Page 109 of Heirs of Havoc

“You won’t know anything unless you have an actual conversation.”

Chaya’s words. And she’s right.

But I'm not having one if no one answers the door.

Ringing the bell again, my brows furrow. Glancing back at the car, it’s already out of sight. Ringing the bell again and again gets me nothing, neither does banging on the door.

Did Dominik lock me out?

“Guys!” Reaching for the knob, it twists, my brows lowering.

It’s unlocked.

While I’m relieved I’m not stranded outside, this isn't normal. “Guys?”

The hell?

The foyer is still as grand as ever, but it’s empty. No velvet benches, no round concrete tables. Even the gold-framed paintings are off the wall. My hand grips the handle of my luggage, my eyes wandering the space.

Did they leave me?

After all that?

It doesn’t even smell like them. No tobacco in the air. No weed coming from upstairs.

The only thing that shows any sign of life is Bobby Darin crooning from the kitchen. “Call Me Irresponsible.”

Moving to where I can see into the kitchen, the beer bottles and snacks that litter the island aren’t there anymore.

What the fuck is going on?

“Feliks?” Moving to the foyer, my luggage thuds to the floor when my eyes fall to a trail of blood. Splotches of red decorate the stairs, leading towards the living room. My heart picks up, and it’s hard to swallow. “Guys!” Rushing into the living room, no furniture decorates the space. The big velvet sofa, the metal tables, they’re all gone.

More splats of blood lead to the back door. When I move towards it, the trail stops. There’s nothing in the yard to show me they’re out there. They left nothing behind.

They left me. They really fucking left me.

You’re so stupid.

Turning for the trail of blood, my voice shakes. “Dom? Feliks?” My eyes follow the trail back to the empty foyer.

You’re an idiot.

You’re weak.

Shaking my dad’s voice out of my head, my nails sink into my palm, giving it one last shot. “Lev? Vl—”

“Hello, Emilia.”

My head shoots up, my body stiffening.

“William?”

Chapter Forty

William Romano appears at the top of the steps.

Blood adorns his white suit, his black bowtie twisted around his neck. His black shirt hangs out over his pants and he’s not sporting the usual perfect dye-job. It’s mostly black, the tips still that bright tint of blonde. But that’s not the only thing about him that looks off. He looks like a madman, dishevelled, with bloodshot eyes.

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