Page 39 of Carry Your Debt

My chair scrapes loudly in the ensuing silence, but then Zeus is there—his touch warm and steady as he helps me back to my feet. In the time it takes us to disengage my skirts from the plush seating, Sebastian’s already seated himself at the Senior table, leaving five place settings distinctly empty.

Instead of joining his boss, however, a silent Dominic swoops in for the seat I’ve just vacated. When the remaining Councillors—Sebastian’s main money man, Head AccountantBarlow St. Ives, 51, and systems analyst, Head ArchitectStephen Almani, 45—step forward and take the empty spots on either side of Knox, the reason for the bizarre table split becomes clear.

The Gray Manisplanning a dinner ambush—but I’m the only other Suit getting a front-row seat.

Sweat dots my brow. It’s no more than a few wobbly steps to reach the empty seat that Sebastian indicates—but I may as well be walking a Green Mile on execution day.

At least I’ll look fabulous for my funeral.

Eight weeks ago, I might’ve told you that I was finally starting to build up a small immunity to the Gray Man’s sinister presence. That I was moving about more freely; thinking less and less about the consequences of chasing down scratches for the itch inside my head.

He still unnerved me, yes, but after years of exposure therapy, I could at the very least enter my guardian’s direct line of sight without every single piece of my training flying straight out the window.

Now it seems even just a couple of Sebastian-free months has been more than enough to weaken all those Gray Man antibodies. The void I’d tried inviting out tonight has jilted me, leaving me in no better shape than the broken teen he’d dumped on his son’s doorstep all those years ago.

Zeus eases me into the chair at his father’s right, and I manage to take a single, hiccuping breath before the bodice pinches me in new and exciting places. At this point, I think I’m resigned to just never filling my lungs properly, ever again.

Sebastian catalogs every microsecond of the interaction.

“Enough, Jackson,” he snaps, not bothering to keep the contempt from coloring his tone.

My throat bobs when a finger trails gently down the back of my arm. But then it withdraws, along with the comforting presence at my back. I glance up through my lashes as he turns to leave. The tension in his jaw alone could haul an eighteen-wheeler the length of an interstate highway.

He knows he has no choice but to leave me to fend for myself out here in these metaphorical woods; the only thing missing is the red cloak.

My, what soulless eyes you have.

“Jackson’s communications on the Roxborough project have been few and far between. Report your progress,” Sebastian’s glacial tones slice through my morbid musings. Gooseflesh prickles the back of my neck and the sweat quietly gathering there begins to chill. I’m suddenly grateful I wore my hair down.

The Roxborough project—said so dismissively. As though holding our lives hostage, and forcing me to harvest 300 souls for his organization like I’m some kind of Gangland Grim Reaper is just a little weekend hobby for him.

“Sir, I’ve submitted updated accounts of where I’m at on student and staff numbers. Those haven’t changed,” I say, dry swallowing.

His Senior Council still sits in silent vigil at what should have been the Junior table, while behind us, I hear the soft murmuring of some of the more highly ranked Suits as they arrive and find places to sit. Only a portion of the very upper echelon of the Gray Men are permitted to attend tonight’s Symposium. I concentrate on keeping my breathing even and my focus entirely on him.

“Yes, I’m well aware of your dismal numbers, Sabine,” he chides, holding up a hand to halt the pale-faced waiters who were about to descend on our tables. “Talk to me about the Rox Boys.”

I knew it was coming and yet I can still feel my own pulse through the soles of my feet.

“We got word they had a meeting with two unidentified syndicate members, inside Ace territory. Two Clubs stumbled on the meet, pulled guns on them, and they exchanged fire. Both the goons and the Aces were reported dead at the scene.”

He doesn’t ask who shot whom. The only detail worth his notice is the fact a pair of Strange Aces drew weapons against the boys. “So they’re not working for Patrick, then.”

“Seems unlikely, given how it went down.”

“What do we know about their visitors?”

“This Front Man, Morelli had a New York accent. The Enforcer’s name was Reynolds. Morelli could be from any one of a dozen Northern Mafia families. Neither name lined up together in the Codex.”

I’m not expected to keep a record of every disposable Underworld grunt, otherwise the sheer volume of information I would be forced to parse would be completely untenable. Generally speaking, that means we only keep track of those players likely to survive in the long term, and so tend to restrict data to the middling ranks and up. Like the two Clubs, the Northerners were most likely too low down theImperiumtotem pole to warrant an entry.

Sebastian raises a single, sculpted brow.

“They were directly outside a building owned by the Aces. There was surveillance in the alley,” I explain, trying to keep it as close to the truth as possible. The base of my skull throbs with the effort of keeping my voice even and my facial expression locked up like a bank vault.

I watch while he silently presses an index finger to the soft gold metal of one of his signature cufflinks—a familiar tell. It lets me know that the level to which this conversation is annoying him is fast approaching one of actual concern.

My vision crackles along the edges, spidery fingers of adrenaline tap dancing along my spinal cord in warning.

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