Page 167 of Dance of Deception

Whoever the fuck that is, they want something. And it’s pretty clear what happens to my mother if I don’t come through.

My phone dings suddenly, startling me. I glance at it, and my blood runs cold.

Unknown

You're testing my patience. You now have 24 hours to deliver what I asked for.

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering in my ears and my fingers trembling as I type out a reply.

Me

I don’t know how to get it. I swear.

The response comes immediately.

Unknown

Try harder. Or in 24 hours, you'll have blood on your hands.

My breath catches. A second later, another text—a photo of my mother, now with today's newspaper, sleeping soundly, her hair spread over her pillow, completely unaware.

Then another picture. My blood turns to ice.

It's Bianca—walking out of the theater, her head down, earphones in. Oblivious.

The final text slams into me like a physical blow.

Unknown

24 hours, or they die. Warn them, or tell anyone, and they die.

The phone slips from my hand, clattering against the counter. My hands press against the cool stainless steel of the sink as I suck in a shaky breath.

I can’t tell Carmine. Not when his sister is in danger now, too.

I feel panic building, pressing beneath my ribs, threatening to suffocate me. But I don’t have time for fear. I need answers—something, anything—fast.

I push the horrible feelings of guilt and betrayal aside as I make my way upstairs and start to paw through Carmie's closet and dresser drawers. His home office is next, then the library, then the rest of the house, looking foranything.

Finally, the only thing I’ve got left to search is his laptop, back in his home office. It’s password protected, so I sit down and start trying to the obvious ones: his name, Nico’s, Bianca’s, Dante’s. I try Vito, and his late mother, Giada. I even trymyname, which is pathetic, and…well, fuck. It’s not the password anyway.

I slump onto my elbows with a scowl on my face, glaring at the laptop, then spin slowly in the chair, trying to come up withanythingas I drink in the room.

Suddenly, I come to a stop, my brows furrowing when they land on the old, framed poster for Lickety Splits; a “gentleman’s club”, according to the poster, that “showcases the hottest girls in New York!!!”.

I roll my eyes, but then I grin. Bianca’s told me about Vito’s old strip club, and—let’s be real—that isby farthe single greatest name for a strip club, ever.

Maybe?

I turn back to the laptop and type “licketysplits” into the password field.

Fuck off.

I’m in.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I know that. And yet, my fingers are already moving, clicking through files, scrolling through folders.

I don’t even know what I’m lookingfor…just anything that connects Carmine to the Black Court.

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