SAVAGE RITES
The penthouse, which had felt like a sanctuary an hour ago, now felt like a coffin.
The steel shutters were down, sealing the windows tight. Red emergency lights pulsed softly near the floorboards, casting long, demonic shadows against the furniture.
Nico was a blur of motion. He had stripped off his dress shirt, revealing the tattoos on his torso ink that seemed to writhe in the low light. He had pulled a vest from the hidden armory wall and was strapping it on over a fresh black t-shirt.
I stood by the kitchen island, staring at the white pawn with the carved smile.
Checkmate in three moves.
I reached out and picked it up. It was light, made of cheap plastic, but it felt heavy in my hand. The red paint on the bottom was still tacky. Fresh.
“Don’t touch it,” Nico snapped, not looking up as he loaded a magazine into a handgun.
“Fingerprints.”
“They won’t find any,” I said quietly. “Whoever left this wore gloves. Just like you.”
Nico stopped. He looked at me across the room. The frantic energy coming off him was terrifying.
“Get dressed,” he ordered. “Jeans. Boots. Something you can run in.”
“We’re running?”
“We are relocating,” Nico corrected. “This location is burned. If they can get in to leave a flower, they can get in to leave a bomb.”
He grabbed his phone and dialed.
“Matteo. Bring the SUV around to the freight elevator. Armor plating. We’re moving to the Estate. Now.”
He hung up and looked at me. I hadn’t moved.
“Elena. Clothes.”
I ran to the bedroom. My hands were shaking. I pulled on the dark jeans I had worn in New York and the heavy boots. I threw a thick sweater over my head.
When I came back out, Dante was there.
I hadn’t heard him enter. The Silent Heir lived up to his name. He was standing by the door, an assault rifle hanging loosely across his chest. He looked bored, but his eyes were scanning every corner of the room.
“How did they get in?” I asked Dante.
He looked at me, his dark eyes flat. “They didn’t break the lock. They didn’t hack the keypad.”
“So?”
“They had a code,” Nico answered, walking over to us. He handed me a heavy Kevlar jacket. “Put this on.”
“A code?” I shrugged into the stiff jacket. “Who has the code?”
“Four people,” Nico said. He held up four fingers. “Me. Matteo. Dante.”
He lowered three fingers, leaving one standing.
“And my father.”
A chill went down my spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
“Your father?” I whispered. “Why would your father let the Volkovs in?”
“He wouldn’t,” Nico said. “Which means someone cloned his access key. Or…”
“Or we have a mole in the inner circle,” Dante finished. He looked at Nico significantly.
“We deal with the traitor later,” Nico said, his voice grim. “Right now, we get Elena behind the walls of Blackwood. The Estate has a perimeter that not even a ghost can cross.”
“The Gala is tomorrow,” I reminded him. “The note said ‘See you at the Gala.'”
“Then we will be there,” Nico said. He reached out and checked the zipper of my jacket, pulling it all the way to my chin. “If V wants a show, we’ll give them a show.”
He grabbed my hand. His grip was bruising.
“Stay behind me. If shooting starts, you drop to the floor. You don’t look, you don’t scream, you survive. Understood?”
“Understood.”
We moved toward the elevator. Dante took point, his rifle raised. Nico was behind me.
The elevator ride down was silent. I watched the numbers count down.
Checkmate in three moves.
The pawn. The rose. The breach. That was move one.
The elevator doors opened into the garage.
It wasn’t empty.
Matteo was there with the armored SUV, the engine idling. But standing near the exit ramp, illuminated by the headlights, was a figure.
She was leaning against a concrete pillar, smoking a cigarette. Platinum blonde hair. Leather jacket.
Sloane
Nico raised his gun instantly. Dante leveled his rifle.
“Give me one reason not to drop you, Sloane,” Nico shouted, his voice echoing off the concrete walls.
Sloane didn’t flinch. She took a slow drag of her cigarette and exhaled a plume of blue smoke. She held her hands up, palms open, showing she was unarmed.
“Because I’m the one who told you about the Volkovs five years ago,” Sloane called back. “And because I know why they’re here.”
“How did you know we were leaving?” Nico demanded, keeping the gun trained on her chest.
“I didn’t,” Sloane said. She dropped the cigarette and crushed it with her boot. “I came to warn you. My father just called. The Volkovs didn’t just breach your penthouse, Nico.”
She walked forward slowly, into the light. Her face was pale.
“They hit the Ricci shipments in Jersey an hour ago,” she said. “And they left a message.”
“What message?”
Sloane looked at me.
“A white pawn,” she said. “With a smile carved into it.”
Nico lowered his gun slightly.
“Get in the car,” Nico ordered.
Sloane shook her head. “I have my own ride. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead yet. The Alliance is fragile, Nico. If the Russians are back, they smell blood in the water.”
She looked at me, her eyes lingering on the heavy Kevlar jacket I was wearing.
“Nice jacket, Elena,” Sloane said dryly. “Matches your eyes.”
“Who is V?” I asked her.
Sloane paused. She looked at Nico, then back at me.
“V isn’t a person, honey,” Sloane said softly. “It’s a promise. Vendetta.”
She turned and walked toward a sleek motorcycle parked in the shadows.
“See you at the Gala,” she called over her shoulder. “Try not to get shot before the appetizers.”
Nico shoved me toward the SUV.
“Get in,” he snarled.
I climbed into the backseat. The doors locked with a heavy, pressurized thud.
As we sped out of the garage and into the night, I thought about Sloane’s words.
Vendetta.
Revenge.
The Volkovs wanted revenge for being pushed out of the city. My father wanted revenge for being exiled. Julian wanted revenge for his humiliation.
Everyone wanted blood.
And I was the currency they were using to buy it.
The Blackwood Estate was less of a home and more of a medieval fortress modernized for 21st-century warfare.
We drove through three separate checkpoints. Men in dark raincoats with assault rifles slung over their shoulders waved the armored SUV through the iron gates. The house itself sat on a cliff overlooking the churning river.
Nico didn’t wait for Matteo to open the door. He kicked it open and dragged me out into the driving rain.
“Inside,” he commanded. “Move.”
We ran up the stone steps. The massive oak doors swung open before we touched them.
We spilled into the Grand Hall. It was enormous, with a ceiling that disappeared into shadows and a fireplace large enough to roast a whole ox.
But the room wasn’t empty.
Pacing in front of the fire, clutching a crystal tumbler of whiskey, was Bianca.
She looked frantic. Her hair was loose, wilder than usual, and her mascara was smudged beneath her left eye.
When she saw us, she stopped pacing. She slammed the glass down on a side table so hard liquid splashed over the rim.
“Finally!” she shrieked. Her voice was shrill, echoing off the stone walls. “I have been waiting here for an hour! Do you have any idea what is happening out there?”
Nico stripped off his wet tactical vest, handing it to a silent guard who had appeared from the shadows.
“I know exactly what is happening, Bianca,” Nico said calmly. “Your father’s shipment was hit. The Volkovs are back.”
“They didn’t just hit the shipment, Nico!” Bianca marched toward him, her hands trembling. “They blew up the warehouse! Three of my father’s men are dead. Burned alive.”
She stopped a few feet away, her eyes wild. Then, her gaze shifted to me.
She saw the oversized Kevlar jacket I was drowning in. She saw Nico’s hand resting protectively on the small of my back.
Her fear instantly curdled into something uglier.
“And why is she here?” Bianca spat, pointing a manicured finger at me. “This is a war council, Nico. Not a slumber party for your charity case.”
“Elena is here because the Volkovs breached my penthouse,” Nico said, stepping between us. His voice was a low warning. “They left a calling card on my kitchen counter. She is a target.”
“We are all targets!” Bianca yelled. She looked on the verge of hysteria. “My father sent me here because he thought the Estate was safe. He said you would protect me. And instead, you drag her in here? She’s the daughter of a rat! She’s probably the one leaking the codes!”
“Watch your mouth,” Nico snarled.
“No!” Bianca stomped her foot. “Think about it, Nico! The Volkovs haven’t been in this city for five years. Suddenly, the Rat’s daughter shows up, and two months later, the Russians are burning down my inheritance? It’s not a coincidence!”
I stepped out from behind Nico.
“If I were working with the Russians,” I said, my voice steady, “I wouldn’t be wearing a forty-pound vest and hiding in a castle. I’d be on a plane to the Maldives with my father.”
Bianca glared at me, her chest heaving. “You don’t belong here.”
“Neither do you,” I countered. “But here we are.”
Bianca let out a screech of frustration and lunged for me.
Nico caught her. He grabbed her wrists mid-air, stopping her easily. He pushed her back, not gently.
“Enough,” Nico boomed.
He stared Bianca down until she shrank back, whimpering slightly.
“You are here as a guest, Bianca,” Nico said coldly. “Because of the alliance between our fathers. But do not mistake my hospitality for patience. If you touch Elena again, I will have Matteo drive you back to the city and drop you off on a street corner in Brighton Beach. The Russians can have you.”
Bianca gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Nico released her. She rubbed her wrists, tears welling in her eyes—tears of rage.
“Matteo,” Nico barked.
Matteo stepped forward from the doorway, shaking rainwater off his leather jacket. “Boss?”
“Take Bianca to the West Wing guest suites. Lock the door from the outside. For her own safety.”
“You’re locking me up?” Bianca cried. “I’m a Ricci!”
“You’re a liability,” Nico said. He turned his back on her.
Matteo grabbed Bianca’s arm. “Come on, Princess. Let’s go find you some calming tea.”
Bianca struggled for a second, then went limp. She looked at Nico’s back with a mixture of longing and hatred. Then she looked at me.
“Checkmate,” she whispered, echoing the note. “You think you’re the Queen, Elena. But you’re just the first piece to fall.”
Matteo dragged her away, her emerald silk disappearing into the shadows of the hallway.
Nico let out a long breath. He ran a hand through his wet hair.
“She’s right about one thing,” Dante said quietly from the entrance. He was leaning on his rifle.
“What’s that?” Nico asked.
“The timing,” Dante said. “The Volkovs moving now… it feels personal. They aren’t just hitting business. They’re hitting us. The penthouse. The Ricci warehouse. They know where we live.”
Nico walked over to the fireplace. He stared into the flames.
“They want to disrupt the Gala,” Nico said. “Tomorrow night. All the families will be in one room. It’s the perfect kill box.”
“We should cancel,” I said.
Nico turned to me. The firelight danced in his gray eyes.
“We don’t cancel,” he said. “If we cancel, we look weak. If we look weak, the street eats us alive.”
He walked over to me. He began to unzip my Kevlar jacket. His fingers brushed my chin.
“We are going to that party,” Nico said softly. “And we are going to end this war before the last dance.”
He pulled the heavy vest off my shoulders and let it drop to the floor with a thud.
“Come,” he said. “You’re sleeping in my room.”
“Because it’s safer?” I asked.
Nico pulled me close, his hand tangling in my hair.
“Because I want you where I can reach you,” he murmured. “And because if the Russians come tonight, I want them to see exactly who they are trying to take from me.”
He led me up the grand staircase.
I looked back at the empty spot where Bianca had stood. Her perfume still lingered in the air.
She was scared. I was scared.
But looking at Nico’s broad back as he led me into the dark heart of the fortress, I realized the difference.
Bianca wanted Nico to save her.
I was ready to help Nico kill them.
Nico’s bedroom at the Estate was not like the sleek, modern void of the New York penthouse. It was a cathedral of history and blood.
The walls were lined with dark oak paneling that absorbed the light. A massive four-poster bed, carved with gargoyles and draped in heavy velvet, dominated the center of the room. A fire crackled in a hearth big enough to stand in, but it didn’t chase away the chill of the storm battering the leaded glass windows.
Nico locked the heavy door behind us.
He turned to me. The exhaustion was finally showing in the lines around his eyes, but his posture remained rigid.
“There is a bathroom through that door,” he said, gesturing to the left. “There are fresh clothes. Use them. I need to make a call to the security team at the venue.”
“You’re still planning to go through with it,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“We went over this, Elena.”
“I know,” I said, walking toward the fireplace to warm my hands. “We don’t look weak. We don’t cancel.”
I turned to face him.
“But you aren’t just going to the party to dance, are you? You’re setting a trap.”
Nico walked over to a wardrobe. He opened the doors.
“The Volkovs want a spectacle,” Nico said, his back to me. “They sent a pawn to my home. That was the invitation. The Gala is the venue. If I don’t show up, they win. If I show up and hide in a corner, they win.”
He pulled a garment bag from the wardrobe. It was heavy; I could hear the fabric shifting inside.
“So,” Nico turned around, holding the bag. “I am going to give them exactly what they want. A target. Center stage.”
He walked over to the bed and laid the bag down. He unzipped it slowly.
The light from the fire caught the contents, and for a second, the room seemed to ignite.
It was the dress.
Sloane had joked about it.
But this wasn’t just a dress. It was armor disguised as fashion.
It was a floor-length gown made of thousands of tiny, shimmering gold scales. It looked like liquid metal. It was backless, with a halter neck that plunged dangerously low. It was beautiful, ostentatious, and incredibly heavy.
“Chainmail,” I whispered, reaching out to touch the cold metal fabric.
“Gold mesh,” Nico corrected. “Lined with Kevlar weave. It won’t stop a rifle round, but it will stop a knife. And it will stop a small caliber bullet.”
He reached back into the bag and pulled out a mask.
It was a Venetian half-mask, painted gold, with sharp, angular features. It didn’t look festive. It looked like the face of a war god.
“You aren’t just dressing me for a party,” I realized, looking up at him. “You’re dressing me for battle.”
“You are the Queen on the board, Elena,” Nico said softly. He tossed the mask onto the bed next to the dress. “The Queen is the most powerful piece. But she is also the one everyone tries to take out to get to the King.”
He walked around the bed and stood in front of me. He reached out and unzipped my jeans, his hands efficient and claiming.
“Tomorrow night,” he said, pushing the denim down my hips, “you will stand next to me. You will wear the gold. You will wear the ruby. And you will look every single person in that room in the eye.”
“And what will you be doing?” I asked, stepping out of the jeans.
“I will be waiting,” Nico said. His gray eyes darkened. “Because V is arrogant. V will come to gloat. And when they make their move…”
He let the sentence hang in the air.
“What happens to the pawn?” I asked.
Nico smirked. He ran his hand up my bare leg, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of my thigh.
“The pawn becomes a Queen,” he whispered. “Or she gets sacrificed. It depends on how well she plays the game.”
He picked me up then, effortlessly, and laid me on the bed next to the gold dress. The metal fabric was cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he hovered over me.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
It was the question that had started everything. In the lecture hall. In the library. In the car.
I looked at the gold mask staring up at the ceiling. I listened to the storm raging outside, battering against the stone walls of the fortress.
“I trust you to kill them,” I whispered.
Nico’s smile was terrifyingly genuine.
“That’s the right answer.”
He kissed me,
We didn’t have s+×. We didn’t have the energy for it, instead, Nico stripped down to his boxers and pulled me under the heavy duvet.
He wrapped himself around me, his arm heavy across my chest, his leg thrown over mine. He pinned me to the mattress, ensuring that even in sleep, I couldn’t move without him knowing.
“Sleep,” he commanded into the darkness. “Tomorrow, we bleed.”
I closed my eyes.
But sleep didn’t come easily. Every time I drifted off, I saw the white pawn with the red smile. And every time I woke up, I was staring at the gold dress hanging in the moonlight, waiting for a body to fill it.
Checkmate in three moves.
Move one was the breach.
Move two was the trap at the Gala.
Move three…
I didn’t know what Move three was. But lying in the arms of the King of Blackwood, I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it.
TBC
