Page 16

Flint

Working a shift at The Vault after burying a body is a special kind of fucked up.

My hands are raw from digging, muscles aching in places I forgot existed, but here I am polishing glasses like it’s just another night, like I didn’t help bury a body this morning.

Mari leans against the bar next to me, her blue hair catching the light. “You look like shit,” she says cheerfully. “Wild night with the gardener?”

I nearly drop the glass I’m polishing. “What?”

“Oh, come on. The whole island knows you two hook up every few months when you get drunk enough to forget why you hate each other.” She nudges my shoulder. “And you definitely left the Waters party together last night.”

Fuck. “We didn’t leave together.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” She grins, clearly not believing me. “But maybe wash the dirt from under your fingernails next time you want to be convincing.”

I glance down. She’s right. Despite me scrubbing my hands raw in the shower, I still have dirt embedded around my cuticles and under my nails.

Grave dirt.

I shove my hands into my pockets.

“I was helping him with something this morning,” I mutter. “Landscaping shit.”

“Uh-huh.” Mari smirks. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

I’m saved from answering by the front door swinging open. The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

Viktor Bastian fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light from outside—six-feet-four of pure muscle and bad attitude, dressed all in black with a security earpiece permanently attached to his head.

His face is set in stone, but there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Worry.

Shit.

Mari whispers, “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of hell today. ”

“Go check inventory,” I tell her, staying casual. “I’ll deal with this.”

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Smart girl.

Viktor makes a beeline for the bar, ignoring the other patrons who instinctively move out of his way. The guy has that effect on people. Even the stupid rich think twice about messing with him.

“Bishop,” he says in that gravelly voice that’s sent more than a few troublemakers running. “We need to talk.”

“Always a pleasure, Viktor,” I say, setting down the glass and grabbing a bottle of the expensive bourbon he likes. “Drink?”

He shakes his head. “Liam’s missing.”

I pour myself a shot instead, focusing on keeping my hand steady. “Missing how? Like, went home with someone and didn’t call home, or actually missing?”

“He didn’t come home last night. Phone’s going straight to voicemail.

” Viktor scans the room as he talks, like Liam might be hiding in a corner.

“Last anyone saw him, he was at that Waters party. His motorcycle was still there this morning. I sent someone over to get it, thinking he was too shit faced to drive last night but…”

I throw back the shot, grateful for the burn that gives me a second to compose my face. “Yeah, I saw him there. Early on. Rich girl’s birthday bash, right? He was hitting on everything that moved, typical Liam. And yeah, he appeared pretty shit faced.”

“What time did you leave?”

The question sounds casual, but there’s nothing casual about Viktor’s eyes. They’re fixed on me, searching for any hint I’m lying.

“Around one, I think?” I shrug, leaning against the bar. “Had to work today. Can’t all be trust fund babies like your brother.”

“You left alone?”

My stomach tightens. “Why?”

“Just gathering information.” Viktor’s massive hands rest on the bar, fingers drumming against the wood. “Someone said they saw you with the Waters girl’s gardener. The Italian.”

Fuck. That can’t be good.

“Yeah, we talked for a bit,” I admit, figuring a partial truth is better than a complete lie. “Had some business to discuss.”

“Business.” Viktor repeats the word like he’s testing it for poison. “What kind of business does a bartender have with a gardener at 1 AM?”

I force a smirk. “The kind that’s none of your business, Bastian.”

A flicker of something dangerous crosses his face before settling back into that professional mask. Security guy through and through.

“Look,” I say, pouring another shot, “your brother’s probably sleeping it off somewhere. Or he found a tourist to harass. You know how he gets. ”

“He’s my brother,” Viktor says quietly. “I always know where he is.”

There’s an intensity to his words that catches me off guard.

I sometimes forget these two are actually blood.

They’re nothing alike. Viktor’s all business and control while Liam’s a chaos machine with impulse control issues.

But right now, I’m seeing something I’ve never seen in Viktor before. Genuine concern.

It’d be touching if I hadn’t helped bury the guy he’s looking for.

“Sorry, man.” I’m surprised to find I mean it. Not sorry Liam’s dead—that asshole had it coming—but sorry Viktor’s worried. “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

Viktor stares at me for a long moment, then nods once. “If you hear anything, anything at all, you call me. Immediately.”

“Of course.”

He turns to leave, then stops. “One more thing. You seen Damiano Ricci today?”

My pulse kicks up. “No.”

“He was at the Waters place all night. Might’ve seen something.”

Viktor’s fishing, but he doesn’t seem to know exactly what happened. Unless he’s playing me.

“We left around the same time,” I correct.

He studies me for a beat too long. “Right. Well, if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him, too.”

“Will do.”

Viktor heads for the door, his back straight as a rod. He stops to talk to a group of local guys—fishermen from the docks, judging by their weathered faces and rough clothes—island boys like me, but a decade older, the kind who know every hidden cove and secret path.

He’s organizing a search party.

This just got real.

I pull out my phone and text Damiano: VIKTOR’S LOOKING FOR LIAM. ASKING QUESTIONS. STAY AWAY FROM THE VAULT.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I add: AND ME.

The reply comes almost instantly: WHAT DID YOU TELL HIM?

NOTHING. BUT HE KNOWS WE WERE AT THE PARTY. SOMEONE SAW US.

The three dots appear, disappear, then appear again. brIAR?

S AFE FOR NOW. HE DIDN’T MENTION HER.

I watch Viktor talk to the fishermen, gesturing with those massive hands of his. They’re nodding, faces serious. Shit’s escalating faster than I expected.

My phone buzzes again: BE CAREFUL. HE’S DANGEROUS.

I KNOW WHAT HE IS.

And I do. I’ve seen Viktor “handle” problems before.

People who start fights at The Vault don’t just get thrown out.

They get lessons they never forget. Broken fingers.

Dislocated shoulders. The lucky ones only need stitches.

The rumor is he did worse stuff before coming to Heathens Hollow, though nobody knows exactly what.

Some say military. Some say mob. I never cared enough to find out.

Now I wish I had.

The fishermen disperse, heading out the door with purpose. Viktor follows them, pausing at the threshold to look back at me. Our eyes lock across the room, and for a second, I see something that makes my blood run cold. He doesn’t believe me.

The door closes behind him, and I exhale slowly. I need to warn Briar. If Viktor connects her to Liam’s disappearance...

“So,” Mari says, reappearing from the back room. “What was that about?”

“Liam’s missing.” I keep my voice neutral. “Viktor’s worried.”

She snorts. “Liam’s probably face-down in some tourist’s bed. Or in some ditch drunk. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“You okay? You look pale.”

“Fine,” I lie. “Just tired and hungover.”

The door swings open again, and my heart stops before I realize it’s only Locke Hartwell, one of The Vault’s owners. He strides in like he owns the place—which, technically, he does—dressed in his usual all-black designer suit, silver rings glinting on his fingers.

“Bishop,” he says, nodding at me. “Interesting night ahead.”

“How so?”

He leans against the bar, lowering his voice. “Viktor’s offering ten thousand to anyone with information about his brother. Cash. No questions asked.”

Fuck.

“That’ll bring out every liar and con artist on the island.” I try to sound casual.

“Exactly.” Locke smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Which means we’ll be busy tonight. People will be coming in to gossip, hoping to overhear something worth ten grand. I need you on your game.”

“Always am.”

Locke glances around the bar, then leans in closer. “Also, the partners had a meeting this morning. We’re hosting another Hunt on the summer equinox.”

I keep my face neutral even as my stomach drops. “Bit early in the season, isn’t it? Thought you guys usually waited until the Harvest Moon.”

“We’re making an exception.” His fingers tap against the polished wood. “Demand’s high this year. Lots of new money from Seattle wanting to experience island traditions.”

“Right. Traditions.” I reach for another glass to polish. “You need me to handle prep?”

“Yes. Same as usual—medical screenings, contracts, security protocols. And we’re adding something new this time.” Locke’s voice drops even lower. “Soren wants to extend invitations to non-members. People who’ve expressed interest in joining The Vault.”

“Non-members?” I can’t keep the edge from my question. “That’s not how The Hunt works.”

“It’s how it works now.” His tone makes it clear this isn’t up for debate. “We’re recruiting. Growing our membership.”

“These ‘outsiders’ understand the rules? The boundaries?”

“That’s your job.” Locke straightens up. “Make sure they do. We need this to go smoothly. No incidents. No complications.”

I nod, mind already running through the implications. The Hunt. Hunters and prey running all over the island. Including abandoned properties. Including the Waters estate. Including the maze where we just buried a body.

Fuck .

“Good.” He straightens his already perfect tie. “And Bishop? Viktor’s a valued member of our security team. If you hear anything, you bring it directly to me. Understood?”

The threat is subtle but clear. The Vault protects its own.

“Understood.”

As Locke walks away, I grab my phone and send another text to Damiano: VIKTOR OFFERING 10K FOR INFO ON LIAM.

His reply is immediate: SHIT .

Yeah. That about sums it up.

And then I add: THE HUNT IS HAPPENING EARLY THIS YEAR. SUMMER EQUINOX. PEOPLE WILL BE ALL OVER THE PROPERTY. THE MAZE.

Three dots appear, then: SHIT. NEED TO SECURE IT BETTER.

I type quickly: CAN YOU? HUNTERS DON’T CARE ABOUT TRESPASSING.

His response takes longer this time: HOW DO WE KEEP THEM AWAY FROM THE GRAVE?

I close my eyes briefly. Fuck: NEED A PLAN. MEET TONIGHT AFTER MY SHIFT. WARN brIAR.

I glance at the clock—seven more hours of my shift. Seven hours of pretending I don’t know exactly where Liam Bastian is. Seven hours of watching people speculate, watching Viktor question everyone who walks through that door, watching this whole situation spiral further out of control.

I pour myself another shot and down it quickly. The liquor burns all the way down, but it’s not enough to wash away the taste of grave dirt that seems permanently stuck in the back of my throat.

The door opens again, bringing a group of loud weekenders from Seattle. Friday night crowd starting to trickle in. I plaster on my professional bartender face and get back to work. One drink at a time. One hour at a time. Just get through tonight.

But as I mix an overpriced Manhattan for some tech bro, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re already screwed. Money talks on this island. Ten thousand dollars is more than most locals see in six months. Someone will talk, whether they know something or not.

And Viktor won’t stop until he finds his brother.

Or what’s left of him.