Page 92 of The Cruelest Chaos

I think about his sandy blonde hair, the dimples that flashed in his face when he grinned up at me or Brooklin.

I think about Brooklin, too. About Jeremiah Rain and his hands all over Ella.Mine.

But she’s not mine. She’ll never be mine.

Amor fati.A favorite of the 6; love of fate. Another way to say that no matter how bad life fucks you, it’s all for the greater good.

My father took that one to the extreme after we buried Malachi. He never spoke of him again. Neither did my mother, even though I know it tore her up. I know, because for years, she spent nearly every waking moment locked away in her study, doing God knows what. If I tried to talk about Malachi, or what happened after I pushed him, or the nanny, my father would fly into a rage.

Malachi doesn’t exist,he’d say.Malachi is gone.

Factum fieri infectum non potest.It is impossible for a deed to be undone.

And I’d made it that way. I’d killed him.

Fuck that. Fuck them. Fuck all of this shit.

The doorbell rings, startling me.

I rub my eyes, glance at the clock on the microwave in the kitchen. It’s nine at night, and I don’t want to move. I’m still wearing the t-shirt and shorts I was when I came downstairs to find Ella had fucked up my whole life.

Who am I kidding? My life has been fucked since the moment I was a born an Astor.

I force myself up as the doorbell rings again, and I hope it isn’t someone I want to kill: Lucifer, Jeremiah, maybe even Ella herself.

Please don’t be them.

But it isn’t. I see a slight figure through the etched glass as I flick on the light and I know who it is, and my stomach coils tighter.

What does she fucking want?

I open the door before I can think too much about it. Maybe she brought dinner because she remembered she has two sons and one is still alive.

But she’s got nothing in her hands as she forces a smile, then holds out her arms for a hug as she steps inside.

I let her hold me, smelling her overly sweet perfume, her hairspray.

“Hello, Mavy,” Elizabeth Astor says softly against my shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”

I offerher wine from the wine rack in the hall, and we split a bottle at the dining room table, sitting across from one another like we’re at a formal dinner even though I don’t have anything made. There’re sugar cookies Ella made for me last night, before everything went to hell, but I feel strangely protective over those fucking cookies and I don’t offer my mother one.

“Why are you really here?” I ask her as I tip back my wine glass, swallowing it all, her hazel eyes watching me carefully.

She plays with the stem of her own half-full glass, her red, manicured nails clicking against the side of the glass. She has on red lipstick, her shoulder-length blonde hair swept away from her face.

My mom has always been thin, but her face reminds me of Sid’s in the way that it’s so gaunt. She’s still dressed like a senator’s wife, with a red sweater that has gold buttons. A thin gold necklace with a rose on it. Her skin is bright, face unwrinkled, as is tradition with the 6: Botox, filler and implants should really be part of the 6’s virtues.

“Things haven’t been going well for your father, you know.”

I almost choke on my wine as I set my glass back down. “Excuse me?”

She sighs, swirls her wine around but doesn’t drink it. Her eyes linger on it before they finally meet mine. “There was a…mistake, involving a client.” She doesn’t stumble over the words, but she chooses them very, very carefully. Because I’m not supposed to know about this. She licks her lips, leans back in her chair. “People were killed that weren’t supposed to be.”

I actually laugh out loud at that, running my hand over my mouth. Of course they were. And of course the 6 would refer to wrongful murders asmistakes.

Her eyes narrow on me. “Don’t act so self-righteous, Maverick,” she snaps. “You bludgeoned Pammie Malikov to deathwith a hammer.”

I smile at that and she looks disgusted. “She had it coming.”