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“No, and The Brothers and Mayhem.”
I pause, squeezing my phone in my hand. Great. That means I’m going to have to be careful with how I conduct myself. “Mom, why…”
“Honey, you know how it is. We’re all in this together at the end of the day, even though you all have different jobs to do.” She passes me a hanger. “Wear this. I’ll have makeup and hair organized for you. It’s imperative that you are always the most beautiful in the room. Not that that’s hard.”
I push off the threshold, holding the dress up in front of me. “Not if Kill is in the room.”
She ignores me, bringing both hands to my cheeks and looking between my eyes. My mother isn’t a saint. She’s barely a mother, but she’s all I’ve had. “They’re going to suspect something tonight, with how you’re dressed, and how people will respond to you. You aren’t to answer them honestly, Cartier.” Over the two years that I’ve been doing this, I’ve not asked why I couldn’t tell them. The Fathers operate on a need-to-know basis, so if I need to know, they’ll tell me, but over time… I’ve started to question some things. Not all, just some. Like now.
“Why is it so important for them to not know? I don’t understand. They’re The Brothers. They’re usually the ones ten steps ahead.”
Her mouth curls slightly with a smile. “Not this time. This is different. You just have to trust The Fathers.” That’s the thing… I’m not sure I do.
“Sure, Mom. I can do that.” Her hands fall to her side. She is doing the fake smile thing.
“I knew you could. I’ll see you in five hours.” The door closes behind her and I turn back to the dress that is laid out on my bed. Picking up my phone, I snap a shot of the mesh material with diamantes sewn in all the places that they need to be hiding areas and then flip the phone to selfie. Most of my content is usually riding, exploring on my days off, and vague food posts, since I love to cook. I hardly ever post selfies, mainly because I think there are more interesting things that I see every day that I’m sure people would rather look at, but right now, I feel like posting one. A smarter girl would wait for her makeup and hair, but I’m not that smart, and the dolled-up thing isn’t my true authentic self.
I run my fingers through my hair, ruffling it up and moving it to one side. Grabbing one of the posters on my bed from above my head, I lean into it, staring right at the camera lens with my resting face. I turn it around and look at it. You can see my belly that’s only slightly covered by my tied crop and the Chucks on my feet. My hair is long, hanging to just above my hips, right above the little Kiznitch star on my hip. It doesn’t look the same as The Brothers’ ones; mine has delicate lines and Mandela art surrounding it. I’m not as covered in tattoos as Keaton, but I am more than my brother. I have little pieces here and there that I wanted at the time, and I add to my canvas whenever I get the urge. We have our own artist in Mayhem who has done all my work, so it has been easily accessible. The hardest part about it has been using him without seeing The Brothers.
Back to the picture. I think I look good. My cheeks are flushed, just enough to show the small sprinkle of freckles, and my lips are soft and puffy, as if I’d just pumped them with a fresh milligram of Juvéderm. My upper lip flips over slightly, giving off the appearance of them being bigger than what they are. My eyes look brighter today, a vibrant ocean blue, and my hair… well. My hair needs to be topped up since the teal blue is fading out to a pastel. I kind of like it, though.
I tap both images and type out the caption new dress, new bitch.
And hit Post. I’ve currently got a million and something followers but gained a lot over the past couple years since I’ve kept everything on here very on brand for The Brothers. Traveling, cooking, other going out shit that Nial and I do. The one person who stays off my Instagram is—my phone starts ringing in my hand.
I smile, swiping it to answer. “Eli…”
“That selfie is hot as fuck. Gonna get you in trouble with either your psycho plaything or your psycho brother.” Car horns are beeping in the background, and Eli cusses at someone under his breath.
“How’s New York?”
“Missing you. Wish I could be there…”
“Why?” I raise a brow, flicking off the button to my jeans. “So you can continue to keep tabs on me?”
Eli barks out a laugh, a door closing in the background, cutting out the noise. “That’s a fair statement.”
“Mmmhmm…” I turn on the shower and toss my clothes into the corner. The bathroom is basic, yet still somehow cozy. Not at all like the glass museum at the Nero mansion in The Village or the penthouse. “Have you just called to torture me, or is there seriously something wrong?”
He huffs out a breath, and I can imagine him running his fingers through his hair and the stress line between his eyes. Eli is a pretty boy through and through, so when he’s upset, mad, or stressed—he looks cute. He hates that I bring this up any time he’s one of those things too. “Yeah, I’ve got some news.”
“Are you going to tell me what that night was about?” I ask him every day about the men in my lounge.
“No. Not ever, if I can help it, and stop asking.”
I roll my eyes.
“I told you, baby, eye rolling doesn’t look good on you.”
“Wrong,” I say, giving up on him wrapping up this convo so I can slip into the shower. I drop my towel and duck beneath halfway. “Everything looks good on me.”
He chuckles, but it’s cut short. “I’ll be there as soon as he finds out you’re there, no doubt. I think he hates me. That’s why he’s torturing me with you.”
“Ha! Don’t take offense. He hates everyone.” I squeeze soap in my hand.
“I’ll see you soon.” Then I hang up, needing to get ready quickly for tonight. It begins in five hours, which means The Brothers are already here in Kiznitch, and now thanks to my selfie…
I pale, blood draining to my toes. They’ll know I’m staying at The Castle.
