She must’ve sounded convincing, because he squeezed her hand comfortingly, and Enne felt weary with nausea. “She doesn’t know the talent she’s missing. But you wouldn’t want to work here, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Augustines are the cruelest family in the North Side,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. They were, after all, surrounded by Vianca’s patrons. “Their blood talent is omertas, an unbreakable oath. Like a swear of fealty and silence. Vianca is no better than a glorified street lord.”
Unbreakable?The word echoed in her mind, unraveling her, shattering her.
It couldn’t be true.
Before his words could fully sink in, she pushed them away. She had a job to finish.
She and Sedric reached the ticket booth. “Do you mind holding this for a moment, Emma?” Sedric handed her his drink and rummaged through his coat pockets, then turned to talk to the ticket salesman.
Enne hardly believed her luck. This was her chance. She turned around and quickly slipped the vial from her pocket.
She didn’t hesitate. She dumped the poison into Sedric’s glass.
It was so easy. She’d done it, just like that.
Returning the vial to where it was before, she waited for Sedric to finish purchasing the tickets. Her heart beat faster with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.
When he finished, brandishing two blue Admit Ones, Sedric plucked his wineglass out of Enne’s hand. “To the show,” he said, leading her in with his arm around her waist.
The theater was dark. A blue curtain draped over the stage, and a single spotlight shone at its center. There must have been over five hundred audience members already present, not counting the few in balconies along the walls. They took their seats in one of the side rows by the front—the tickets, she realized, must have been quite expensive. The piano tapped out a light, staccato tune, and the audience quieted in anticipation. Gradually, the spotlight faded.
Sedric took a sip. When he didn’t gag or convulse or immediately vomit, Enne realized the poison might not take effect for a while. She also realized that she didn’t feel even a twinge of guilt. She didn’t care—he was a contemptible man.
The curtains rose.
Sedric Torren placed his hand on her knee and smiled triumphantly, but Enne had already won.
ENNE
When Enne returned to her apartment two hours after pouring the poison into Sedric’s glass, the first thing she did was take a shower. She smelled of Sedric’s vomit. However, more nauseating than that, she felt filthy with this city, with what she’d done and how little she cared.
Unbreakable, Sedric had called the omerta, but she refused to believe it. She couldn’t be trapped within Vianca’s grasp forever.
Enne turned the water temperature up to steaming, but she didn’t feel clean. She could still feel the heat of Sedric’s gaze and the touch of his hand against her thigh.
She had no other clothes to change into after bathing, so she put her slip back on, and over it, the robe she found in the bathroom closet, embroidered with St. Morse’s logo. Then she returned to the page she’d bookmarked in her guidebook.
What if Vianca died? Would the omerta break then? Enne intended to survive here, so she needed to learn more about Vianca, about New Reynes.
She continued reading the guidebook’s chapter about the city’s organized crime. The topic shifted from the Augustine and Torren casino Families to the street gangs. Although the Families had control of the narcotics trade, the street gangs managed everything else. They’d divided the North Side into territories and turned crimes into monopolies. She followed along, occasionally referring to her guidebook’s map.
Once upon a time, there had been dozens of gangs. But now there were three.
The Scarhands. They were the largest gang, run by the slimy Eight Fingers, Reymond Kitamura, who Enne—despite all of her guidebook’s warnings—had managed to meet during her first morning in the City of Sin. Not only did the Scarhands provide counterfeits and forgery services to the city, but they also operated the weapons trade. Their territory spanned throughout the Factory District. You could spot a member by the scars that crisscrossed their palms and wrists.
The Doves were the assassins, their territory known as the Deadman District. They dyed their hair white to match their lord, Ivory, who was credited with over sixty-three murders. No one had seen her face and lived. Perhaps she was so good that no one had ever seen her face at all.
Last were the Irons. The gang of gamblers and cheats who called themselves consultants, and who occupied Olde Town and the Casino District like an infestation. They dealt in cards, ambition and opportunity. Anything you could do, they could do better. They were the smallest gang, with the smallest paragraph in the guidebook. Levi wasn’t even mentioned at all.
Someone knocked on her door.
Enne’s stomach dropped, half expecting Vianca’s woman again. She walked to the door and cracked it open, only to find it was Levi.
“’Lo,” he said. He looked pale.
