Page 17 of Locked in Wonderland

A man entered behind her.

“Her husband, Henry Hart.”

At first glance, Henry looked much older than Queenie, but on second inspection, I realized Queenie was one of those women who held back time with surgery, skilfully applied makeup, and sheer force of will.

Henry was expensively dressed too, his pin-striped suit less flashy but bearing that subtle sheen that only really good fabric could. Thick brows and thin lips gave him a rugged sort of attractiveness. Broad shoulders and a trim waist said he might be nearing his fifties, but that he still took good care of himself. Either that or the same plastic surgeon that had gone to town on Queenie had offered a two for one deal on liposuction.

Another much younger man trailed in their wake.

“Kellan Hart,” Omar continued, his voice dropping even lower. “Their spoiled son. Used to snapping his fingers and getting whatever he wants.”

Kellan looked like a blend of both parents. He had Queenie’s blond hair—cropped short instead of styled into curls—but Henry’s broader, more muscular frame. Compared to his mum and dad, he looked underdressed in his open-necked white shirt, no tie, and black trousers. He stared around the club with visible boredom, his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked like your typical rich playboy.

He had cruel lips.

The thought arrived uninvited, and once it was there, I couldn’t shake it. I’d never described someone that way before, but it fit. Kellan Hart looked like the type of man who enjoyed hurting things simply because he could. The boy who’d pulled wings off butterflies. The teenager who’d laughed too loudly at someone tripping up.

“And that’s”—my lips formed the name at the same time as Omar completed his sentence―“Nico.”

The man from the mainland strolled in behind the Harts. The one who’d warned me not to come to Wonderland. The slight distance between him and the family suggested he wasn’t quite one of them, but that he was close. Much closer than the three men bringing up the rear, who moved with the calm coordination of people who’d done terrible things together often enough that they no longer gave them a second thought.

“Bodyguards,” Omar said unnecessarily. “Three more outside.”

“Six bodyguards,” I whispered. “Isn’t that overkill?”

Omar shrugged. “Two each.”

“Doesn’t Nico get one?” My attention had already drifted back to him. He wore a different suit than before, this one charcoal gray. It was just as perfectly tailored to his lean frame.

Omar laughed quietly. “Nico doesn’t need one. He can handle himself.”

I had absolutely no idea what that meant. “Who is he?”

Omar hesitated long enough for me to notice, frowning in a way that suggested I’d asked something complicated. “Adopted son,” he said finally. “Kind of. Also Henry’s right-hand man.”

“Those sound like two very different things.”

Another shrug. Either he couldn’t explain it, or he didn’t want to.

“Well,” Queenie announced loudly. “Is everyone having fun tonight?”

No one answered.

Most people stared stubbornly at the floor. I’d never seen an entire room cowed so completely by one person before. It was both fascinating and deeply unsettling.

Queenie tossed her head, perfect blonde curls bouncing into place as if even gravity obeyed her. She pouted. “No one’s speaking to me, Henry. Have I wandered into a mime convention?”

“They’re probably struck dumb by your beauty, my angel,” Henry replied smoothly.

Not rolling my eyes took an immense amount of effort. As if sensing it, Omar chuckled.

“You should ask them again,” Henry suggested.

Queenie smiled brightly, not a single crease appearing on her face. All hail Botox. “Are we having an enjoyable night?”

This time, she got a chorus of replies and enthusiastic nods. She drifted through the crowd until she stopped beside a young woman who couldn’t have been any older than twenty. The woman didn’t step back, but her eyes said she desperately wanted to. Queenie tapped one scarlet nail against the woman’s handbag.

“I like this,” she said. “Give it to me.”