SAVAGE RITES
The Grand Ballroom of Blackwood University was beautifully decorated.
Under the light of twenty crystal chandeliers, the children of senators, CEOs, and crime lords spun in circles, their faces hidden behind masks. The air smelled of expensive perfume and the metallic tang of chilled champagne.
I stood at the top of the marble staircase, my hand gripping Nico’s arm.
The gold mesh dress was heavy, dragging against my skin like chainmail. Every breath I took was constricted by the metal fabric. The ruby at my throat felt like a burning coal. I wore the gold mask Nico had given me.
“Breathe,” Nico whispered. He was wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin and a simple black domino mask that did nothing to hide the lethal intensity of his gray eyes.
“I am breathing,” I said through gritted teeth.
“They are watching,” Nico murmured, his gaze scanning the floor below.
We descended the stairs.
The music, a live string quartet playing didn’t stop, but the conversation did. As we stepped onto the ballroom floor, heads turned. The sea of black and silver parted for the gold.
We walked to the center of the room. Matteo and Dante materialized from the crowd, flanking us. Sloane was there too, wearing a silver dress and a mask covered in diamonds, looking beautiful.
“Perimeter is secure,” Dante said quietly, not moving his lips. “No sign of the Russians.”
“They’re coming,” Nico said. “V likes an entrance.”
We waited. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. The tension in the room was a physical weight.
The students knew something was wrong.
And then, the music stopped.
It wasn’t a gradual fade. The quartet simply ceased playing, mid-note. The silence that followed was deafening.
The heavy double doors at the far end of the ballroom swung open.
A cold draft swept through the room, flickering the candles.
“Here we go,” Nico said. His hand moved to his hip, hovering near the gun concealed under his jacket.
A group of men walked in.
There were six of them. They wore black suits, cut in the severe, blocky style of Eastern Europe. They were big men, with necks thick with muscle and scars visible even from a distance.
The Volkovs.
But they weren’t leading. They were securing.
In the center of the formation walked a single figure.
He was tall, slender but broad-shouldered. He wore a white tuxedo that glowed under the lights, a stark contrast to the darkness of the Russians surrounding him. He wore a full-face white mask, featureless and ghostly.
He walked with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. He didn’t look like an invader; he looked like the host.
The group stopped ten feet away from us. The entire ballroom held its breath.
Nico stepped forward, shielding me with his body.
“You have a lot of nerve,” Nico called out, his voice echoing in the silent hall. “Walking into my house. Interrupting my party.”
The figure in the white mask tilted his head. It was a familiar gesture.
“Your house?” the figure asked. The voice was distorted by the mask, but the cadence was chillingly familiar. “Nico, you always did struggle with sharing.”
Nico stiffened. I felt a tremor go through his arm where it pressed against mine. He knew.
“Take it off,” Nico commanded.
The figure reached up. A gloved hand gripped the edge of the white mask.
Slowly, theatrically, he pulled it away.
I stopped breathing. My heart stuttered, then slammed against my ribs.
It wasn’t a Russian stranger. It wasn’t an old enemy from the past.
Hazel eyes. Golden hair swept back perfectly. A handsome, boyish face that had smiled at me over a sandwich just few days ago.
Julian.
A gasp rippled through the room.
“Julian?” I whispered. The word came out as a broken sound. “What… what are you doing?”
Julian didn’t look at me with the soft, puppy-dog eyes I was used to. He looked at me with a cold, amused possessiveness. He handed the mask to one of the hulking Russian guards, who took it respectfully.
“Hello, Elena,” Julian said. His voice was smooth, devoid of the stuttering nervousness he used to affect. “I told you I’d see you at the Gala.”
“You…” I shook my head, the tears springing to my eyes instantly. “You’re V?”
“Valenti? No,” Julian chuckled. “Volkov? Close. My mother’s maiden name was Volkov. Did you never check the registry, Nico? Or were you too busy staring at yourself in the mirror?”
Nico didn’t move. His face was a mask of stone, but I saw the vein in his temple throbbing. He had been outplayed. He had looked right at the threat and dismissed him as a “soft boy.”
“You work for them,” Nico said flatly.
“I think for them,” Julian corrected. He stepped forward, leaning on a black cane I hadn’t noticed before a prop, surely, or a weapon. “My uncle runs the muscle. I run the strategy. The breach at the penthouse? My code. The hit on the Ricci warehouse? My timing.”
He looked at me. His hazel eyes were hard now, void of any warmth.
“And you, Elena,” Julian said softly. “You were the easiest puzzle of all.”
“You lied,” I choked out, a tear slipping from beneath my gold mask. “Everything… the library, the sandwich, the kindness… it was all a lie?”
“It was a recruitment drive,” Julian said with a shrug. “I offered you a way out. I offered to be your savior. We could have taken down the De Lucas from the inside together.”
His face darkened. The anger I had seen in the library returned, but now it was magnified.
“But you chose him,” Julian spat. “You looked me in the eye yesterday and told me you chose the monster. You picked the brute over the architect.”
“So you sent a dead rose?” Nico stepped in, his voice vibrating with rage. “You threatened her?”
“I promised her,” Julian corrected. “Checkmate in three moves.”
He gestured around the room.
“Move one: Isolation. I cut you off from your safe house.”
“Move two: Exposure. I brought you here, to the killing floor.”
“And Move three?” Nico asked, his hand drifting closer to his gun.
Julian smiled. It was the smile from the pawn.
“Move three is the sacrifice.”
Julian snapped his fingers.
Behind us, the sound of breaking glass shattered the air.
I spun around.
The windows of the balcony had shattered. Men were rappelling in. Not just a few. Dozens. They were wearing the same black tactical gear Nico’s men wore, but their armbands were red.
We were surrounded.
“You have two choices, Nico,” Julian said, his voice calm amidst the screaming students who were now diving for the floor. “You can die here, with your crown on.”
Julian pointed his cane at me.
“Or you can give me the Queen. And I let you walk away.”
I looked at Julian. The boy who had held my hand. The boy who had kissed me gently in the archives. He was looking at me like I was a piece of property he was owed.
Then I looked at Nico.
He didn’t flinch. He was staring at Julian with a look of pure hatred.
“You want her?” Nico asked softly.
“She chose the wrong side,” Julian said. “I’m here to correct her mistake.”
Nico turned to me. He reached up and wiped the tear from my cheek with his thumb. His touch was the only steady thing in a world that was falling apart.
He leaned down, his forehead touching mine.
“Do you trust me?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I sobbed.
Nico turned back to Julian. He drew his gun in one fluid motion.
“Come and get her,” Nico snarled.
And the ballroom exploded into chaos.
TBC
