Eight

Eight

Let me guess,” Juliette said, pulling the car door after herself. “You’ve discovered that I am a secret revolutionary and now you are taking me to the outskirts of the city for execution.”

From the driver’s seat, Lord Cai glanced over at her with a furrow of his brow. Then he pushed a button on the dashboard, letting the engine rumble to life.

“I am begging you to stop watching the Wild West films coming from America,” he said. For someone who likely had not driven a car in years, her father spun the steering wheel and pulled out of the driveway with expert maneuvering. “They’re rotting your brain.”

Juliette twisted in her seat and peered out the back window, waiting for other cars to follow behind them. When none came, she turned to the front again and put her hands in her lap, pursing her lips.

This was mightily strange. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d gone anywhere without an entourage—or at least one other Scarlet for backup. It wasn’t that her father needed protection, not when he was the one who had taught her how to use a blade at three years old, but having a group of men clustered around him at all times was about posture, and she didn’t think he ever went into public without that protection.

“So,” Juliette tried, “where are we going?”

“You managed to get into this car without asking questions,” her father replied plainly. “Now refrain until we arrive.”

Juliette pursed her lips further and sank into her seat. By the time they were easing down Avenue Edward VII in the thick of the city, Lord Cai’s driving had grown more erratic, starting and stopping when people walked onto the road with none of the smoothness of their chauffeurs. Just when Juliette thought they were close to running over an elderly woman, her father pulled into a wide alleyway and parked, reaching into the back seat for his hat.

“Come on, Juliette,” he chided, already climbing out.

Juliette followed slowly. She took in the alleyway, still trying to gauge the situation as she rubbed her hands together to keep them warm. There was one door here, the back entrance of what Juliette would guess to be a restaurant, if the noise coming from inside was any indication. Lord Cai called for her again. Juliette hurried over just as the door opened and the serving boy silently gestured for them to enter.

“If we’re here to eat food that Māma hates, you only had to say so,” she whispered.

“Quiet.”

The serving boy led them through the back corridors of the restaurant, bypassing the rumble of the kitchen. Juliette had been jesting about eating a meal, but she still frowned when they also walked past the doors into the main restaurant without a second glance. Had her father booked a private room? For just the two of them? Maybe Juliette shouldn’t have joked about a revolutionary execution after all.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself.

The serving boy turned a corner and stopped in front of a nondescript door. Everything was dim and damp back here, looking like it hadn’t been cleaned in years, never mind used to serve customers.

“If you need anything, I’ll be outside.” The serving boy opened the door.

Lord Cai walked in promptly, Juliette close on his heels. A part of her had already decided that this was going to be a quaint teaching lesson. Perhaps a sparse meal laid out to show how quickly they could lose everything they had.

The last thing she had expected to find inside the room, seated at a round table, was Lord Montagov and Roma.

Juliette’s eyes bugged, her hand fumbling at her sleeve for a weapon, more out of shock and automatic instinct than any real preparation for a fight. While she clutched at air, however, Roma bolted to his feet and actually drew his pistol, ready to shoot.

Until his father said, “Hold on, boy.”

Roma blinked, his arm receding back an inch. The gray light streaming in from the filmy windows gave him an eerie appearance, or perhaps that was just him now, his mouth an angry slash, his jaw tight enough to resemble stone. “What—”

“I sent an invitation to meet,” Lord Montagov said. Then he switched from Russian to Chinese. “Sit, Roma.”

Slowly, Roma sat.

“Bàba,” Juliette hissed. “What isthe meaning of this?”

“Sit, Juliette,” Lord Cai simply echoed. When Juliette didn’t move, he closed a hand over her elbow and gently guided her to the table, leaning close to his daughter and whispering, “The perimeter is secure. It is not an ambush.”

“If it were, it is not like they would declare it,” Juliette whispered back. She plopped ungraciously into a seat, resting only half her thigh so she could leap up at a moment’s notice.

“Yes, you mustn’t worry, Miss Cai,” Lord Montagov declared. “There are only so many times you can ambush someone before they come to expect it.”

Juliette felt her chest go cold. Lord Montagov, meanwhile, was smiling, and the sight itself would have been terrible enough, but it was rendered even more abhorrent because . . . it looked so much like Roma’s smile.

How dare he.

“You—”

Juliette lunged over the table, knife out, but Roma was quicker. His pistol pressed into her forehead, and Juliette froze, her breath escaping in a quick sound through her clenched teeth.

When Juliette dared meet Roma’s eyes, she found only loathing. It shouldn’t have hurt so badly when this was her fault. The image was only right, only fitting. Who else would he hold a gun to but his enemy? Who else should he defend save his own father?

It shouldn’t have hurt so badly, and yet it did.

I did this, Juliette thought numbly. You told me you would choose me above all else, and then I did this to us.

She had put him back on the side of his own father, who had caused Nurse’s death, who had threatened to kill him if Roma couldn’t kill her. It almost didn’t seem worth it. Almost, almost—but Juliette was making the exact same choice Roma had. At least he would be alive, whatever the consequences she had to swallow.

“Juliette,” Lord Cai warned again, though his command was soft. “Knife away, please.”

With her teeth gritted even harder, Juliette pushed the blade back into her sleeve. Roma, in courteous response, set the pistol down on the table within reaching distance.

“It is much nicer to be civil, is it not?” Lord Montagov said. “I have a proposition. And it involves you, Miss Cai.”

Juliette narrowed her eyes. She didn’t prompt him to go ahead. She only waited.

“I would like you to cooperate with my son.”

Juliette immediately jerked against her seat, her head snapping in Roma’s direction. He did not react. He had known already—had agreed.

“I do beg your pardon,” Juliette managed. “Why would I do that?”

“Don’t you wish to find who is sending the threats?” Lord Montagov asked. “The two of you have the foreign language skills to socialize into the French Concession. Sending a gangster in alone is asking for trouble, but pairing enemies together . . . oh, the foreigners would not know what to do.”

What game is he playing at? Juliette remained quiet. Something was afoot here, and she didn’t like it.

“It is a good idea, Juliette,” Lord Cai said, finally speaking up. His voice was even, almost bored. “If both gangs are receiving threats, then nothing will scare the blackmailer more than us teaming up, however momentarily. Both Scarlet Gang and White Flowers walk out of this with a third enemy defeated.”

But you don’t understand, she wanted to say. Juliette stared at Lord Montagov, stared down the hard glint in his dark eyes. This was not merely a way to combine their forces. Lord Montagov knew exactly what past she and Roma had—this was a scheme to gather Scarlet information, to have Roma do what he refused five years ago: win her trust, act the spy. The moment they started working together, Juliette wouldn’t be able to shake him. Anything the Scarlets discovered, the White Flowers would have too.

Only Juliette couldn’t say any of this, could she? She was trapped, and Lord Montagov knew it. Cooperate, and there would be no questions asked. Refuse and rebel, and her father would ask why, and she would have to tell the truth: the first time, her romance with Roma caused an explosion at the Scarlet house; the second time, Tyler almost took all their lives.

“A fine idea indeed,” Juliette said dully.

Lord Montagov clapped his hands together, making one, thunderous sound. “What ease! If only the rest of our men were as friendly as we were.” He turned to Roma. “Have the two of you formally met? I imagine not.”

Roma and Juliette looked at each other. Roma’s jaw tightened even further. Juliette’s fists grew deathly white under the table. All the while, Lord Cai was unconcerned, the only one in the room whom this whole show was for.

“We have not,” Roma lied, his gaze steady. He stood. Extended his hand across the table. “Roman Nikolaevich Montagov. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Roman. She almost said it aloud like an echo, almost passed it through her lips simply out of the urge to commit it to memory.

There was a part of her that had always known that that was his true name, but the city had long forgotten it just like they had forgotten that hers was Cai Junli. The city only knew him as Roma. It was easier to pronounce in Chinese; it was what everyone who knew him called him.

She supposed she didn’t know him anymore—not this boy who stood with his arm outstretched, his fingers steady like they had never before pressed into her skin as gently as a kiss. Lovers turned to strangers, and it cut deep enough to bleed.

“The pleasure is mine.” Juliette stood and reached to shake. Their palms touched, and she did not flinch—she wouldnot flinch. “May I invite you on a walk around the perimeter? There are some details I would like to work out.”

Lord Cai raised his eyebrows. “Juliette, perhaps not—”

“The perimeter is secure, isn’t it?” she interrupted.

He could hardly argue against that. So long as there wasn’t a chance of ambush, it wasn’t as if Juliette couldn’t handle the White Flower heir. Lord Cai gestured for her to go on.

“I will wait for you in the car.”

Juliette marched out of the private room, counting on Roma to follow her. She strolled through the corridors so briskly that wisps of her hair had come undone by the time she shoved out the back door and emerged into the alley, her shoes stepping into soggy sheets of newspaper. Deep inhale, deep exhale. Her breath clouded in front of her, fogging her vision with white when Roma emerged too and she turned to face him, meeting his glower.

“Walk,” Roma commanded, starting in the other direction of the alley.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Juliette muttered. Nevertheless, she marched after him and followed along, keeping pace beside Roma with a carefully placed distance between them. If the alleys here were any busier, she would not have suggested this—opting to forgo a private conversation rather than be seen having one—but the passageways were tight and dark, and they could circle around the restaurant for however long they needed without approaching any main road.

“So what is this supposed to be?” Juliette asked outright. Overhead, a rusty pipe dripped a bead of water onto her neck.

“My father sprang it on me as well,” Roma answered, sounding like he was speaking through shards of glass in his throat. “This whole thing was Dimitri’s idea. I’m supposed to win back your trust and siphon information.”

Juliette bit down on the inside of her cheeks. Her guess was right. It was an attempt to finish what they had started five years ago, only Lord Montagov didn’t know that Juliette had already finished it.

“Does he know about—”

“The hospital?” Roma interrupted. “No. It hasn’t gotten back to them. They know about the . . .” He paused. Swallowed hard. “The confrontation, but as far as your role in it goes . . . your cousin kept the information contained.”

Which meant the White Flowers knew that Tyler had ambushed Alisa, that Juliette had killed Marshall, but they did not know why. They did not know that Tyler had accused Juliette of being a traitor, because as far as Tyler knew, he was wrong, and he did not want to be made a fool.

“Win back my trust and siphon information,” Juliette repeated softly. “Except I beat you to that game.”

The alley narrowed. Instinctively, Juliette swerved to avoid a rubbish bag, losing her careful distance with Roma as her fingers brushed up against his. The contact was brief, barely an event in the hubbub of the city, entirely infinitesimal when it came to a measurable length of time. All the same, her whole arm flexed like she had been shocked by an electric line. In her periphery, she caught Roma jolt, his expression hardening.

Neither of them said anything. They let the sound of distant tram lines and yelling paperboys ebb and flow around them. They let the silence run, because Juliette could hardly think when Roma was so close, and Roma didn’t seem too eager to loosen the anger in his eyes.

“It is clear why my father put me up to this,” he managed eventually. They turned into a wider alley. “But why did yours agree?”

Juliette pulled at one of the beads on her dress. It wasn’t a real question. She could hear it in his tone.

“You have a spy,” Roma went on when she remained unspeaking. “One of ours has infiltrated your inner circle. And whoever it is has talked your father into this.”

“I know,” she said, though she hadn’t been certain. Better to sound confident than have Roma think he was offering her new information. “Call them off if you’re so concerned.”

Roma snorted. The sound was uncharacteristic enough that Juliette glanced over sharply, catching him just as he ran a hand through his hair. It messed up the style, but he did not need to fix it to look perfect. It was something about the tilt of his chin, the blankness in his stare. He had changed more in these few months than he had in those years while she was away.

“I have nothing to do with it,” Roma replied sharply. “I suspect Dimitri sent them in. He’s planning something—something to hurt you and overthrow me at the same time.” There was a pause as he hopped in his step, avoiding a muddy puddle. “I think it’ll serve both of us to be wary of this situation. Let us not invite more plotting by defying this arrangement.”

He was right. That was logical. But God—was everything she had done for nothing? She had faked Marshall Seo’s death to remove Roma from her side, to quash any chance that she would cave and draw him back, and now they were to work together anyway? How unfeeling was she expected to be? There was only so much strength she could summon.

“If we are to collaborate,” Juliette said, “it must be public information. The White Flowers must agree that this is not a secret.”

Roma frowned. He had caught the tightness in her voice. “Of course. Why would it be?”

“I am only checking. Not a worry.” It was a colossal worry. If they were spotted together once more and suspected of being lovers, Tyler would destroy them—and then climb to the top and rule the Scarlets himself. Juliette could not let that happen.

She would rather die.

Juliette slowed her pace. They were fast approaching the restaurant again, having circled the buildings once over. “How does a week to collect our sources sound? Then we merge right into the French Concession.”

“Sounds fair,” Roma said, just as dryly. He came to an abrupt halt. Clearly he had no interest in accompanying her back to the restaurant, nor walking any farther when their conversation was finished.

With a shaky exhale, Juliette stopped too, smoothing her expression down until it was blank. She turned to face Roma, a polite goodbye poised on her tongue.

“But don’t be mistaken, Juliette.”

His eyes swiveled to her slowly. That once-familiar stare was now fathomless, and Juliette’s breath caught in her throat, stilling like a creature in the headlights. She was ready. She knew what he would say. But it still tore into her, it still stung as mightily as razor wire wrapped around her heart, both ends pulled until it could wrap no tighter.

“When this is over, I will have my revenge. You will answer to me for what you did.”

Juliette swallowed. She said nothing. She waited lest he had more to say, but when there was silence, she simply turned on her heel and walked away, her shoes clicking on the hard gravel.

Lord Cai was already in the car by the time Juliette returned to the alley behind the restaurant. She slapped her hands onto the hood of the car, huffing so vigorously into the cold that her breath was visible in a shroud around her.

“It’s not too late,” she said. “We can call an ambush. Lord Montagov remains yet in the vicinity.”

By now Roma had to have long left. An opportunity was an opportunity.

“Darling daughter”—Lord Cai pinched the bridge of his nose—“get in the car please.”

“Father,” Juliette shot back, “I crave violence.”

“Get in the car. Now.”

Juliette huffed again, then pushed off the car hood. “They are the enemy,”she snapped when she slammed the passenger door after herself. A loose bit of hair blew into her eyes, and she yanked it back. “If they have suggested a seemingly great idea, it is obviously with an ulterior motive, so why are we playing along—”

“The blood feud is a thoughtless notion, Juliette,” Lord Cai cut in, adjusting the rearview mirrors. “What have I taught you?”

Juliette drummed her fingers against her knee. She wished he wouldn’t make some lesson out of this now, when the boundaries were evidently black and white. Once, she would have been rather pleased to see a lessened hatred for the White Flowers, but at present it didn’t seem like her father was ignoring the blood feud. It seemed like . . . like he didn’t care. Like something else was more important.

“We hate those who harm us,” Juliette said, an echo of the words her father had given her long ago. “We do not hate senselessly.” She shook her head. “It is a pretty idea, but the White Flowers do want to hurt us.”

“Needs and desires change as fast as the breeze.” Lord Cai rolled down a window, and the cold flooded in. She was starting to think he had gotten too accustomed to the biting temperatures of his office. “So long as we do not lose face, if the leadership of the White Flowers requests a quiet cooperation so that both gangs survive a second monster reckoning, what is the issue?”

There was more to it. It could not be that simple, because her father was not that easily swayed.

“What are we getting out of it?” she asked directly.

Lord Cai’s response was to start the engine. Slowly, they reversed from the alleyway, merging back into the pandemonium that rumbled ever constant in the hub of the city. Through the open window, the aroma of deep-fried street food wafted in, a decent companion to the frigid cold.

Minutes later, when they stopped at the signal of a police officer running traffic control, Lord Cai said: “Keep them distracted.”

Juliette blinked. A rickshaw halted to a stop outside her window, and from the corner of her eye, she watched the runner of the rickshaw let go of the poles, mop his forehead free of sweat, and eat a whole meat bun—all within seconds.

The officer signaled for them to move. The car crept forward.

“Distracted?” Juliette repeated. You have a spy. One of ours has infiltrated your inner circle. And whoever it is has talked your father into this. “From what?”

But Lord Cai only drove onward, giving a nod to the officer as they passed. It was another bout of silence, entirely typical for her father, before he said, “Some things you do not yet understand. Tīng huà. Do as you’re told.”

Juliette could hardly argue.