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“Help—”
A huge hand clamps over my mouth and muffles my cry.
“What do we do with this one?” the man asks.
“Take her.”
Now another pair of men step out of a second van, each holding guns. My stomach plummets, and I stop struggling. It’s one thing to fight an opportunist, but this can’t be a coincidence.
Sunday morning.
An isolated parking space.
Guns.
No, this strike is premeditated, and I expect the target is Veer. I clutch my bag beneath my arm, hoping that no one thinks to check either of us for mobile phones.
Because the moment they shut us in the back of that white van, I’m sending our coordinates to the police.
ChapterForty-Two
MARIUS
I’m ninety-five percent convinced that Quinn’s anonymous message to Veer Bestlasson that his father was about to arrive failed to reach him or the wretched boy will decide to kowtow to his family’s demands and attend this Sunday lunch.
The other five percent is hopeful that Tin Soldiers on Pluto will have found a way to escape the campus and attend their concert, where they’ll deliver Veer Bestlasson to Crius and his men.
Perhaps it’s for the best that I’m attending Sunday lunch with Odin, his brother, Dean Westmore, and the rest of the faculty.
If my optimistic side is correct, being here will be an iron-clad alibi.
Every member of staff who has taught his nephew stands at the entrance of the university’s great hall, which they’ve styled after the foyer of a Victorian-era hotel, complete with an oversized mahogany reception desk, black-and-white-tiled floors, and brass chandeliers.
We’re arranged in a line like how I imagine an episode of Downton Abbey to appear when the servants welcome their master back from a long absence.
The door creaks open, and one of the security guards pokes his head through. “Mr. Westmore, sir, the Bestlasson brothers have arrived.”
This announcement results in the dean mopping copious amounts of sweat from his brow. I stare ahead, feigning indifference. Odin is the most dangerous man in Great Britain. The last thing I need is his attention.
The door opens, and two figures step inside.
Odin is a hard-faced man in his late forties with sharp eyes and even sharper cheekbones. For someone with such immense power in the underworld, he dresses modestly, in a charcoal gray suit and white shirt more suited for a morning at the local church.
His brother, on the other hand, appears at least a decade younger, with less harsh features and mahogany brown hair without a hint of gray. Veer’s father dresses in the type of black outfit I would wear while making a kill.
Strange… I was led to believe Vili Bestlasson only took care of the admin.
Dean Westmore walks at the brothers’ side, stuttering and mumbling an extended welcome. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that the man either owed the Bestlasson family an unholy amount of money or he’s the victim of blackmail.
“Where’s my son?” asks the younger of the pair.
The dean clears his throat. “I’ve sent security staff to visit his suite in the founder’s block.”
Vili Bestlasson grunts his approval and continues to the dining room.
It’s a spacious chamber with white marble floors and black furniture etched with gold leaf. Elaborate chandeliers provide illumination, even though ample sunlight streams in from tall arched windows.
Odin harrumphs. “This is where you spend our money?”
