Page 135 of I Will Revel in Glory (Death by Daybreak MC 3)
There are five of them in total.
Five men who were directly responsible for Queenie’s death, one of whom is the asshole who said those unforgettable words—This is for Kian.—and pulled the trigger on a heavily pregnant woman. Five men who took turns on Posey and then left her for dead, her blood running down the pool drain.
I exhale and toss my hair back, trying to maintain my calm, desperately tamping down those violent urges. Anyway, I don’t expect to see Giulia. Grey said she was here to fuck her boytoy, right? They’re probably holed up in the penthouse right now, banging one out.
But that’s okay, because we have a plan for that.
“Stay with the group for a while,” Crown tells me, even though I already know. We’ve been over this a dozen times in the last few days. Maybe more than that. “And then take a quick walk around.” He pauses for a minute, and when he speaks again, it’s like he’s trying to talk around something bitter and thick on his tongue. “Take the quarterback with you. He seems interested.”
“Bet your ass he’s interested,” I tease, not caring that Chardou looks at me like she’s considering running fast and hard in the opposite direction. “Trevone,” I correct, looking back at her. “What do you think? Does he still want to fuck me? Even after I poisoned him on his birthday?” Crap. I should’ve said envenomated him on his birthday. My bad.
“Are you kidding me?” Amiya chirps, playing with the silky raven plait that’s hanging over her shoulder. “We could’ve died at the Artefact that day. Don’t you even care?”
I just stare right back at her, and I can tell that the blue contacts I’m wearing are even more unnerving than my usual red-brown Cat eyes. Amiya shifts uncomfortably and looks away, toward a table on the opposite side of the lounge. It’s situated behind a red velvet rope, clearly a VIP area for bottle service.
There are so many fancy people over there, ones that remind me of my wedding guests, the ones I mowed down with a machine gun.
If only Amiya knew how much I cared, but how few choices I had. If only she knew how much Crown cared. She should feel lucky to be alive because people like her are usually just fodder for people like Cat. Like Alvise. Even Grey.
And me … apparently.
I brought these kids here tonight, even knowing there’s a small chance they could get hurt. Likely not, considering this place is full of the general public. It isn’t easy to cover up dozens of civilian deaths, especially when they’re all concentrated in one spot. My ‘friends’—as Crown put it—are fairly safe here. But I would never have brought Reba along with me.
That’s the difference.
“Your daddy is a hedge fund manager,” I reply finally, as if that’s accusation enough. “You don’t think he does things that are probably against the goddamn Geneva Conventions on a regular basis? Don’t act like we’re any different.”
Amiya turns back to me as Dena and Chardou exchange a look, but she doesn’t dare say anything. And then the boys are back and passing out drinks, clearly having been successful with their fake IDs at the bar. Excellent.
Trevone takes a seat next to me while Kellen and Johnny sit across the table with the girls interspersed between them.
“This place is fantastic,” Tre remarks, looking around with wonder as he lifts a bottle of some fancy IPA to his lips. “Damn. Shoulda checked it out sooner.”
“And if you win? Then what?” Dena asks snootily, gesturing in the direction of the slot machines. “It’s totally pointless.” She tosses her hair and then pauses at the sight of a handsome young man in a tailored suit.
His face triggers my memory, and I almost choke on the drink that I’m not actually drinking. Couldn’t tell Trev that I’m knocked-up with a biker’s baby, could I? Well, I mean, I’ve said things like that to these people before, Amiya in particular. But I was joking then. It’s reality now.
I make sure that I’m facing the man as he walks past so that the boys can see; he’s one of Alvise’s tactical guys.
“Fuck,” Crown murmurs, but this isn’t entirely unexpected. What is unexpected, I think, is for the sea of glittering socialites on the other side of the red velvet rope to adjust themselves so that I can see the person sitting at the head of the table.
Giulia Wolfe.
My eyes widen as I spot her there, not fifty feet away from me.
Oh my fucking God.
She’s laughing and smiling and schmoozing, but when her eyes drift my way, I drop my attention down to the clutch in my lap, certain that if she sees my face, she’ll know right away who I am.
We have a disturbing sort of connection, me and Giulia.
