Page 127 of Dukes of Peril

“Or athletics?” Lavinia offers, glancing between us. “Something to do with Forsyth?”

Sy leans forward, fixing me with a significant look. “She did get that apartment.”

Remy snaps his fingers, eyes flashing. “InEast End. That can’t be cheap, right?” He’s never been the best at gauging stuff like that, growing up like a spoiled little rich kid. But he has a point. It’d made me curious at the time, but everything went to hell before the curiosity could evolve into something actionable.

Bothered by the timing, I wonder, “Why would Mama B bring this up now?”

Lavinia shrugs, looking up at me. “I don’t know, but she was definitely acting weird. Tense. She told me to ask you about it.” Teeth worrying at her lip, she looks at Sy and Remy, adding, “I feel like maybe she was hoping it’d be useful?”

Sy runs a palm down his face, looking as frayed and tired as the rest of us. “Mama B has always had a soft spot for me. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” He pauses, peering out the window. “Which is in about three hours.” He lifts his hips to take out his wallet, pulling out three bills. “You guys ready to head home?”

My brain is moving restlessly around the possibilities of Tate working for Saul, but just the mention of home makes me aware of the weariness in my bones. Lavinia, too, seems to be fading. We pay the bill and pile in the car. Lavinia curls into Remy and falls asleep on the ride home.

All in all, it’s a good night.

Until we reach the tower.

22

Remy

Later,I’ll berate myself for it, wondering if orgasms have really made us so lax and soft that we’re off our game. She tells me–the clock tower. She gives me a sign, the odd silence in her voids and vacancies a clear, hushed warning, but I don’t even feel the orange until we’re pushing through the door.

Nicky has his gun out before the rest of us even realize something is off.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks, gun leveled at Saul’s face, despite the fact there are three goons in the room, positioned at the loft, the doorway to Nicky’s room, and the entrance to the kitchen.

The tower’s air shivers with alarm, though.

There might be more.

Saul’s a fucking bastard, but Kings don’t survive by playing fast and loose. He’s sitting in the leather armchair, still in his suit from the poker game. Unlike the three of us, he still looks immaculate, fingers curled around the neck of a beer bottle–ourbeer. A tinge of goldish orange rolls off his skin like toxic waste. It’s worse when he smiles, eyes sharp and menacing. “You must think you’re so clever.”

Nick doesn’t lower the gun. “Only because I am.”

“That’s the problem with you Bruins,” his eyes hold Nick’s as he takes a swig. “You’re all so incredibly full of yourselves, as if not becoming a stain on your mother’s bedsheets makes you special.”

My eyes track the room, darting into every dark corner. Saul is most likely aware that Sy and I were both disarmed at the poker game by his men. That means all we came into this fight with is our fists and Nicky’s pistol.

Before Nick can reply to Saul’s insult, Lavinia pushes between us, eyes flaring in hot irritation. “We jumped through your hoops. We hosted the party, and we put on your fucking show. What more do you want?”

He raises the beer to her. “You certainly did, and congratulations are in order. It seems the esteemed VIPs of West End are ready and willing to see you as a Duchess.” His fingers tap against the glass of the bottle, his bulky ring clinking loudly in the stillness. “So I suppose it’s time to make you one.”

“Time for what?” Sy asks. The tendon in his neck pulls taut.

Saul radiates gold. “To complete her initiation.”

Nick throws the keys on the coffee table, wagging the gun. “Your ears must still be ringing from the cheers I was getting, old man. Lavinia’s already our Duchess. There are no further initiations.”

“It’s not really official,” Saul disagrees, bending forward to place the beer on the table. “Not until she bears the scar of our house.” Without breaking Nick’s gaze, Saul turns his head–just an inch–and raises his voice to call out, “Bring the branding tools.”

“What?” Vinny says, her eyes wide and confused. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Ewing steps from just inside the kitchen, the straps of a black bag in one hand, his gun in the other.

Fuck me, but I have had enough of this shitstain.

Jolting forward, I angrily grab my jacket from Vinny’s shoulders, wrenching her around. “She already has a fucking mark!” I snap, revealing the tattoo on her shoulder. “I put it there myself, onyourorders, that night at the Hideaway.”

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