Page 18 of Carry Your Debt

Or someone.

My scalp prickles. I don’t recognizeanyof these menortheir elaborate ink, and that sets off every alarm in my already loud as fuck head.

Because if I’ve never laid eyes on their likeness before? Then they’re one hundred percent a new and unknown entity in our world.

And there are few things I find more unsettling—especially when the name of the game is literally being able to identify every single player of said game.

Zeus chooses this exact moment to return to my side, and I let out a tense breath, adjusting my dress with my free hand. “West wall, near the Rothko painting,” I murmur, not bothering to greet him.

His eyes make a careful circuit of the room as he takes a slow sip of his newly acquired whiskey. “No clue, but second from the left’s definitely in charge.”

I slide my gaze across the group again—and of course, he’s right.

The way they’ve arranged themselves against the wall makes you want to dismiss them; write them off as nothing more than low-rank muscle patiently waiting on their boss to return. But there’s a certain arrogance in the set of the second man’s chin as he studies those guests standing closest to him.

He’s not a man used to waiting onanyone.

“Knox?” Our deputy Enforcer holds a special interest in international syndicates. The ones that lay outside the scope of my locally focuseddatabase.

He hums, considering. “Could be a South American outfit, possibly Colombian. Could also be Mexican, though. I’ve seen cartels working out of both regions that are starting to combine their markings.”

It’s not exactly conclusive, but one thing’s for sure—they’re definitely notImperium—so who the fuck vouched for their admittance tonight?

I follow the unknown leader’s line of sight for a moment, noticing he’s now tracking an Underworld favorite with an eagle eye as they move through the atrium.

Angelo Marcus Chiron,39. Neutral. Former military field medic. Emergency medicine specialist. Also fondly known as ‘Doc’. He’s probably patched up most of this room at one point or the other, and if the new guy has plans for him, he’s going to quickly find himself with more enemies than friends. Especially since the beloved trauma surgeon already went missing once this year.

“Trick’s finally here,” Zeus cuts in, yanking my focus back to him. “Near the bar.”

Sure enough,Patrick Arnett ‘Trick’ Mahoney,49, leader of the Strange Aces MC, is standing not even thirty feet from us. A few Spades are scattered around him. While they might all be wearing tuxedos and harlequin masks, their neck tattoos are a dead giveaway.

Trick himself is tall, broad, inked, and still in very decent shape for his age. He’s stroking a thick, auburn beard as he laughs at whatever his companion’s saying. A small line creases my forehead when I realize the person he’s currently entertaining isAlexander Morrow, 36.

Not much is known about the elusive businessman or his three closest friends, only that the four of them are considered the closest thing to corporate mercenaries.

“Who’s he talking to, Sabe?” Zeus asks, his hot breath a welcome warmth against my neck. If I’m honest, I keep expecting a Sebastian jumpscare every time the sea of people shifts.

“One of the Four Horseman.”

“Well, that’s not good,” Dio chimes in.

“Nope,” I agree, voice dripping with sarcasm to mask my own annoyance at seeing the mysterious Horseman speaking with our greatest rival. It stings that despite being prominent Underworlders, I know next to nothing about the menorthe nature of their relationship with the Club.

Before I can dwell on it further, my towering stilettos are carrying me forward.

Knox immediately squeaks, Rhett whistles, and Zeus curses beneath his breath, each desperately trying to stay in step without treading on my gown as I prowl directly toward the head of the Aces.

“Sabine. Careful, darling,” Zeus warns as he reaches out to grip my elbow. I ignore him, concentrating instead on the soothingswishswishswishof my dress’s train as I cross the marbled floors. The sound syncs with the quiet pulsing of blood in my ears and the click of my heels.

By the time I manage to navigate my way through the throng surrounding the bar, Morrow has disappeared. Mahoney’s now blessedly alone—save for the few trusted Aces with Hearts on their throats that are hovering nearby, no doubt playing the parts of Enforcers for the weekend.

I’m not worried about a handful of faceless henchmen, though.

“Ah, was wondering when one of his Suited cronies would come up and say hello,” Trick greets us, reaching for his drink with an unnervingly smug twist of his lips. One large, tattooed hand dwarfs the handblown Glencairn, the other adjusts a sparkling black, white, and redpierrot-style mask. The design resembles a jester’s hood, only modified to leave the wearer’s mouth uncovered.The Joker.

I plaster on what I hope is my most polite smile and forcibly lower my shoulders. The black feathers crowning my own maskmight mark me as a Gray Man, sure. He might even knowwhoI am, considering there aren’t many women high enough in the Underworld ranks to warrant an escort such as mine. My blonde hair’s another tip-off, if he cares enough to notice.

But there’s no way this man knows exactlywhatI am.

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