"Eat your peas, Maeve."
I finish my meal in silence, the weight of the compound pressing in on me. Silas is out there. The leak is in here. And the woman who called me a failure is locked in the East Wing, probably plotting my downfall with a butter knife.
I’m the Don. I run the Syndicate. I own the city.
But as I look at the empty chair where Atara should be sitting, I realize that for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m in control.
I feel like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And I have a feeling that when it does, it’s going to be wearing a very expensive heel.
9
Atara
If there’s one thing a degree in Finance teaches you, it’s that every system has a leak. Every budget has a hidden fee, and with that, I know that every fortress has a service entrance.
I am currently sitting in a chair staring at a mountain range that looks like a matte painting from a western movie. I have spent the last forty-eight hours being a "guest."
In my world, a guest is someone you offer a coaster to. In Lorcan’s world, a guest is someone you lock in the East Wing with a guard named Miller who has the personality of a brick wall and a visible holster under his blazer.
I stand up and smooth out the silk trousers I found in the walk-in closet. The clothes in here are... insane. Cashmere, silk, tailored linen. Everything is in my size, which is a level of creepy-meticulous I don’t want to think about.
I walk to the door and pull. Locked. Again.
I knock. Twice. Hard.
The small viewing slit slides open. Miller’s eyes peer in.
"Miller, hi. Good morning," I say, trying to channel a smile even though I want to scream. "I’ve counted the floor tiles. There are four hundred and twelve. I’ve read the one book on the nightstand about desert flora. Did you know the Saguaro cactus can live for two hundred years? Fascinating stuff. Can I go for a walk now?"
"No," Miller says. His voice sounds like it hasn't been used since the Clinton administration.
"A light jog? A brisk crawl toward the front gate?"
"The boss said you stay in the wing."
"The boss also thinks growling and grunting is a valid form of conflict resolution, so his judgment is clearly compromised," I snap, crossing my arms. "I need a laptop. I have things to check. My bank account, my email, the status of my succulent, Sir Photos-a-Lot."
"No internet access."
"Fine. A phone? A simple, low-tech device that connects me to the outside world? I’ll even take a carrier pigeon at this point."
Miller slides a small, black burner phone through the slot. It’s a brick. A relic from 2005.
"No international calls," he grunts. "Pre-programmed numbers only. Security, Echo, and the kitchen."
"Wow. My social life is really peaking," I mutter, catching the phone. "Thanks, Miller. You’re a peach."
The slit slams shut, and I glare at it.
I stalk back to the bed and toss the phone onto the duvet. I have no internet. No way to call Tania. No way to tell the world that Atara Ross didn't just vanish into the Irish mist.
But I have my brain. And I have a notepad I found in the desk drawer.
I sit down and start to write what I’ve noticed since I got here.
Guard Rotation: Shift change at 6:00 AM and 6:00 PM. Staff: One maid comes in at 10:00 AM. She doesn't speak English, or she’s pretending not to. Exits: The balcony is a forty-foot drop onto decorative cacti. Not ideal for a graceful escape. The Weak Point: Lorcan.
