17. Lyssa

The exclusive weddingboutique might as well be half a world away from the grittier side of Chicago, a haven of distilled femininity that seems to exist outside of time. As I step through the door, the delicate chime of the bell echoing, I’m wrapped in the scent of roses, and my boots immediately leave scuffs in the fluffy white carpet. The walls are lined with only a few dresses but a lot more full-size posters that look like they belong in Vogue, each one showcasing a masterpiece of silk and lace, tulle and satin. A large, ornate mirror dominates one wall, the gilded frame glinting in the glow of the mini-chandeliers overhead.

I hate everything about the place immediately.

I hate the smell of it, I hate the puffy dresses, and I especially hate the shop assistants, three immaculately-dressed women with perfectly coiffed hair and painted faces, who greet me with practiced smiles. One of them holds out a silver tray bearing a flute of champagne. The crystal glass sparkles in the soft light, the bubbles dancing merrily within as the assistant smiles behind it.

Okay, maybe I hate her a little less than the others, if she’s going to keep me in drink. I grab the glass, scanning the room. There’s no customers here because it’s 3 a.m. or somewhere about there, and the shop opened specially for Ms. Imperioli.

“Where is she?” I ask.

Before they can answer, Hadria emerges from a changing room, clad in a frothy, lacy pantsuit with a bustle in the jacket. She does a little twirl, the bustle bouncing around as she does.

“What do you think?” she asks, her voice tinged with a rare note of uncertainty.

“You look like one of those crochet dolls that old ladies put over toilet rolls in the bathroom. And that bustle? Not doing your ass any favors, Hades.”

Hadria fixes me with the same stare that makes half the Syndicate quake. “You’re not helping. This isn’t exactly fun for me either, you know.”

I step closer, lowering my voice. “Yeah? Well, I have some news that’ll make your day even less fun.”

She sighs, her lacy shoulders slumping. “Come into the changing room. We can talk there.”

I follow her into the spacious room, which has a whole rack of suits lining one wall. Hadria pulls off her outfit and throws it carelessly onto a pile in the corner, then slips into the next option, the lace replaced by sleek satin. The cream fabric shimmers in the soft light, the color a perfect complement to her pale-as-fuck skin.

But it’s way too goddamn shiny.

“Why on earth aren’t you getting something custom made?” I ask, running my fingers over the fabric. It’s cool to the touch, the satin slipping through my fingers like water. Nice to sleep in, maybe, as sheets. But for clothes?

“I am,” she snaps. “But the dressmaker wanted me to find the kind of style I wanted, first.”

I stare at the suit, my brow furrowed. “This is better than the last one. But they’re both too…frou-frou for you. Stand over there, for God’s sake. Let me handle this.”

As I browse through the options, I fill Hadria in on the latest developments with Scarlett. I tell her about our meeting, the video of her brother’s murder, Grandmother’s involvement. But I leave out the more intimate details.

Scarlett crying in my arms.

The way her body felt against mine, the taste of her tears on my lips.

Something tells me Hades might not look too kindly on me sleeping with a target.

“Here. This one,” I say when I’m done, handing Hadria a simple raw silk suit, the lines sharp and clean. The fabric is a soft ivory. It’s understated elegance at its finest.

She slips it on, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. The suit molds to her body like a second skin, the raw silk whispering as she turns around to check her ass. “God, I was starting to think I’d have to look like a wedding cake. But this…this is nice.”

I nod, taking in the way the suit hugs her lean frame. “It suits you.”

A moment of silence stretches between us, although Hadria doesn’t seem to notice, transfixed on her reflection. I take a breath, steeling myself for what I’m about to suggest. The words feel heavy on my tongue, each one a pebble I’m forcing myself to spit out.

“You know, this Scarlett—I was thinking she could be a good recruit for the Syndicate. Once we get her away from Grandmother.”

Hadria’s head snaps around from the mirror to meet my eyes, astonishment in her pale eyes. “Absolutely not. Anyone who hurts the Syndicate must be made an example of. The assassin dies, as soon as this Grandmother is dealt with. I’m surprised to even hear you suggest it.”

She turns back to the mirror again, smoothing down the suit with a critical eye. Her reflection smiles back at her, the cold calculation in her eyes softening for a moment. “Do you think Aurora will like it?” she asks.

I force a smile, pushing down my protests about Scarlett. The thought of Aurora, with her wide-eyed innocence and gentle soul—traits she maintained even through my training—is a painful contrast to the shadows I find myself in with Scarlett. “She’ll love it. Leave the meringue dress to her.”

Hadria nods, satisfied with my answer. But as we leave the boutique, the dark sky lightening to pre-dawn, I’m not so satisfied.

I don’t want to kill Scarlett.

The realization has been coming slow, just like the sunrise that makes me blink as I say goodbye to Hadria outside the boutique. But it’s unmistakable, now that I see it.

I don’t want to kill her.

I told her I feel responsible for her creation, because I didn’t kill Grandmother when I had the chance. And that was true, but…it’s more than that. I see myself in her. Her rage is so familiar, so tempting. I want to help her. To give her a chance, the way I found mine.

And I don’t really know why. She’s no innocent, that’s for sure. She’s killed our people and that’s unforgivable. But there’s something under that hard shell that Grandmother has formed over her. A naiveté, perhaps?

Sometimes, the things she says…they hit me right in the gut. It’s not fair, she said. Of course things aren’t fair. But she actually thinks they should be. Scarlett doesn’t really understand the way the world works. I find naiveté irritating, usually—like Suzy Sunshine at first. But Aurora grew on me.

So has Scarlett, I guess.

But I’m loyal to the Syndicate. To Hadria. I’ve always done what needs to be done, no matter the cost. And if Hadria says Scarlett must die…then that’s what will happen.

Even if it means burying a part of myself along with her.

I take a deep breath, the cool night air filling my lungs. The city is quiet at this hour, the streets empty save for the occasional stray cat or early morning jogger. It’s a moment of peace in a world that knows none, a fleeting glimpse of what life could be like if I was anyone else.

But I’m not anyone else. I’m Lyssa, the Wolf of the Styx Syndicate, soon to be the most feared and respected organization in Chicago. We have a reputation to uphold. There’s no room for sentiment, no place for the glow of warmth that I feel when I think about Scarlett.

I push my feelings down, locking them away in the same place I keep all my other weaknesses. The place that Grandmother tried so hard to burn out of me, the place that I’ve fought tooth and nail to keep down ever since I left. It’s a battle I wage every day, a war against my own humanity.

Humanity is not useful to someone like me. So I need to forget about Scarlett’s grief, forget about the guilty I feel for leaving Grandmother alive, and focus on getting the intel I need.

“Enough,” I mutter, as I reach my motorbike. Time to focus on the video again. I sent a copy to myself, so I’ve watched it over and over by now.

Who the hell was that woman, and why was she trying so hard to make it look like she was me?