Page 17 of The Revenge
“My intention might have been to make your life miserable, but if you were to die, it would be by your own hand. Declan Salaway was an idiot. The chances of him actually orchestrating this are not impossible, but it’s more likely that hewas carrying out specific instructions. My guess is he was being blackmailed.”
My instinct is to react to the first part of what he just admitted, but I force myself to focus on the second part, and the flutter of conversation that suddenly returns to my mind. “When Declan was trying to kill me, and I asked him why, he said it was my life or theirs. Did you arrange for someone to hurt his family?”
Syn releases an irritated sigh. “Victoria, for the last time, I was not behind Salaway’s order to murder you.”
“Then who was?”
Briefly, Syn glances at Royal and then Gemini before he returns his attention to me. “Preston du Pont.”
“Preston du Pont?” I wrinkle my nose as I try to remember where I’ve heard that name before. “Wait. You mean the former Elite President? The guy at your birthday party?”
Syn nods.
Preston’s portrait hangs on the wall in the hallway of Denali House, along with portraits of all the former Elite presidents. My last interaction with him was at Syn’s birthday party, where I’m almost certain he thought I was the help, because he sent me to get him a drink.
“Why would he want me dead?”
“What would you do if someone killed your best friend?”
Penny’s face flashes into my mind. “Don’t—”
“Relax.” Syn waves his hand dismissively. “I wasn’t threatening Bergmann. But your reaction speaks volumes. I was with du Pont when I was given instructions to make sure you left James Keyingham University. He used my birthday party as an excuse to ensure I had followed orders, and when he saw you were still here, he took matters into his own hands.”
At this point, that doesn’t seem the craziest of motives. “The problem is he didn’t take matters into his own hands. He used Declan’s. Do you think Preston has—”
“Yes,” Syn says, simply. “I don’t think you realize how much you can do when you have as much money and reach as someone like us.”
“I am fully aware of the fact that even when my family had money, we barely scraped what your family is worth. You don’t need to keep telling me that,” I say, dryly. “But what you’re suggesting is that somehow, Preston was able to get Declan desperate enough to try to kill me. Not just threaten his family, but somehow, make him believe that something horrible would happen to them if he didn’t. You keep pointing out wealth and standing, but how is someone like Preston du Pont going to know someone dangerous enough to help him? Because there’s no way he’d be able to pull that off by himself.”
“One thousand percent accurate,” Gemini tells me, a little too gleefully. “But you need to switch out whatever gangs and lowlifes you’re thinking of, and replace them with mercenaries.”
I didn’t know Preston, but this was like asking me to imagine any of these three guys associating with mercenaries. Unless… “You mean the XXXVII.” I lean forward, clutching the mug of now cold water with both hands. “The secret society?”
Syn’s eyebrows dart upwards, then draw in as he turns to look at Gemini. “You told her?”
Gemini shrugs. “Chill. She saw the tattoo and asked about it.”
“Seriously?” Syn asks, as though he’s surprised at something Gemini has done.
“I know, right?” Gemini asks, with more outrage than is necessary. “It’s completely unbelievable that anyone’s attention can be on some small tattoo and not the magnificence of mymanhood. I mean, look at it.” He reaches down and starts to unfasten his pants.
“Gemini, there’s not a single person in this room who wants to see your dick right now,” Syn snaps, reaching down, and picks the cushion up off the armchair to launch it at Gemini.
“I’d say it’s a fifty-fifty split,” Gemini informs him as he bats the cushion away. When I look at him and shake my head, he pouts. “Your loss.”
“All he told me was that it meant you were part of a society—a secret society,” I tell him before Gemini derails the conversation again, and Syn decides to stop speaking. “Is the XXXVII a group of mercenaries? Are you?”
“The XXXVII are not mercenaries, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have access to a wide array of resources. Whatever you think you know about power and politics, and who is running this country, forget about it.” Syn moves around to the front of the armchair and sits down.
I shrug. “Despite what you think, I’m not stupid. I know there are corporations and industries essentially bribing politicians and holding the country to ransom. Pharma, oil and the NRA have more power than anyone.”
“If I thought you stupid, it’s no more than the average American. Those industries have the power because they’ve been granted it. They’re a visible face—a thing to blame. A scapegoat. A shield. Every vote, every outcome, every piece of policy passed or overturned has been decided months, if not years, in advance. Not by these industries, or even by the president, but by a small group of people controlling the strings. The XXXVII.”
I’m usually down for a good conspiracy theory, but this is insane. Syn’s so serious and so calm, that I honestly thinkhebelieves this to be the truth.
“Let’s say I believe you, and that the entire US government is nothing more than a puppet,” I tell him, trying to keep thecomplete skepticism from my tone. “What the hell did I do? I’m a nobody. I was a nobody before, and then we losteverything,and now, I’m whatever’s less than a nobody. You wanting to kill me makes sense. Someone more important than the president—if that really is a thing—makes none. It’s just a lame ass excuse.”
There’s no movement from Syn, other than his index finger gently tapping the back of the chair, as he watches me. “I never wanted to kill you.”
