one up outside to track her comings and goings.

There’s no sound, but the scene doesn’t need subtitles to give it clarity. Ophelia points an imperious finger at her staff member, who touches the stud in her nose. They argue, Ophelia’s sculpted face hard and unyielding.

Eventually, tears streaming from her eyes, the poor girl on the receiving end pulls out the stud with a wince, throws it on the ground, and pushes through the door into Ophelia’s salon.

Old anger, which I can forget about sometimes but never really leaves me, flares into vivid color as the image of the tearful girl blurs into my little sister, Maggie, aged fourteen. Of all my memories, the one of her crying her eyes out, black mascara and eyeliner streaking her cheeks, is the most vivid.

That day, one of her last, Ophelia and her group of bitches cornered her at recess. They shoved her head in the toilet, told her to scrub off the gothy makeup she liked to experiment with, and left her in the bathroom crying her eyes out. I only found her there because a sophomore girl took pity on her and fetched me.

Ophelia is the same bully now as she was then, imposing her prissy little vision on the world. I’m almost glad to see it because of what lies ahead for her. I zoom the camera in and really focus on the woman who has one single day of freedom left.

She’s beautiful in a boring way. Natural, honey-blond hair curled into waves that cascade down her back. Subtle makeup, a tailored suit, and a single pair of diamond drop earrings. Everything is pristine, perfect, and so sensible it makes her look much older than twenty-four.

She straightens her shoulders and heads back into her salon. I’ve been so focused on the logistics of the capture that I’ve hardly thought about what comes after. Tomorrow, if all goes to plan, she’ll be in my room. Will she remember me? I’m guessing yes, though I don’t know if she’ll recognize me at first.

I can’t wait to see the shock in her eyes when she realizes who I am.

Enough.

Not dying tomorrow is my top priority.

I jump out of my skin when my phone rings and cringe when I see the name. Jacob. He’s way too smart and knows something is going on. And of all the people in my life, he’s the last one I want to find out about my plans. He’ll either stop me or want to help and get dragged into my disaster of a plan. I don’t know what would be worse.

I answer. “Hey, man.”

“All right, mate? What’re you up to later?”

Possibly enjoying my very last day above ground .

“Not much. I’m pretty tired. Probably going to get an early night.”

A long, weighty pause presses down on me. Jacob’s voice has dropped when he speaks. “Look, I’m taking Quinn to trivia night at the bar. Come with us. With you on the team, we’ll be in with a shot at winning. They always throw in some bullshit questions about rich people stuff. I think they do it to impress Kendrick.”

I force a laugh. “Much as I’d love to help you peasants out, I’m just not feeling great. Let’s catch up tomorrow.”

Jacob’s sigh echoes down the phone. “Okay, mate. Are you coming to Brian’s lecture tomorrow? Gabriel roped me into it.”

“I’d rather stab my own eyeballs with knitting needles, thanks.”

Jacob laughs, but it sounds strained. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. I’ve been jumping at shadows for weeks, sure every innocent question has a deeper meaning. The foolishness of what I’m doing feels like it should be a beacon flashing over my head for all to see.

Behold, the dumbass who wants to piss off the Brotherhood and their biggest rivals all at once.

“Can’t say I blame you. I might drag Quinn along to liven things up. We’re going to Grandad’s bingo night tomorrow evening. You fancy that?”

“Sure. Why not?” I hope it sounds more genuine than it feels.

We say goodbye, and I stare at the phone for a while before forcing myself to move, prowling my apartment. I chose every item of furniture myself, with the help of a designer who seemed delighted to work with someone who appreciated his talents.

Most Brothers are like my two best friends—too caught up in their work and their Wards to give a shit about decor. But I know the value of making an impression. My home is my castle, just like Kendrick’s office is his.

I take a seat on my Edra “On the Rocks” sofa and run a finger over the rich gray fabric. The designer just about came in his pants when I suggested it, and he planned the whole apartment around the statement piece. There’s something soothing about the muted colors throughout the place, broken up here and there with splashes of vivid brights.

I grew up surrounded by the showy trappings of wealth—sports cars, the latest electronics, gold and marble on every available fucking surface. If there’s such a thing as a stereotypical mob lawyer house, my house was it. As a teenager, I shunned it all and dressed like I was broke, but as I grew older, I realized that was stupid.

I allowed myself to like nice things again and ended up with tastes as expensive as my goddamn father, if a lot more subtle. Ironic, really, since my aggressive scruffiness was one of the main reasons we used to argue. He’d be proud of me now, if we were still on speaking terms.

I love my apartment. I love the work I’m doing here in the Brotherhood, and I’m happier here than I’ve been in my entire life. Why am I risking it all? I could take the sensible approach. Choose a Ward I might actually like instead of lumbering myself with one I already hate and leave the past where it belongs.

But Maggie won’t let me.

Now I really am starting to sound like a lunatic. I drag myself to my computer and go through the plan for the millionth time. It’s going to work. It has to.

** *

Not for the first time, I’m glad my Tesla is silent. I pull up outside the gates of Brighthaven, the tiny, exclusive nursing home facility with a grand total of ten residents. Every Thursday, without fail, Ophelia visits her ancient old nanny, Maida. Thursdays are late-opening night at her salon, so she takes a couple of hours off in the morning.

From my clumsy attempts at surveillance and capture planning, it seems like the best time to grab Ophelia. Brighthaven sits on acres of woodland so, according to the cheerful brochure, residents can enjoy the peace and quiet of nature in their golden years.

On Thursday mornings, twelve times out of thirteen, Ophelia is the only visitor and the only car in the car park. Probability is in my favor, and I always seem to beat the odds. I used to do well in Vegas, before they clocked me for card counting and added me to the banned list.

I hold my breath as I creep toward the facility. The gates at the front require a code to get in, but the wire mesh fence around the side isn’t well-maintained, and in several places it’s come detached from the posts. I don’t suppose many people try to break into nursing homes.

A couple of stone-age security cameras guard the gate, but hacking them took less than five minutes. They’ll show nothing but a blank screen on playback.

I slip through one of the loose sections, creep through shrubbery to the parking lot, and scan it from behind a bush.

One car. Ophelia’s custom dusky pink Mercedes. It’s a pretty car, exactly the sort of thing I’d imagine her driving, down to the cheesy numberplate—OC1.

I’m really fucking doing this.

I’ve dressed in a plain black long-sleeve and jeans, and my skin grows clammy in the warm breeze. Adrenaline heats me from the inside out as I take a careful look around, searching for anything that might cause me a problem.

The black asphalt parking lot gives way to grass and shrubbery on the side opposite me. Gardens for residents to take a stroll in, supposedly, though I’ve never seen anyone out and about. The facility has a shaded terrace at the back, and that’s where the nurses take the geriatrics for fresh air.

Groundskeepers, or staff taking a sneaky smoke break, are my biggest threat. Right now, all is clear, but that could change. I check my watch. Ten minutes until Ophelia usually makes her exit, though sometimes she lingers up to twenty minutes longer. She must love her nanny. If her upbringing was anything like mine, the nanny probably raised her.

Will Maida miss Ophelia’s visits? Will she wonder why she’s not coming anymore? My stomach wrenches as I imagine a sweet old woman, all dressed up, waiting for a visitor who doesn’t arrive. I’d bet my fucking life Ophelia’s asshole brother and the old man never visit.

No. Not my problem. I can’t let myself go down that path, or it’ll drive me insane. Ophelia deserves what’s coming to her, and her disgusting family deserves it too. That’s all that matters.

Seven minutes.

I edge forward, crouching out of sight behind the car. Ophelia helpfully parked with the passenger door facing away from the facility. Sweet of her to make my job easy.

Five minutes.

I pull on my balaclava. Ophelia can’t see me until we’re safely within the walls of the Compound. I’m counting on her assuming this is a basic hostage taking, someone after Daddy’s money.

She’ll go along with what I say as long as she’s confident she’ll be rescued. If she sees me too early, she might lose her cool.

Two minutes .

I pull the gun from the back of my jeans. It’s heavy in my hand, and a shudder tracks through my body as I imagine pointing it at another human. At Ophelia. I’ve been practicing on the range, in secret—not that I have any plans to fire the fucking thing. My main goal is making sure I don’t accidentally shoot myself or anyone else.

Zero minutes.

I wipe the sweat from my palm and clutch the weapon, waiting for the clacking of heels on the asphalt. Most Brothers get a sanitized version of this experience, their Ward delivered to them wrapped up like a Christmas present. If they had to do it themselves, how many would go through with it?

Focus. Not important right now.

Clicking heels come toward me, and my adrenaline spikes to apocalyptic levels.

Shit.

This is it.

Her door opens, and she climbs in. Before the door closes fully, I yank open the passenger door and jump inside, gun leveled right at her. She shrieks, eyes glued to the weapon, as I say, “Drive. Now.”