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Chapter twenty-nine
There were five bloodlines in the Obsidian Brotherhood: Donahue, Huntington, Carmichael, Radcliffe, and Van Doren. Every legitimate heir within the lineage of those bloodlines was automatically granted a seat in the Tribunal the moment they were born. Anyone else had to go through what was called The Induction. There were fifteen inductees per year, and the Brotherhood never inducted anyone over the age of thirty—unless they had an ulterior motive such as political manipulation. Like the mayor.These were all things I wasn’t supposed to know, but fortunately for me, Dad was a loud talker and I was a good listener.
The fact that I’d just been hand-delivered an invitation confirmed two things I suspected already:
My father had never truly considered me his son.
We had them scared.
Caspian had already taken out Kipton Donahue, the head of the society. Malcolm Huntington was on his way down thanks to Lincoln. One by one, the sons were rebuking the sins of the fathers. My father was next. I guessed he figured if I was one of his own, I couldn’t turn on him.
It was going to be fun watching him underestimate me.
As soon as I read the card, my phone pinged with a notification. The kind that came from an email address rather than a phone number. Like someone sent it from a computer or tablet.
[emailprotected]: Midnight. St. Peter’s.
I already knew that because I’d overheard my dad telling Mayor DuPont last night.
My first thought was to look for Leo and see if he could trace the email, but the strangest thing happened. The message disappeared.
I scrolled all the way to the bottom of my notifications, and it was nowhere to be found. It just… vanished. Fuck it. We would worry about the details later. Right now, I had bigger plans.
Anniston’s door was closed when I got home, and the apartment was quiet. It was after ten o’clock at night, so maybe she was sleeping. It wasn’t like I gave her much else to do. I damn sure didn’t want her fucking around in the kitchen again.
Good. I didn’t need any distractions for what I was about to do, and she was definitely becoming a distraction.
I showered and changed into black joggers and a Champion hoodie, listened at her door for any sign she might be awake—satisfied with hearing nothing but silence—then I took a deep breath and braced myself for whatever came next.
Out of loyalty more than fear, I called Leo to fill him in. It went straight to voicemail, so I left him a message. “There’s a brotherhood at St. Peter’s.” If anyone else heard it, they wouldn’t have a clue. Leo could read between the lines.
Kipton Donahue tried to kill his own son. I didn’t put anything past these assholes. The fact that I felt the need to leave any message at all was proof of that.
