Page 94 of Dance of Deception

I move soundlessly through the labyrinthine halls, my footsteps swallowed by the hush of the underground. At this point, the mask I'm currently wearing feels like a second skin. It should, given that I’ve worn it for almost a decade now.

Here—in Court—this is who I am.

The Hound, one of the five Shadow Kings, sitting as judge, jury, and if necessary, executioner of the accused.

In here, I’m not Carmine Barone. Not the mafia prince who's about to marry a woman who makes his veins burn every time she opens her mouth.

It’s only in the last few years that we’ve become bolder and more active in our Black Court operations, but this all started ten years ago.

At Knightsblood University.

Back then, the five of us were simply various mafia heirs attending the prestigious, shadowy Ivy League college built for the sons and daughters of the underworld. We came from different families and different empires, but the five us all found ourselves as members of Para Bellum, one of the four elite clubs that have almost as long a history as Knightsblood itself.

There's the Ouroboros Society, for the information brokers. The Order, which seeks out the spies and assassins. The Reckless, calling to—well, that's fairly self-descriptive. They’re the warriors.

And then there’s Para Bellum: the strategists. The generals. The leaders.

That’s where the Black Court was born: on a dark night seeped in mayhem and vengeance. That was the first time we wore our masks. And after that first baptism in blood, we all knew this wasn’t going to be a one-time thing.

It’s not that any of us thought our fathers or our families or our institutions were weak. But the system itself was becoming complacent. Rot was creeping in around the edges.

And if there’s one thing I’ve always known on a visceral level, it’s that power without control is worthless.

So we built The Black Court: a system that would keep the chaos in check. Because criminals without a code of conduct are just animals.

And animals cannot rule.

In here, we aren’t who we are outthere, bound by mafia politics, or opportunity, or family. In here, it’s all about choices. The choice to be right or to be wrong.

Innocent or guilty.

Fight or flight.

I pause by the carved, heavy wooden door to the inner sanctum. Then I roll my neck, take a breath and step inside. The chamber is steeped in shadows and flickering torchlight that casts jagged silhouettes against the stone walls.

Conversation pauses as I enter. The four other Shadow Kings—The Wolf, The Bull, The Raven and The Stag—are already seated around the ancient stone table, its surface carved with the same intricate runes that are on the walls of this underground cathedral.

Their black masks, each molded into the beast it represents, glint in the dim light.

I’m a little late, and it’s clear they’ve already been talking about this evening's subject at hand. The Raven glances at me, dipping his head. I clap a hand on The Bull’s firm, muscled shoulder before I take my seat at the table next to him.

The Wolf glances at me, then clears his throat and leans back in his chair.

“So glad you could fit us in, Hound.”

I roll my eyes under my mask.

“I had something to deal with.”

“Weallhave shit to deal with,” The Wolf mutters. “But when we agree to?—”

“Enough.”

The Stag lifts his mask just enough to be able to slip a cigarette between his lips. The Zippo flickers and catches, then he leans in and lights the tip.

“Mind if I fucking continue?” The Wolf mutters with barely concealed annoyance, which is pretty much his default setting regarding the rest of the world.

“By all means,” The Stag growls quietly.

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