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“You understand the plan for tonight?” I ask as we pull into the parking garage at Le Toucher. Since the club is closed for Senator Baker and his guests, the only cars here belong to the staff working tonight.
Owen puts the car into park, grabs his mask, and slides it on so it sits on his head before he peers over his shoulder. He, Wes, and Wyatt have a more hands-on role in tonight’s festivities. “Yeah, Bash. We get to wreak havoc and cause mayhem once the President’s daughter is taken. Why is Matthieu interested in Isabella anyway?” Owen inquires, shutting off the ignition.
It’s a loaded question. One I don’t have all the answers to. But I know enough that Bella will learn time doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. Instead, it hardens stronger than graphene. “Childhood acquaintance,” I mutter, opening the passenger door.
“Right, that’s why you have King here,” Wyatt snorts, and he isn’t wrong. King’s presence is a neon sign that it’s far from business as usual.
“Just remember what you’re supposed to do and be in your correct spots. Even a second late, and this all goes to shit,” I retort. Wyatt snickers at my obvious direction change.
I scan the black aluminum keycard, gaining entry to the private elevator. We’re entering Le Toucher through the tunnel entrance. So, instead of heading upstairs, we’re going down. We stop on the first level, and the control panel lights up. I move to stand in front of it, leaning forward for the retinal scan. We descend two more floors before the panel opens, and I’m directed to place the tip of my index finger on it, palm side up. “Fuck,” I grit at the prick of my finger. It’s not that it hurt so much as it surprised me.
“Good Evening, Sebastian Blake Grant. Mr. Devereux is waiting to greet you. Please proceed to the entryway and have your second access card prepared,” the computerized voice instructs.
“Well, aren’t we fancy,” Wes mumbles, turning to Lev. “I’m sure you’ll have something like this installed in the next month.”
Lev arches a brow but doesn’t lift his head from his phone. “Ordered and scheduled for delivery in two weeks,” he says, finally looking up from the screen once the elevator door slides open.
Exiting the elevator, I pull the second card from my breast pocket as we approach the club’s lower-level door. I quickly scan and enter the code Matthieu provided me the last time I was in his office. Seconds later, the lock disengages, granting us entry.
“Good. You made it,” Matthieu states.
My nose scrunches. “Did you think we’d back out?”
He’s shaking his head before he replies, “No. We’ve all got far too much to lose for that to be the case.”
I’m tempted to ask why he asked the question when another door opens, and King walks through with ten men.
Matthieu lifts his arm, turning his wrist to check the time. “Perfect. We’re ahead of schedule.”
“Devereux, my team’s ready. Just point us in the direction you need us, and they’ll get set up,” King says. His thick Russian accent is still prevalent even all these years later. He’s Lev’s contact, but I’ve had my fair share of encounters with the rightful Pahkan of the Volkov Bratva.
The two trade brief salutations before Matthieu relays his instructions. “Senator Baker will arrive in thirty minutes. They will spend twenty minutes being provided with the rules for the night before heading to their cocktail hour. Then the game they’ve requested to play commences thirty minutes after that.” Matthieu adjusts his cuff links and continues, “You received the picture of Isabella?”
“Dah, only an idiot wouldn’t know who the first daughter is, but yes, my men know who to grab,” King responds.
Matthieu nods. “It’s imperative she’s taken before the red lights flash, signaling the start of the second round of the game. She can’t be part of what happens next.”
“Understood,” King replies, then fires off instructions to his men in rapid Russian. I only understand every third or fourth word, but it’s enough to know that if they fuck up, their heads will no longer be attached to their necks. Once they have their marching orders, they disappear down the hall with Michel, Matthieu’s head of security.
Wyatt tilts his head to whisper in my ear. “Still think he eats the souls of his enemies,” he jokes.
I smirk. “And bathes in their blood.”
King’s gaze focuses in our direction. “Good to see you again, Levi,” he declares.
“Likewise, Wolf,” Lev says, gripping his forearm. The two of them exchange pleasantries in Russian. “Any progress with your uncle?”
The muscles in his jaw flex at the mention of the man who slaughtered his entire family. “Plans are progressing. My contact has discovered that my uncle has a girlfriend—Reina,” he spits her name like a curse as he steps back. I’m curious to know what she’s done to earn his ire.
Grinning, Lev quips, “Fun times ahead, then?”
A cruel smile curls onto King’s face as they drop their hands. “What better way to announce the end of my uncle’s reign than to take what he covets the most? Then send her back as puzzle pieces.”
There should be a rebuke—a suggestion to spare her life. But there are no saints here—just monsters who’ll do whatever it takes to get what they want.
King scratches his beard. His cold eyes survey the rest of us. “Ah, the infamous Heirs. It’s good to have you all in one place finally,” he pauses, walking over to where we stand. “Though I hoped it’d be under better circumstances when we met.”
“What could be better than a night of blood and terror?” Owen quips.
