“This is my city, Kier.” Rohan tossed both knives to the ground, where they clattered on the pavement. “Or it will be, once you deliver a message for me.”
Chapter 67
ROHAN
Midnight, London time, found Rohan standing at the top of a grand staircase overlooking a palace-worthy ballroom below. Rohan knew the room, knew every inch and cranny of it: every gold molding on the walls; every thread in the lush sapphire rug that covered the white marble floor; every hidden camera; and above all, every table.
He knew the games.
He knew the dealers.
He knew the players.
Rohanwasthe Mercy. He always had been. The expanse of the atrium, the blood shed in the ring, the rooms where alliances were made and broken, the pleasures, the pain—Rohan was all of it. He was the house.
And the house always won.
Beside him at the top of the staircase, the Proprietor hit his cane against the ground three times. The room fell silent, players pausing mid-game, conversations hushed in an instant.
“My time as Proprietor has ended,” Alastair announced. With no small amount of dramatic flair, he lifted the platinum cane from theground and spun it, holding its elaborately carved handle out to Rohan—ascepterin every way that mattered, to go with an invisible crown.
Mine.Rohan’s heart refused to pound. It beat steadily with no more and no less force than he was used to as he reached out to lock his hand around the cane. Alastair braced his weight against the banister, Proprietor no longer, andRohanhit the cane against the ground three times.
Down below, at the gaming tables and throughout the grand ballroom, heads began to bow, one after another after another, the equivalent of the most powerful men in London taking a knee.
There was nothing soft or warm aboutthismoment, no gently hummed song playing in Rohan’s mind, no water, dark or otherwise, lurking in the hollows of his mind. There was nothing butvictory.
There was a price to be paid for power, always.
Rohan had paid it.
Long live the king.
Chapter 68
GIGI
With Toby on a plane to London, Gigi only had Slate and Knox to look after, but still: easier said than done. Over the last few hours, she’d alternated between wondering how Nora was faring, trying to think of more details to add to the whiteboards, and fine-tuning her skills at herding cats. Broody, loner cats. Gigi had seen to it that the cats were fed. And sunned. She’d shown pictures of literal cat memes to the metaphorical cats.
And still, in Gigi’s estimation, Knox was maybe two mentions of Calla’s name away from trying to leave again. Slate was looking pale, if muscularly robust, and kept insisting that the dressing on his wound didn’t need to be changed when it clearly did. So the last thing Gigi needed—the very last thing—was to take on custody, however temporary, of another Hawthorne.
But Zara reminded Gigi so much of Savannah that Gigi hadn’t really had a choice about following the woman up those five flights of stairs. Did Knox and Slate appreciate being literally dragged along with her? No. No, they did not—well, maybe Slate enjoyed the dragging a little.A girl could hope. But regardless, they came, and so did Alisa, and as much as Gigi hated cardio, she persevered.
Andthatwas how they ended up in the tower with Zara.
Tobias Hawthorne had apparently beenveryfond of keys—like really, really, unusually fond of them. To each their own! Gigi focused on the details of the keys spread out on the floor, rather than the Freudian implications.
There were 107 of them, divided into two perfectly straight lines on opposite sides of the tower room. The line to the left of the door contained seventy-three keys in total, jewels glistening in the head of every third or fourth key. The line on the right side of the tower room had thirty-four keys—and fewer jewels.
“We’re here to help,” Gigi told Zara.
“Resistance is futile,” Knox muttered. “She’ll wear you down.”
Zara arched a brow, a very Savannah-esque brow, and Gigi deployed scooty hands.Veryemphatically.
“My father told the boys the story of his life was in these keys,” Zara said, seemingly resigned to her fate. She pointed to the longer of the two lines. “These are the ones that Oren, Nash, and I were able to match to a specific biographical event or events in my father’s life. Nan helped a bit.”
“Nan is Grayson’s great-grandmother,” Gigi informed Slate and Knox. “She’s terrifying, I’ve only met her twice, but I can safely say that I hope I have her dexterity and arm strength when I’m ninety.”
