Page 123 of Dance of Deception

The five of us step onto the raised dais, our seats towering over the room like thrones. The crowd falls silent, even the women who were draped over laps whispering into waiting ears moments ago, and takes their places on the benches in front of us, eyes forward, waiting.

An eerie hush settles over the underground cathedral. Then the doors open.

Two masked guards drag in the prisoner: Florian Berisha, a captain in the New York Albanian mafia.

His face is bloodied, his wrists bound in front of him. His chest rises and falls unevenly, but it’s not fear that flickers in his eyes. It’s defiance. He knows what we do here.

At least he had the sense totryand make a run for it after he got his Black Court summons—though clearly, that didn’t work out.

The Wolf speaks first, his voice laced with a thirst for violence and maybe even a bit of glee.

“Florian Berisha. You’ve been summoned to appear before this court for treason against your king. You betrayed Arian Kirakosian and sold information to the Colombian Cartel, thereby putting men you swore loyalty to in the ground.”

The Albanian spits blood onto the marble floor. “Just business,” he sneers. “And what the fuck authority do you have in this matter? I demand to speak to Arian!” he roars. “He and I will discuss this like men, not this…” His lip curls. “Freak show.”

Terrible choice of words, Florian.

Few things get under Wolf’s skin. But being called a freak, or a monster, or maniac are on that list.

“Say that again,” The Wolf growls quietly in a measured, lethal tone.

Florian has the brains to shut the fuck up, even in his furious state.

“You’re here,” I say icily, “not simply because you broke rank, but because you broke a blood oath you swore to your king. Yes,we could have brought this to Arian’s attention first, and let him deal with you…”

My shoulders bunch as I grip the edge of the table in front of us and lean forward, leering down into Florian’s face.

“But where’s. The fun. In that.”

A nervous titter of laughter ripples through the crowd. Florian’s throat works as he swallows.

The Wolf clears his throat. “Verdicts.”

“Guilty,” The Raven says immediately.

“Guilty,” The Wolf echoes, his voice a low growl.

“Guilty,” The Stag murmurs, tilting his head, perhaps already picturing the man’s last moments.

“Fuckin’ guilty,” The Bull grunts.

I don’t hesitate. “Guilty.”

The Wolf dips his chin. “You get a choice. Fight or flight.”

Florian straightens, rolling his shoulders. “Fight,” he spits defiantly. He doesn’t plead. Men like himalwaysthink they can fight their way out. “With fists. Like men.”

Another ripple of amusement from the crowd. They know better.

The Bull stands. It’s his turn. But dark hunger unfurls in my chest, sharp and consuming. The need toremind myself what I am.

“Allow me,” I murmur, turning to him.

The Bull hesitates, his body taut. I can see it in the way his fists clench—he wants this.

But he can tell that Ineed iteven more.

After a beat, he steps back, giving me the kill.

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