Page 39 of Ambition

A different man dressed in a white polo carries a silver platter on one hand as I wind my way up to the fourth floor. The man glances at me, but quickly averts his eyes. I dressed for the occasion, in a tailored black shirt, gray slacks, an Audemars Piguet on my wrist, and I assume the man believes me to be a guest of Sancte.

Which I am. Just an uninvited one.

When I get to the fireproof door blocking my way to the fourth floor, I wait, hands in my pockets. Dad told me to stop here, that someone would be out.

“Why is Cosmo de Actis really here?”he asked me yesterday, when he got to this part.

Now, I think of Cosmo touching Karia. Watching me finger Isadora. We’ve done some weird shit together in all the years we’ve known one another, but never that. And Cosmo is kind of sketchy; he always brings the drugs to the party but he’s rarely ever high and there’s that weird performance art he’s into and…Fuck.I pace a little on the landing before the fourth floor door, promising myself I will never touch Isa in front of that freak again. He might show her a rough time I can’t bring myself to do.

I spin to do another small loop when the door clangs open and I stagger down a step.

And fucking Cosmo goddamn de Actis steps out, smiling softly at me in his black tech pants and black hoodie, green eyes seeming to glow in the dimness of the stairwell.

“You are not at all who the fuck I was expecting,” he says quietly, eyes lifting from my feet to my face.

“What thefuckare you doing here?” I know Cosmo from our private high school. He’s not in Writhe, so I have no idea why he’s in Vipera.

But…the contact.

“I’m not the supplier you’re looking for, but I do provideexquisiteblow.” He grins, then holds out the door for me. “I don’t think Isadora is going to like this though.” He shifts a little, blocking my way onto the fourth floor.

Dad’s question makes a lot more sense now.

“What she likes and doesn’t like isn’t your fucking concern.” I move past him then, shoulder checking him as I emerge into one of the smaller corridors past the door the “contact” had to unlock for me.

That kind of makes my head spin but I guess weirder connections have been made.

“414, Von Bentzen,” Cosmo says softly at my back, still standing with the door propped over his shoulder.

I lock my gaze onto his green one, note the way little lines crinkle around his eyes from smiling too damn much. “Thanks,” I mutter. The next piece of information the contact was set to give me.

Cosmo wouldn’t know when the supplier is coming next week, especially if he only provides bricks to Theo, but he knows enough.

Now I have to reevaluate the fact I let him into my fucking condo but that’s a worry for another day.

I nod my head at him once as he keeps fucking smiling, then I walk away, leaving him and his secrets behind.

The hallway lighting is embedded into the floor, soft glows of off-white light. The floors are white tile, the walls varying shades of red with ornamental detailing. The scent of bleach is heavy in the air, and I don’t really want to know why. All I know is where to get the information, and not for the first time, I’m glad it’s me here and not Isadora.

I told her the intel on exchanges would be digital.

I was wrong, of course.

As I continue on, I pass a small supply closet—the door is ajar, and I see the strangely immaculate stacks of brooms in varying lengths with various brushes—a closed door adjacent to it, made of heavy, dark wood, then there is another. This one has a number on it, and I assume many do here, to hold and house so many members of Vipera.

414.Dad didn’t have this number. It was for Cosmo the Contact.

I roll my eyes, thinking of him, and maybe delaying my next move.

I have no idea how this will go. If anyone will be inside this room.

If they aren’t, I’ll have to find them.

The schedule for Sancte’s shipments isn’t written down, it isn’t typed up, it isn’t stored on any computer that I’m aware of.

It’s both far simpler and more complex than that.

It is merely stored in Theo Sancte’s right-hand’s brain.

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