Those days had shaped us, sharpened us into the kind of men who didn’t flinch at a fight, but they hadn’t prepared me for the kind of warfare that involved crystal flutes and forced smiles. I’d rather take a bullet than a canapé, but Marcus had roped me into this, and Danes didn’t back out of promises, even the stupid ones.
Six p.m. rolled around like a punch I should’ve seen coming. No call from Marcus, no last-minute save.
I dragged myself back to Dominion Hall. My suite was too quiet, the air heavy with the scent of leather and polished wood. The tux lay across the bed, black and crisp, a corpse of formality I had no choice but to resurrect. The mask sat beside it, its green hue daring me to put it on.
I showered slow, letting the hot water scald away the day’s resistance, each drop a reminder that I was about to play a part I despised. Shaving was a chore, the razor scraping my jaw like it was punishing me for agreeing to this.
By 6:45, I was suited up—black tux, white shirt, cufflinks that cost more than my first truck. The mask felt heavy in my hand, a piece of my past I wasn’t sure I wanted to carry tonight. I looked like a man who belonged at a masquerade, but I felt like a soldier walking into a trap.
My phone buzzed, a video call from Marcus. I propped it on the dresser and answered, his face filling the screen with that thirteen-year-old grin he never grew out of, the one that meant he was about to give me shit.
“Well, damn, little brother,” he drawled, leaning back in some hotel room with a view I didn’t care to place. “You clean up nicer than I expected. Thought you’d show up in camo and a bad attitude.”
“Fuck you,” I said, tugging at my tie like it was strangling me. “This is your fault, asshole.”
He laughed, loud and unapologetic, the sound bouncing off the walls of my too-quiet room.
“You look like James Bond’s pissed-off cousin. Loosen up, Charlie. It’s a party, not a firing squad.”
“It’s a circus,” I shot back, “and I’m the trained bear. You owe me for this, Marcus. Big.”
“Trained’s generous,” he said, smirking. “Just don’t deck anyone in the first hour. After that, I’ll give you one free swing.”
“Real generous,” I muttered, checking my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a stranger—polished, dangerous, but still me under the mask. “If I have to hear one more prick talk about his portfolio, I’m setting the place on fire.”
“Noted.” He leaned closer, eyes glinting with that mix of mischief and command he’d always had. “Seriously, though—behave. Flash those dimples, charm the ladies, and keep your eyes peeled for anything that smells like Department 77. Lydia Langford’s got ties that make my skin crawl.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’ll play nice. But you’re buying me a bottle of the good stuff when this is over.”
“Deal,” he said, grinning wider. “Oh, and Atlas is on call if you need to bolt. Ready to whisk you away like the diva you are.”
I snorted. “Tell Atlas to keep his superhero cape on. I’ll survive.”
“Doubtful,” Marcus said, his voice dripping with mock pity. “You’re gonna trip over your own ego and cry to me later.”
“Keep talking, and I’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill for this tux,” I said, pointing at the screen.
He laughed again, then raised a finger like he’d just remembered something. “One last thing—don’t fuck the hostess. Lydia’s trouble, and not the fun kind.”
I flipped him the bird. “Go to hell.”
“Love you, too,” he said, and the call ended, his laughter lingering.
I stared at the blank screen, shaking my head.
Brothers. Couldn’t live with them, couldn’t bury them in the marsh without someone noticing.
I grabbed the mask, slipped it under my arm, and headed downstairs. Driving myself felt too normal, too grounded for the shitshow I was walking into. If I had to play this game, I’d do it my way. I called the garage, ready to tell them to prep the Rolls-Royce—might as well show up fancy—but then a better idea hit.
“Get the chopper ready,” I told the staff. “I’m going in style.”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply, no hesitation. “ETA fifteen minutes.”
I smirked. A helicopter. Fuck it. If I was going to be miserable, I’d make an entrance that’d shut up the gossip for a hot minute. Danes didn’t do subtle, and tonight, I was leaning all the way in.
The chopper ride was quick, Charleston’s skyline blurring below in a haze of lights and marsh. I knocked back two shots of whiskey from the onboard bar, the burn settling my nerves, warming my blood. The mask was on now, snug against my face, its olive drab green blending with the shadows.
By the time we touched down on the Langford estate’s sprawling lawn, it was nearly eight—late enough to make a statement, early enough to avoid a full-blown scene.
