Page 21 of Carry Your Debt

“I’m serious.Don’t. Leave. Cal’s. Side,” Tristan instructs firmly, authority evident in every clipped word. He tilts his head at me, signaling his intent to leave. He turns before adding a final, “Andfuck, just—behave.”

“I just?—”

But Tristan’s already moving off, ignoring his continued protests. I mean, it’s not an unreasonable command. We’re surrounded by pockets of debauchery and there are plenty of lascivious looks being shot in Lake’s direction thanks to the outfit I helped create.

No guess who he’s peacocking for.

Tristan and I don’t speak as we ease our way through the mass of bodies, our path naturally following the edges of the large chamber. I’m always appreciative of the fact that my brothers know me well enough that we don’t really need to. Both hands slip casually into the pockets of my dress pants, my head on a swivel. It’s not long before I’m casually dropping my pace, keeping a step or so between us.

This is me at my most comfortable—slipping through a crowd unseen; the silent observer. Already the press of people is becoming less suffocating.

The guests we pass are a swirling mix of formal and elaborate designs, each group of masks forming a statement for their owners. I’m not so well-versed in the factions to identify them on sight, though I’m positive each of the colors chosen are significant. Unlike our simple gold pieces, it seems to be a sea offeathered and bejeweled Venetian masks—some tasteful in their brocade patterns, others favoring the towering harlequin-style headdresses.

Commedia dell’artehas also been a popular choice I note, passing a huddle of raucous Pantalone wearers, marked by their grotesque cheeks and exaggerated noses. They’re followed by a group of more modestpagliacciohalf-masks in silver.

I even spy a group of twistedshikamiNoh masks.

Just as we’re moving past a pair of men wearing matching metallic gold Voltos, I catch a snippet of their conversation and my whole body lights up with a renewed shock of adrenaline.

I may have only met the man in person the one time, but I would recognize him by voice alone.

“Not a chance. Her guard dogs are sticking to her like flies on shit,” he grates in that unmistakable, gravelly Italian-American accent.

I’m cautiously angling my head in their direction when I see his companion roll his eyes. It’s the only part of his face that’s still visible behind the full coverage of their masks.But then I clock his companion’s thick, dark, wavy hair with its signature white streak.

Correction—I recognize both of them.

The Donato brothers.

Twin black gazes stay intently focused elsewhere as they speak, and almost involuntarily, I turn to follow their line of sight.

A dire mistake.

It feels like every organ in my body has plummeted south, sending me reeling. I stumble forward, chasing after Tristan and snagging his elbow.

Fuck, keep it together. You knew this was coming.

He turns, eyebrows raised, giving me an expectant look.

I tip my chin, before flicking my eyes back toward the two men. “It’s Raphael and Gabriel,” I hiss. “I think they’re planning something with Sabine.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, they already sound bizarre to my own ears. Why would two Lieutenants of the Alessi crime family be interested in an orphaned high school girl?

Tristan’s nostrils immediately flare when he also sees what has the two men so fixated. My spine and knees feel like Jello, and I’m forced to settle for the armor of a dark scowl as he drags us both into place behind a nearby statue.

I thought this part would eventually get easier, but it’s just as much a punch to the gut seeing her in this unfamiliar place as it is having to see her haunting the halls of the Academy every day.

More so, actually.

I’ve always enjoyed puzzles. By their very nature, I know they’ll have one single, predetermined solution.

Predictable.

Logical.

Safe.

Sabine Winters isnota puzzle.

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