Page 19 of Carry Your Debt

It’s inreallypoor form to call out another guest’s identity, but when honey-brown eyes slide lasciviously down my figure, I find that in this moment, I really don’t care to stand on formalities after all.

“Mahoney. Making new friends, are we?” I drawl.

“Ah ah, birdy,” he tuts, ignoring my not-so-subtle faux pas and taking a noisy sip of what I wager is a glass of his favored Bulleit. “That’ll beYour Graceto you, soon enough.”

And there it is.

After so long playing the role of constant thorn in Sebastian’s side, it seems the Strange Ace himself is finally putting his money where his mouth is. Which means Trick Mahoney must have succeeded in gatheringa hell of a lotmore support for a leadership bid than our previous intelligence showed.

In fact, some might even argue that gaining the favor of the famously selective members ofOrdo ab Chaois more of an ominous sign than the Irish deciding to band together.

It would certainly warrant this newly inflated sense of entitlement.

Are we digging our own fucking graves by underestimating the man standing in front of me? Or, is he just playing head games with what he thinks is a passing group of Gray Men—hoping we’ll run straight back to our boss, twisted narrative in hand?

It’s the kind of thing the Gray Man would do if he weren’t so busy icing us out.

Fuck.I need more, but I can’t exactly declare,“I saw you over here chumming it up with Alexander Morrow,”withoutpotentially breaching my cover.So I try again, hoping he’ll at least acknowledge his former drinking companion. “What, because you think you’ve got the Neutrals on your side?”

He chuckles, running a large hand over the exposed part of his beard. It’s a deep, raspy thing, letting me know he sees straight through my ruse. “Be foolish to ignore such an untapped source, birdy girl. But I dare say cooperation on all fronts might just be the way of the future.”

Damnit all to hell.

He’s tap dancing around what I want to know as only an experienced Underworlder can. The thought of addressing a glorified biker asYour Graceshould have me in stitches, but not having the whole picture has a frustrated growl wanting to claw its way up my throat instead.

Before I can formulate a new line of questioning, however, Zeus’s hand lands on my hip, hooking me away. Trick’s booming laughter follows us as my Team Lead directs me toward the other end of the full-service counter.

“Not another word,” he hisses in my ear, and my teeth snap shut as I seethe. “Keep working,” he urges, nudging me to find another target to profile.

Hovering at the end of the bar isIvan DmitriyevichAntonov, 40. The stout figure of thePakhanis surrounded by both a thick cloud of cigar smoke and hisSovietnik—a group of his closest and most trusted advisors. The Russians swear shaky allegiance to the North, but aren’t shy about striking deals with Southern entities if the price is right. His countenance seems reserved tonight, eyes slowly roving the room from behind his simple bronze half-mask.

Like a well-oiled machine, my Crew keeps me focused and moving, and I continue on with our rotation.It’s not long before I stumble upon another oddly paired couple.

Chatting over matching tumblers of dark red whiskey areAlessandro‘Sandro’ Michele Alessi, 38, head of the Alessi Mafiafamiglia, andAsano Kento, 65,kumichoto the Northern-based Asano Yakuza.

While the Asano organization enjoys quite a nice spread of influence across the North, the New Jersey Italians’ only strength comes from having cemented themselves as one of Midas’s top sycophants.

There’s nothing worse than a power leech, and Sandro Alessi is the king of leeches.

“Poster boy for bottom feeders everywhere,” I mutter, spinning to place my now flat champagne flute on a passing waiter’s tray. Before I get the chance to offload it, I feel all three of my Crewmates tense, sending every single hair on my body standing on end.

“Hello, little rook.”

The greeting drags its fingers down my spine like a languid caress, with honeyed tones that hold just the slightest hint of a taunt but always leave trails of ice in their wake.

Fuck. My. Life.

My nostrils flare as only now—when it’s much too late—do I realize the crucial mistake I’ve made. I’ve made myself vulnerable by moving from the relatively safe edges of the room and wading directly into the snake pit to confront Trick.

Opening myself up to encounters such as these.

There’s no point trying to ignore his presence completely; avoiding this man's poisonous orbit is a peer-approved, double-blind study in pure futility. And since he'sImperiumroyalty, that makes him somewhat of a regular workplace hazard.

So I turn, slowly, buying myself a moment before having to face the gilded monster himself.

Fortunately for me, I know how to dance with the Devil.

Sebastian Grayson’s been teaching me for years.

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