Page 155 of Dance of Ruin

Vaughn smiles smugly. “I don’t seem to recall thatyougive orders to me, Omar. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s the opposite.”

What thefuckam I watching?

And more importantly, how thefuckdid I miss that fuckingVaughnis Obsidian Syndicate?!

Because you were distracted by a certain ballerina…

“This isn’t from me, pal,” Omar snaps. “It’s direct from the Marquis.”

Omar sputters, choking as Vaughn’s hand shoots out like a viper striking, long fingers wrapping tightly around Omar’s throat and forearm muscles flexing.

“As. I. Was. Saying,” Vaughn says, his voice never raising, “it’sIwho give orders toyou. I’d advise you to remember that.”

Vaughn drops his hand from Omar’s throat and stands from the booth.

“Stay the fuck out of my business, Omar. That’s an order.”

He turns and strides out of frame. Omar winces, rubbing his throat and swallowing before he glances around surreptitiously, turns to the camera, and retrieves his phone from its hiding place.

The video cuts out.

What. The. Holy. Hell.

My brain tries to make the connections, figure out how thefuckI didn’t see this.

But there’s no time for that right now.

I slam the car into drive, peel away from the curb, and roar off into the night toward the Mercury Theater.

The city whips past me in blurry streaks of red brake lights as I weave through traffic like a goddamn heat-seeking missile. Cold viciousness churns in my veins.

Just then, my phone—mine, not Omar’s—buzzes with a call from an unknown number. Usually I ignore those, but this time, something tells me not to.

“Yes,” I growl, hitting the answer button.

“Mr. Barone, I presume?”

The British voice is smooth, posh, andveryold-money sounding.

I don’t immediately answer.

“My name is Oliver Prince,” the voice continues. “A mutual friend suggested I get in touch.”

Right.

The Stag.

“I know someone in the UK who might know something about them. The Syndicate, I mean.”

“Mr. Prince,” I nod, weaving through traffic. “Thanks for reaching out.”

“I apologize for the delay,” he purrs in that exquisitely polished, proper accent. “But I do like to have my information entirely correct before I pass it along to others.” He clears his throat. “Now, itwasthe Obsidian Syndicate you were interested in, yes?”

“That would be extremely helpful.”

“I must tell you that I don’t make a habit of discussing current or former clients of mine with anyone.”

I frown. “Clients?” I hiss.

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