Page 41 of Carry Your Debt

Of course, just as I feel like I might actually try eating something, Lady Luck decides that’s the moment the Rox Boys are going to manifest directly within the Gray Man’s sightline.

Ares, Hermes, and Hades all flank Apollo as a unit, and I can’t help but admire, yet again, just how well they fit together. Or how effortlessly confident they would appear to anyone who’s never met them, considering both their age and circumstances. I remember my own first Symposium: walking around on eggshells the entire time, convinced I was about to commit some accidental gaffe and have the Peacekeepers chasing me for it later.

But after so many weeks spent familiarizing myself with their body language, I can see there’s a whole new level of tension there. It’s in the stiff set of their shoulders and their matching tense strides.

No doubt they’ve spent the last thirty minutes or so in an emergency debriefing, deciding their next moves. They’re on edge, which means that hopefully they've taken my words to heart and they’ve come in here nursing a healthy dose of caution.

Fuck knows they’ll need to make a habit of it, especially if they want to continue living and working in this world.

Now that I know who their sponsor is—or at least, which Sovereignty they belong to—it’s no surprise that Jessica, our harried hostess, is leading them over to a small table on the opposite side of the hall, nestled amongst the gold-laden seating reserved solely for Northern guests.

Two of the waitstaff approach them, ostensibly to confirm their meal plans.

Unfortunately, they’re just too far away for me to comfortably read their lips, so I slide my eyes to my left, trying to get a current reading on the pH level of Sebastian’s temperament instead. I’m honestly expecting to see nothing there but total indifference, so imagine my surprise when it’snaked disdainthat I find simmering from behind the eyes of his rook disguise.

“Now explainthat,”he grits out, so acidly, that it has my stomach plunging to the floor and my gaze cutting back to their table in a heartbeat; wondering what could havepossiblygone wrong in the few nanoseconds since I last had eyes on them.

It doesn’t take long for me to realize exactly what has set Sebastian off.

Or ratherwhom.

My teeth instantly click together in annoyance.

Even from this distance, with their faces hidden by full-coverage, Volto-style masks, there’s no mistaking the duo now standing at the Rox Boy’s table. The unique, white Mallen streak that interrupts the front of one of their dark coifs gives them both away. Because where one goes, the other is never far behind.

The Donato Twins—Gabriel Michale DonatoandRaphael Bruno Donato, 25. Formerly sworn to the Alessi Family of NewYork, but as of late, loyal to the banner of another much, much more prominent Northerner.

The Underworld’s infamous Golden Boys, otherwise known as Midas’s personal hitmen.

Oh, boys. Just what the fuck have you gotten yourselves into?

My mind spins, trying to land on the most likely scenario in which Rafe Donato, of all fucking people, would be slapping a hand down on Ares’s shoulder like they’re the best of fucking friends.

None of them are good.

Is it possible we weren’t the only ones sent evidence of Apollo’s secret siring? Have they been sent in at Midas’s bidding—to cut down that sapling before it has a chance to take root?

But I can’t voice a single one of these thoughts because Sebastian’s under the impression that’s exactly what it’s been—asecretsiring.

When I still don’t answer, the Gray Man’s icy voice penetrates the din, sweeping across both Council tables like a tundra wind.

“Dominic, go and fetch the Boys.”

If there’sone positive coming out of tonight’s announcement, it’s the validation we did the right thing by digging in our feet against the Aces for all those months. Their nonstop recruiting efforts are now making a hell of a lot more fucking sense; no doubt Trick was looking to throw the four of us on the frontlines with the rest of his Club grunts, guns drawn and ready to bleed out for the cause.

Not our monkeys.

We might’ve dodged that particular bullet, but it doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods just yet. His MC still holds control of Roxborough, which means the City of Sin’s dirty streets are about to run an even darker shade of red. Not to mention, our hands are still plenty full dealing with both our employer as well asthe man wethoughtwas Tristan’s sperm donor.

And now we have this new problem to add to the list:Sebastian Grayson.

Tristan’sactualsperm donor.

Allegedly.

Figures that just as we’re managing to carve out a somewhat viable escape plan, we’d find ourselves standing on the sidelines of a motherfucking turf war. And not just any turf war; a once-in-a-generation Underworld leadership spill,Battle Royalestyle.

A fucking heads-up would’ve been nice.

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