I glance at the clock, its second hand ticking, reminding me I’m running out of time before my jailer returns.

  Time to take a risk.

  “Meow,” Cece voices her concern.

  “I’ll be fine. Be good. I’ll be back soon.” I set her on the windowsill, her favorite spot.

  Carefully, I pull on my down jacket and traipse down the stairs.

  I unlock the front door. The click is soft, but it echoes in the marble foyer. I hold my breath, gaze snapping around. No one comes, and I slip out.

  The sky is overcast, a light mist shrouding the air. The weather may be freezing, but it’s on my side.

  One good thing about being trapped indoors and being bored out of my mind is I’ve observed the guards and their routines, written down their schedules.

  Yesterday, I spent the whole day haunting the window, noting every lap, tracking cigarette and cell phone breaks.

  There’s a small window now—one precise minute—where one guard walks toward the backyard pool, the other circling the perimeter. Their patrols run the same way throughout the day. I timed it. A precise pattern. If I don’t go now, I won’t go at all.

  I dart along the fence, boots clomping on thick snow. The tall evergreen trees screen me from the main lawn. Branches scratch my calves, and I hiss in pain. Quickly, I make it to the front, but I don’t take the main gate where the guard tower is. Instead, I slip toward the smaller door the gardeners use.

  Voices travel to my ears. I duck behind a hedge, heart beating out of my chest.

  Shit. I glance through the small gap between the leaves and the pockets of snow. They finished their patrol sooner.

  Or I was too slow.

  The man speaks into his walkie-talkie, his gaze sharp. He turns his head in my direction.

  I curl into a ball and hold myself still. The sharp twigs dig deep into my flesh.

  Please don’t see me.

  A few seconds pass, then I hear his footsteps as he walks out of view.

  Blowing out a breath, I tiptoe to the small door, fish out a hairpin, and fiddle with the lock.

  Click. It opens.

  I slip onto the quiet street, scan left and right. No neighbors. No guards.

  I dash toward the sedan.

  Then the door opens before I reach it.

  A striking man steps out. Gray wool coat. Black tie. Sleek gray suit. Espresso-brown hair, short on the sides, longer on top, perfectly tamed. Intelligent brown eyes behind black-framed glasses.

  “Ms. Anderson,” he says. “Finally, we meet.”

  “Who are you, and why have you been following me?” Adrenaline spikes and my pulse riots.

  He smiles, draws a black wallet from inside his jacket, and flips it open. “Special Agent Tristan Clarke, FBI, Criminal Investigative Division, at your service. We need to talk. Time is of the essence, and your life is in danger. Will you come with me?”

  Indecision wobbles inside me. Something pinches my gut. I glance back at the looming mansion—my prison—and think about the enigmatic man who is my husband in name.

  Why am I waffling? Why do I feel loyal to Elias? He’s a criminal.

  Remember the vault. The people he killed. The gun he pressed against your head.

  I’m losing my mind.

  Drawing a quick breath, I slide into the backseat. “Don’t make me regret this, Special Agent.”

  Chapter 27: A GAME OF CHESS

  The crack of his jawbone shattering vibrates inside the small cell of a nondescript warehouse at the edge of Saints Hollow. I sit in a dark corner, ankle to my knee, watching Niko deliver another sharp right hook to the handler’s face.

  I tsk. That one was weak. Bad angle. I could’ve done better.

  “I swear I know nothing!” the man sputters, sweat dripping down his forehead.

  Niko—the number two enforcer under the deranged Bakim of the Albanian mob—arches a dark brow at me.

  I press my lips together. “I don’t buy it. Do you?”

  Niko cracks a small smile and drags the man up by his collar. “Tell us who gave you the USB.”

  The Berishas think the encrypted messages, which stopped their “shipments,” came from a USB drive.

  A drive I planted, courtesy of Aleksei.

  “An inside job.” He grins. “Nothing freaks these people out more than a mole.”

  “I swear it’s not me. You’ve got the wrong guy!”

  “Only you knew about the shipments from Estonia and Croatia. It’s strange, isn’t it? The moment you disappeared was when all the shit went down?”

  He lands another hard punch into the man’s stomach.

  A wet plop. A rancid smell.

  Shit, the bastard vomited.

  I twirl my gloved finger in the air and tell Niko, “I don’t know about you, but this is going nowhere, and I have an appointment to get to. Speed it up.”

  Niko grunts and excuses himself to go outside, no doubt to bring in some power tools.

  As the door slams shut, the man—Akim, I think; these assholes are all the same—stares at me, blood pooling at the corner of his lips.

  “M-Mr. Kent, believe me! I didn’t send the virus. I had an emergency at home. When I came back, they told me the servers were hacked. Please! Tell them it wasn’t me.”

  I sigh. I almost feel sorry for the bastard since he’s our fall guy.

  If I had a conscience, that is.

  But since I don’t, I get up from my chair and amble toward him. Something must’ve given me away because the man shrinks.

  “Mr. Kent…” His voice cracks.

  I catch his chin, tilt his face up, and pat his cheek. “Do you know what I hate more than anything?”

  My words are a quiet whisper. The man stills, his sour breath puffing against my face.

  I lean closer. “I hate crimes against women. People like you disgust me to the core. If I had my way, I’d peel every inch of skin from your body just so I could hear you scream. And that’d only be an ounce of the torture you put those women through.”

  Akim’s breath quickens. “But you work for the Berishas! You’re part of The Association!”

  I smile and step back, wiping my gloves with a napkin.

  The door opens, and Niko walks back into the room, holding a toolbox.

  “I got it from here,” I tell him.

  He hesitates. “You sure?”

  Oh yes, I’m fucking sure.

  Niko’s eyes narrow with something like understanding. He hands me the toolbox and leaves.

  “So many choices,” I tsk under my breath as I flip through the tools, “what shall I use?”

  Akim whimpers, pleas blubbering from his mouth.

  Useless, spineless idiot.

  I hold up a sharp tactical knife and walk back to him. It gleams under the fluorescent light.

  I check my watch. “Too bad. I don’t have time to play with you today.”

  “No please! Talk to Dalmat Hoxha. He’d know more. I swear it wasn’t—”

  Hoxha. The Albanian mob secretary. Of course. Sick satisfaction warms my chest as I find my next target.

  “You.” I press my boot on his chest and bear down, watching with satisfaction as he gasps for breath, his face turning red. “I know it wasn’t you.”

  Rule one: look them in the eye.

  I stare straight at him. The rage I’ve tethered away comes roaring back to the surface.

  Rules two and three: Tell them their sins and no innocents.

  I lower my voice, a raw whisper. “It might not have been you, but your sins are just the same. Those women you hurt? Now, who will avenge them?”

  My fingers curl around his neck, feeling the tendons yield beneath my grip. The bones crack and give. He struggles against his binds, eyes widening, bloodshot and wild.

  “S-Stop…h-help—”

  I lean in. “I sent the virus.”

  His eyes widen and I plunge the knife, the hilt slamming into his chest. Wet gurgles reach my ears. Then fruitless struggles.

  When he stops moving, the room stills, thick and silent. I step back and slowly peel off my gloves—another pair ruined—and toss them into the metal bin.

  Flicking open my lighter, I hold it to my handkerchief. Flames catch. I drop it into the bin, watching the fire devour the evidence.

  A hollow satisfaction fills my gut as I step outside. Niko watches me from the hallway.

  “Well,” I say, “tell the Berishas it’s done. He wanted to get a cut of the shipment for himself. Go check his bank account.”

  They’ll see the three extra zeros I transferred over. Untraceable, of course.

  Niko’s assessing gaze pauses on my face.

  “Questions?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, eyes narrowed in anger.

  “Teenagers,” he mutters. “Thirteen-year-olds. That was the last batch. The bastard got what’s coming.”

  Anger climbs inside me. I think of Sofia—eyes haunted and lifeless, frame frail when I found her all those years ago. How close I was to losing her.

  Niko grunts his approval and stalks off.

  I can’t help but wonder why someone who clearly hates this life would stay with the Albanian mob.

  Just as I slide into the backseat of my car, my phone pings.

  Knight Ren

  It worked. She’s on the run. Want me to go after her?

  Ren attached a few photos—Lana getting into a black car.

  A flare rises behind my ribs when I take in her face—the desperation, the fear when she glanced back at the house, like she thought we were going to hurt her. Like she truly believed she was running for her life.

  I push down the emotions rising inside me. I won’t analyze why it hurts to breathe.

  You hate her, Elias. Remember what she did. Remember why Kian ceased to exist.

  But she never forgot me. I may have been drunk on my birthday, but I remember every second. There was sorrow in her eyes when she lit the candle.

  Then another image flashes behind my eyelids—the heartache on her face days later in front of Hollow Gardens.

  For me.

  My conscience, something I thought was long dead, flickers to life. Conscience kills in my reality.

  I harden myself and type a response.

  Rook Elias

  No, let her go. This way, we’ll see how much the feds have on us.

  Knight Ren

  Noted. Did I mention you’re a scary asshole?

  I chuckle, motioning for John to drive.

  Rook Elias

  Chess is only scary if you’re the piece being sacrificed.

  Chapter 28: A NẸW PLAYER

  The fed takes me to a small café overlooking Lake Michigan on the north side, far enough from Ashbourne Heights and Saints Hollow where no one we know will “happen” to drop by. The place is empty, but the heater is thankfully on. With its dated furnishings—peeling floral wallpaper, faded leather seats—it feels like a ghost town.

  “Well, I didn’t expect this, Special Agent Clarke. This is unusual,” I comment as he hands me a cup of tea. “Do you treat all your interviewees this way? Take them out for tea in the middle of nowhere? I was expecting four white walls, fluorescent lights, and really bad coffee.”

  He laughs, removes his gloves, and settles into the seat in front of me. “Tristan. Call me Tristan.”

  His lips curve into a small smile, which normally should make me feel better, but there’s a hardness in him that gets my hackles up.

  “I figured you’re used to more refined tastes, being an Anderson and all.” He stirs his drink but doesn’t take a sip.

  “So was it you following me in New York City?”

  “No. But you know my younger brother.” He stops stirring.

  My mind whirs, going through my directory of names, when shock registers. The last name Clarke. “Emerson? My PI is your brother?”

  “Small world. Almost meant to be, don’t you think?” Another smirk. This is someone who rations his emotions. Much like another man you know. I push the thought away. “And I had colleagues keep tabs on your family. The Bureau does that for high-profile people who have frequent brushes with the law.”

  “That’s not fair! We were victims. It was—” I stop myself, not knowing how much I should share about The Association.

  He stills, his brown eyes steady on mine. “Go on. You want to say it. The Association, right?”

  “If you already have all the answers, then why am I here?”

  “Well, to be frank with you, Miss Anderson—” He pauses, then cocks his brow. “Or should I call you Mrs. Kent?”

  “Lana will be fine.”

  “Lana, then.” He leans back. “You’re an intelligent woman, so I won’t beat around the bush. I’ve had my eye on The Association’s activities for a while, but things are delicate given their connections. Unless we have definitive proof, my hands are tied.”

  His jaw tics. Then, he flashes an icy smile again. Fake. I do it when I face the press.

  “You aren’t telling me everything.” I lean forward, hands clasped on the table. “You see, Tristan. I spent years in PR, hearing bullshit and spinning bullshit. You’re hiding something. And this? As much as I like to think I get special treatment, I don’t think that’s it. This is all off the books, isn’t it?”

  Silence falls as Tristan holds my gaze, the earlier softness vanishing into the ether.

  Yes. This is personal. A vendetta.

  “Smart woman. Why would you marry Elias Kent?” he muses.

  Heat creeps up my neck. I hate how my emotions are haywire when it comes to my husband.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” I admit. “I don’t know anything about The Association. I was hoping you’d tell me something I could use.”

  “To do what? You’re married to the dealer of secrets himself. The man’s as slippery as a snake, and we haven’t been able to find anything on him. All we know is whenever he’s involved, things get questionable and evidence disappears. What were you going to do with this,” he air quotes with his fingers, “‘information’ you think I’ll provide you?”

  Blackmail the bastard back. Figure out what The Association wants with me when I turn thirty-five and escape.

  Alive.

  Tristan’s eyes sharpen at what he sees on my face. “You know something, Lana. Tell me. I can get you out of this.”

  I bite my cheek, thinking about the man who threatened to blow my brains out at the vault, who comforted me amid the bloodshed, like he knew I was terrified.

  Even to this day, I can’t reconcile that cold-blooded man with the arrogant mobster who helped my siblings repeatedly and showed up with Christmas gifts for the little ones.

  The bastard even got Levi a toy train with real steam coming out. The little guy looked at him like he were a hero. And I hate to admit—Elias is a pro with guns. How could he miss all of Maxwell’s vital organs with both shots?

  “You’re going to help me alone? Or do you mean the Feds?” What can one man do that my brothers can’t?

  Tristan doesn’t answer me, his expression shuttering again.

  “I promise you, you’re safe with me. Let me help you.”

  Indecision wavers inside me, and snapshots of the last few months play in my mind. How Elias held me on his lap in the office and inhaled my scent like it was something he’d been chasing all his life. Then there’s the gentleness in his voice and eyes that whispered secrets on Thanksgiving and in front of Hollow Gardens. Like he too was carrying invisible pain, and he wanted to show me his scars but couldn’t.

  He had never hurt me, had he?

  Good God, Lana. This has to be Stockholm Syndrome. There’s no way I’m feeling any compassion for that man.

  But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Tristan’s watching me too closely, and instead of pushing, he takes out his phone and swipes to a video.

  “Let me show you something. This might change your mind.”

  A feed with a time stamp from three days ago shows up. Elias was on his “trip.” Decked out in another three-piece suit, he stands tall in the middle of a fancy room, a lone spotlight shining on him. Men sit in the corners, but I can’t see their faces.

  “Do you swear to uphold your oath and loyalty to The Association?” someone murmurs from off-camera, the voice muffled.

  “I do,” he replies.

  “Do you swear that The Association will come above all other priorities?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you know the repercussions if you betray The Association?”

  Silence. A faint clicking. The glint of silver in his clenched hand—his lighter.

  Elias clears his throat. “Extirpation. If I betray The Association, my bloodline will be exterminated. All relatives, blood or not. The entire family line.”

  My veins turn to ice. The words echo in my mind: Extirpated. All relatives, blood or not. Entire family line.

  I’m married to him. I’m his family now. My siblings, nieces, and nephews are all related to him by marriage.

  If Elias betrays The Association, they all die.

  No. I collapse back into my chair. My stomach heaves. I grip the edge of the table for support.

  “Good. Now kneel for your final oath,” the man says.

  Elias freezes, just slightly. If he hadn’t been around my family for the past decade, I wouldn’t have noticed it.

  “No.” He straightens. His fingers tighten around the lighter. “I never kneel for anything or anyone.”

  My pulse shoots up. I can’t see much in the frame, but I feel the hostility in the air like I were physically there.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “No, is no. Take it or leave it.”

  Another beat of silence. Muffled voices murmur offscreen. A low argument. Cold dread gathers in my chest, and I clutch the tablecloth in front of me. I tell myself it’s because I’m terrified of The Association and not because I’m scared about what they’ll do to him.

  “This can be classified as a betrayal of The Association,” the man muses, voice sinister. “Of which you just told us the consequences.”