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The three men escorting me are solemn and serious. Our mingled breaths blend to become a sedate liturgical hymn, stealing the pipe organ’s thunder.
There’s a half-moon table with Ivy, Wells, and three other men—KORT—and guards behind them.
Ivy glances up beneath her lashes, extending a brief dip of her chin in solidarity.
If you’re going nowhere, I’m coming with you.
Where the hell have we gone, bestie?
Her lips tip up, reading me perfectly—her uncanny gift. And as Wells ping-pongs his gaze between us, he appears to be privy to our silent conversation as well, offering me a covert wink. All eyes are on me, so I keep my face vacant, but I don’t need to return Wells’s gesture for him to know what he means to me.
Wells and I seem to understand each other. That night with him in the library a few months back has held increasing meaning for me as time has passed. He approached me on behalf of his wife, but he understood my struggles and sought to mend them because of who he is. Even when Liam and I were at odds, he championed me. And I will forever treasure the apology he issued after they rescued Ivy and me from the Skulls. He’s every bit deserving of the leadership role the other four afford him.
Liam ushers me to a chair that faces the table, removes my coat, and gently nudges me to sit. He occupies the seat beside me while Ty retreats to stand behind Ivy, and Gage assumes his post behind me.
“Good evening, Celeste,” a pleasant-looking gentleman in his mid-sixties says in greeting. “I’m Jared Austen, leader of The Order. Your father is a valued associate of our organization. Welcome to KORT. As a claimed member of one of our top-tier leaders, Liam Graves, who is second-in-command for the Cabrini camp, your loyalty needed to be tested. Do you understand what that means?”
With a confidence that is utterly fabricated, I respond, “I believe so, Mr. Austen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Pleasure is a stretch, but this is how you play the society game. It doesn’t matter if it’s a tea party or an underground cabal gathering, etiquette is always appreciated.
Never let them see.
He smiles—the kind of sweet smile my grandfather would flash if he heard me respond competently at a political function. “I assume Liam briefed you on your way in that the FBI incident was simply your loyalty test. Your parents are in no danger at present.”
“Yes, sir. He did. Thank you.”
“Due to the friction between Liam and your father,” he continues, “we engineered a test that would endanger them both to evaluate your approach. I have to say, I was concerned on your behalf.”
He pauses there, and my mother’s cryptic counsel about them burying me if I wavered crops up into my brain, wrenching my insides.
Vomit rushes up my esophagus, all the way into my mouth, but I choke it back. It reminds me of the warehouse full of dead bodies and being covered with the flesh and bone of that creep.
A reeking corpse.
Would KORT have killed me if I’d crumbled and given the FBI something? If I’d have chosen either side? Of course they would have. And even though I never would have squealed, it still shackles me like a straitjacket. They’ll always be hovering.
Liam brushes his thumb back and forth on the underside of my palm, gathering the beads of sweat as Jared expounds his concern.
“It was a tough spot for anyone to be in—torn between two beloved relationships—but you succeeded in securing your parents’ release, as well as encouraging them to drop the investigation against the Cabrini crew. And most importantly, you pulled it off without divulging anything regarding KORT or the organizations under us.”
“I’d argue it was sheer luck.” A grumpy old guy swings his hand through the air and turns his attention to Jared. “The girl reads through a book her brother left her days before she happens to be interrogated by one of the investigators mentioned in it, and we’re impressed. Who couldn’t do that? We have no way of knowing if she would’ve folded without a handy book of trumped-up corruption.”
Trumped-up is an odd assessment to assign the corruption detailed in that book, seeing as how the mere mention of it startled Colehorn even though he knew I wouldn’t use it since the entire investigation was fraudulent. And still, it shook him.
Ivy’s eyes flutter in annoyance. The grump must be Balzano. She’s used his name as a slur quite a few times, and Liam mentioned he was a dick.
Interesting.
I didn’t soak in much about what was written regarding the Noires before I caught sight of my father’s name, but I’d bet my life that the name Balzano was peppered throughout the detailing. Sounds like he suspects he’s in that book and doesn’t want anyone to believe it’s factual.
“Colehorn didn’t attest to what she held over him. He’s as slimy and underhanded as they come. For all we know, he was—”
“We actually know conclusively, Johnny,” Wells says smoothly, jaw tight and eyes narrowed in warning at Balzano. “We know because Celeste shrewdly dropped Vargas’s name, and then sent that text to our contact, which was immediately forwarded to all of you. That was hours before Colehorn reported that she’d out maneuvered him, hours before Frank and Ava’s release.”
Balzano points a chastising finger. “You don’t get to weigh in here, Wells. They’re in your damn camp.”
“Okay,” Ivy sings out in her sugary, mocking tone. “I’ll object to your argument due to the text she sent hours before she blackmailed the agent.”
