Page 15 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
That last part is a warning shot, fired off before Ivan sweeps from the room and the servants follow, leaving behind shoes and cosmetics along with the diamonds.
Grey curses under his breath, ruffling up his sandy hair as he stares at the garments, now hanging from the open door of the armoire.
“Is this a good thing or … are we going to die tonight?” I ask, wondering how I can say such a phrase so calmly on the birthday that’s supposed to mark my passage into adulthood, not into an early grave.
“I’m … not sure,” Grey hazards, rubbing his hand up and down his left arm. It’s been hurting him a lot since the accident. He broke it, but the cast came off last week. Phantom pain maybe. Or just bad memories. He lifts his gray eyes up to meet mine. “But you’re right: this is either the start of something new or the end to it all.”
I look back at the dress, stepping forward to finger the fine silk. Purple is the color of royalty; I feel like it wasn’t given to me on accident.
Nothing the Grey Wolfe mafia does is accidental.
Grey and I are blindfolded for the duration of our walk to the dining room, but as soon as the wispy silk is removed from my eyes, I’m greeted to a scene that looks straight out of a magazine. The dining hall has soaring stone walls with a stained-glass ceiling, impressive stone columns and buttresses along the roof that I can see through the upper windows. There’s a chandelier that’s bigger than I am, with golden crystals that cast a warm, cozy glow over the huge dining table and the mountain of food down its middle.
Fresh fruits spilling from their crystal bowls like citrines and amethysts, wineglasses shimmering like rubies as diamond-encrusted hands reach out to take their fine stems, and the smiles of wolves, their sharp teeth bared.
Giulia greets us first, gesturing to a pair of seats on her left while Alvise lords over everything from the throne-like chair at the head of the table.
Tonight, we’re dining with the Don.
What an honor.
I resist the urge to scowl, sliding into the seat beside Grey and taking note of the way his shoulders stiffen when his mother lays her hand across his. To anyone watching from a distance, it might seem like an affectionate gesture. This close up, however, I see it for what it is: a warning.
Her long, purple painted nails dig into the back of Grey’s hand, leaving marks that he refuses to acknowledge. Instead, he smiles, and I know for a fact that we’re firmly entrenched in the middle of a very complicated chess game.
There’s still some, small naïve part of me that refuses to believe this is real, that keeps trying to think up ways that my father will save me, that the club will come riding in like the cavalry that I used to believe them to be. But then I remember that one day—I can’t remember when—I woke up and realized they were nothing but monsters.
So, if they do come, if a fight does break out, it won’t be heroes versus villains. Instead, it’s just the darkness battling itself.
“Happy birthday, Gidget,” Giulia says, leaning forward to smile at me. Her dark hair is coiffed atop her head like a shiny snake, the pearl barrette she’s accented it with appears to be the creature’s fangs. No part of me thinks that choice was unintentional. “You’re eighteen today, I understand. Such a monumental birthday.”
I smile back at her, and she falters. Not much, but enough that I can see I have the power to rankle her. Interesting.
“Tonight, we celebrate,” the Don says, giving his son a look that’s brimming with warmth and affection. Master thespian, I guess. Because it’s all bullshit. I’m sure Alvise loves his son about as much as Cat loves me. That is to say, not much at all. To some people, children are gifts of the heart, a piece of their soul that they find great joy in imparting happiness and love to. For others, they are pawns and property, meant to be moved around the game of life with the soul intent to crush and kill.
That’s Cat. That’s Alvise.
The Don rises from his seat and lifts his glass, clearly intending to propose a toast. The rest of the table follows suit, as if we’re at a real dinner party, one that isn’t surrounded by goons with guns. A quick flick of my gaze to the back of the room shows me how many of them there really are—and how much heat they’re packing.
I’m not used to playing slow, careful games. Shit, I’m a club daughter. This is pretty much the opposite of what we do: our parties are not quiet, elegant affairs but ragers with drugs and fighting and fucking and drinking.
