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CHAPTER 10
Scarlett
The abandoned farm might have become my personal purgatory, but all I have to do is remind myself of the high-rise and I find myself if not enjoying the solitude and boredom, at least not resenting it. Waking and sleeping are interrupted only by Lyssa’s mostly-daily visits and relentless training. I spend hour after hour drilling forms and combat sequences, pushing my body to its limits in a bid to keep my mind quiet. Because I hate thinking about the high-rise any more than I have to—and especially Ariadne’s room, that strange lair that’s burrowed into my brain.
Running a palm over my damp brow now, I pause in my workout to catch my breath. I wander over to a rough tabletop where I’ve set out the shreds I took from Ariadne’s room. I’ve been piecing them back together as much as I can, but it became obvious pretty quickly that there are a lot of missing parts. But one sheet in particular had enough pieces for me to decipher some of it this morning when I realized what I was looking at: a list of names. Hadria Imperioli’s name is there, though only her first name and initial.
But it’s the entry directly beneath hers that makes me wonder. Juno B it reads before it cuts off, but it’s clearly referring to the head of New York’s Bianchi Family. I recognize a Don Colombo, too, head of a Vegas Family—but there are many other names, names I assume that Lyssa might recognize even if I don’t. Because I’m willing to bet that all of them are members of the criminal elite, the nation’s most influential power brokers in the underworld economy.
But…why?
Why did Ariadne secrete these shredded pages away under her bed? And if she took it from Grandmother, that only makes me ask the next question—why did Grandmother have this list? Are they contacts? Potential clients?
Unlikely, with Hades on the list.
That means it’s more likely to be a hit list. Targets to eliminate.
The sick feeling I’ve been battling ever since our infiltration of the high-rise roils up again in a violent surge. If Grandmother is indeed gunning for the heads of virtually every major criminal organization across the nation, that could spark an all-out underworld war.
And even though my only aim is vengeance, I still worry about the wider impacts of a war like that. It’s maddening, this barbed tangle of conflict writhing within me whenever I contemplate Lyssa and the Syndicate. They’ve become…I don’t know what.
Symbols, maybe, of a life I might have had.
What would my existence be like if I’d never stumbled into Grandmother’s influence? If my path had intersected Lyssa’s first, rather than Grandmother’s?
A rumble in the quiet night outside makes me turn, the familiar snarl of a motorbike coming closer and closer. Moving to the weather-beaten doors, I open the door just as Lyssa’s sleek black bike comes down the dirt drive, its powerful engine purring dangerously and then cutting off.
She swings off the seat with that lithe grace I can’t help but admire, pulling off her helmet to shake out her messy blonde hair.
Beneath the moonlight, in her leathers—she’s breathtaking.
And utterly terrifying.
And I’m hopelessly enthralled by her despite myself.
I retreat from the doors to stand in the middle of the barn, and that’s how she finds me when she pushes in, blinking in the low light of the electric lamp I keep to one side in the barn.
She stops, looking at me as I stare back at her.
“You want to train or just gawp all night?” She has the usual gym bag slung over one shoulder that she swings around with a shrug to show me when I don’t reply. “Or do you want to eat first?”
She goes over to the side to put the bag down and peels off her leather jacket. Despite my best efforts, I can’t tear my eyes from the rippling contours of muscle along her arms and shoulders, straining the thin cotton of her tank top.
Reining my straying thoughts back in by sheer force of will, I narrow my eyes in a faint glower. “So those are my only choices? Eat or train while we twiddle our thumbs waiting for Grandmother to resurface?”
“Unless you’d prefer sitting on your ass doing nothing productive, yeah.”
“That’s not what I—” I huff an exasperated breath. “You know what? Training works for me.”
A slow, decidedly wolfish smile tugs at Lyssa’s lips as she launches into a series of stretches. “That’s what I thought.”
I wordlessly fall into my ready stance, steadying my nerves. My limbs remember the motions with practiced ease as we flow into the first sequence of grapples and counters.
For several long minutes, the rhythmic grunts and slaps of skin on skin are the only sounds as we spar, bodies weaving in an intricate dancelike struggle. My focus sharpens, zoning in solely on Lyssa’s feints and shifts.
But when she finally manages to sweep my legs out from under me, that comfortable serenity shatters. I hit the ground with a hard thump, the air punched from my lungs.
“Again,” Lyssa says, extending a hand to help me up. Scowling, I accept the assistance, already whirling into a defensive position.
