Page 61 of His Last Will

“On it.”

“Find her or I kill you.” I end the call and dial Ashton’s number. He picks up after several rings. The sound of the party can still be heard going on around him. “Ari’s been taken from the parking lot outside the venue. I’ve got Shade on it, but I need you to get your ass out of that clown show and work some magic. Meet me at the warehouse.” I can hear him leaving before I hang up.

“Don’t worry, little venom. Your reaper is coming for you.”

And people better be prepared to die.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

ARI

Asearing pain in my head wakes me up, and my body jolts awake but doesn’t move. I try to open my eyes, but the light almost burns my retinas, so I close them again before taking stock of my situation. The quick look I got showed something similar to The Order’s warehouse but more run-down. A little less five-star murder hospital and a lot more shack of horrors. My wrists are tied to a metal chair, the rope digging into my skin as I try to test out my mobility.

With little to no movement available, I can really only flex my fingers, which is useless if I can’t reach any of my weapons. Note to self: thigh strap knife is a fucking wasted accessory in a floor-length gown.

Okay, I will just have to wait.

I’m not sure how long I sit under the harsh lighting in what appears to be an empty warehouse, but by the time the steel door opens, I can at least keep my eyes open. Three guards walk in, followed by a man I would know anywhere. Not because I have been personally acquainted with him, but because if The Order had a true rival, it was this sick bastard himself. Jameson Cartwright.

The Cartwrights probably hold just as much power as The Order. Public perception painted them as real estate moguls with their main investments being their casinos, but what most people don’t know is that their true investments aren’t something you could get from a bank. These investments included high-end art, rare artifacts, and precious stones. And while some of their transactions were legal, there was a reason their properties were locked up tighter than a bank vault. Their properties were their own private museums.

The Cartwrights were conmen and women willing to play and fight dirty to get what they wanted. Blackmail was their modus operandi, and they thrived on other people’s suffering if it meant they would win and take what they want.

Looking up from his phone, Jameson finally addresses me as he takes a knee in front of me, his voice cutting against my skin like sandpaper. “Don’t worry, little one—” I spit at him for the use of the nickname, the wad landing on his cheek just under his eye. “I’ve texted your savior to come get you. He’s on his way now.” Wiping his face, he puts a few steps between us before leveling with me again.

My gut sinks. Aiden. He’s on his way here. There doesn’t even appear to be a large number of men on the property, but I haven’t seen the outside. For all I know, a couple hundred guards surround the building. The only small reprieve is knowing that he would bring an army with him, not for his sake—the crazy bastard—but for mine.

“The last time I checked, the Araneaes didn’t play with the Cartwrights. Has something changed?”

Jameson has a smug smile on his face, like he knows something I don’t. “The Order took something of mine, and I intend to make them pay.”

This was a trap.

“You do know that Aiden will destroy you, yes?”

He lifts his brow. “You think I texted Aiden?”

A loud slam echoes across the warehouse as the metal door is slammed open. And strolling in without a care in the world is Anthony fucking Araneae.

“You texted Anthony?!” I look at Jameson, my eyes wild, my confusion clear. “I don’t understand…”

The smile that takes over his face is evil incarnate. “You’re in for a real show, little one.”

But the closer Anthony gets to us, the more unsure I am about who has the upper hand. Because Anthony’s entire aura would make you think he was winning despite the facts.

“Ahh, Jameson. To what do I owe the unholy pleasure of being in your presence?”

Jameson’s jaw almost drops. I can sense it, but he keeps it together, straightening his tie and fixing Anthony with a blank stare. “Cut the shit, Araneae. You took something that was mine, and I am here to make you pay.”

Anthony shrugs his shoulders. “So you know about her? How did you find out?”

Jameson almost looks offended by the accusation that someone could pull one over on him. “I finally found footage of the night you killed Maria.”

If possible, Anthony’s smirk grows wider than his face.

What. in. the. actual. fuck. is. going. on?