Page 52 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

CHAPTER FORTY

DANTE

T he smoke tastes like failure in my lungs.

I move through the Harrow Estate’s corridors like death itself, stepping over bodies that twenty minutes ago were breathing, thinking, choosing the wrong fucking side.

Another explosion rocks through the mansion. Plaster rains from the ceiling but I keep moving. Always forward. Always toward him.

Julian.

I had tried to go after Aurelia, but Valentine assured me he’d find her and keep her safe, so I’m trying not to worry about my love as I search for my brother.

The syringe shifts in my jacket pocket with each step. Such a small thing—Lorenzo pressed it into my palm just before the party, his dark eyes holding mine. “It’s enough to knock him out. But are you sure about this?”

I had nodded. “Sometimes we save people against their will.”

A burst of automatic fire erupts somewhere behind me. The Consortium families aren’t playing nice anymore. Good. Let them tear each other apart over the scraps of this worthless empire. I’ve got bigger concerns.

The corridor ahead splits into three directions. Muscle memory guides me left. How many times did Julian and I play in these halls as kids? Before the poison. Before the lies. Before everything went to shit.

I pass what used to be our playroom. The door hangs off its hinges now, and through the gap I see two of DeMarco’s men executing a Harrow guard on his knees. The suppressed shots are almost gentle, like whispered promises. They don’t see me. I don’t stop them.

Another turn, another hallway lined with portraits of dead Harrows. Their painted eyes follow my progress like they’re judging me. You failed him, they seem to say. You let your mother twist him into this.

My hand finds the syringe again. The glass is warm from my body heat.

Christ, what am I doing? Planning to drug my own brother. Drag him out of here unconscious if he won’t come willingly. Add kidnapping to my list of sins because the alternative is watching him burn with the rest.

A door slams somewhere ahead. Close. Too close.

I flatten against the wall, weapon raised. The smoke is thicker here, emanating from behind the heavy oak doors of what used to be Lucian’s office.

“Whatever you’ve done,” I whisper to the smoke and shadows, “whatever you’re planning, I’m here now. We’re leaving this together, brother.”