Page 42 of Carry Your Debt

My brows immediately dip at that, the scowl tugging down my mask with the movement. Although I’m still not convinced it was for one hundred percent altruistic reasons, I guess that’s exactly what Winterswastrying to do back there.

Despite how my brothers and I feel about how things went down between us, if what she claims is true, that would be considered her doing us a favor. And she was right: she didn’t owe us a thing.

Even if the sullen voice of my pre-teen self disagrees.

That Callum insists she owes useverything.

This Callum would settle for just exactly why the fuck she’s been hiding from us all these years.

I really shouldn’t care whether or not she’s wrapped up in this Underworld shit. The way she had her pet Suits hovering all around her, she’s clearly already made her bed, all nice and fucking cosy—right?

Like I said:not our fucking circus.

The hostess pulls up beside an empty table, and I almost run into the back of Atlas, so lost in my thoughts. I bristle, pissed at myself for losing focus while walking through the middle of a room full of snakes, and flex my fingers against my thighs.

I have to stop when I feel the shoulders of my suit pull tight.

“Gentlemen,” she gestures.

From the quick glance I take around us, I can see that it’s definitely one of the smaller and more intimate place settings. It looks like some of the tables could seat a dozen or more people. I wonder if that’s because of the size of our party, or if it’s based on hierarchy.

Probably both.

The card on the table reads:

Northern Sovereignty:

The Rox Boys

Sponsored by: The Alessi Family

I grimace as I drop into a seat to Tristan’s left, re-reading the fancy script. Twice.

The Rox Boys.A stupid fucking name that someone at the Academy coined once, years ago, and for some reason it’s stuck.But for once, my irritation is not with the name itself.

Just how much do these mafia fuckers know about our everyday lives?

“Refreshments and menus will be along shortly,” the woman chirps before she’s bustling back toward the dining hall’s massive double doors.

Lake takes a seat with Atlas across from us, leaving two seats empty on opposite sides of the circular table. “Good, I’m fuckingstarving,” he complains, rubbing his fingers across his barely-concealed stomach.Warm light from the giant chandeliers above bounces off the bare skin across his chest.

My mouth pulls down as I watch him flick open the lid on his Zippo a few times. He’s so agitated, he’s almost feverish. His eyes haven’t stopped scanning the tables.

When was the last time he took his meds?

Atlas is also taking a moment before the server comes back to absorb everything he can about our immediate surroundings. I follow the path of his watchful glower.

Everything about the room is huge. It’s a large, uninterrupted antechamber that’s attached directly to the main foyer. Almost like a ballroom of sorts. The wall behind me is made from more of that cold, red stone. I’m assuming that’s where the building gets its name.

There’s a service area set up at the back for the waitstaff, along with a well-stocked dry bar. A sea of round tables fills the rest of the space, with the three factions seemingly zoned by the color of their tablecloth. The large section of seating we’ve been assigned to is covered by gold linens. A smaller number of tables positioned closer to the entrance have white coverings instead. The rest are black.

And directly across from us in that black section are several tables whose diners are all wearing black feathered masks. My stomach inverts when I catch sight of white-blonde hair, a visual confirmation that Sabine Winters is indeed tied to a Southern syndicate.

Fuck.

“One o’clock, black table, far corner,” I mutter, keeping my volume low enough that only Tristan will catch my words. As much as we love Lake, I know I need to keep our hyped-up, golden-haired puppy from drawing even more attention by spinning around and seeking her out.

Tristan’s eyes zero in on where Sabine sits beside a solitary figure at one of the tables.

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