33. Lyssa

I walkthrough the front entrance of the Empire Grand hotel much more slowly than last time, when I was desperate to find out what had happened to Mrs. Graves. But now my feet are slow, too heavy, the warm luxury of the surroundings at odds with the events that have just transpired.

For now, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

I head up to the interim war room that the Syndicate has been using, and as I push open the door, it’s less “war room” and more “party room.” I’m greeted by a blast of celebration. The place is filled with my fellow Syndicate members, faces flushed with joy and relief at Mrs. Graves’ safe return.

And as I push through the crowd, I’m met with nods of respect and admiration, hands clapping me on the back, voices raised in congratulation.

I spot Hadria across the room, surrounded by a small group—Ricky, Marco and Aurora. She catches my eye and beckons me over with a slight tilt of her head. I weave through the throng of well-wishers, trying to smile, trying to pretend the congratulations don’t cut as deep as Scarlett’s switchblade stiletto.

Scarlett.

“Hey,” I say, when I reach Hadria, and then my arms are full of sweet-smelling sunshine as Aurora throws herself at me, bursting into happy tears as she thanks me for bringing Mrs. Graves home. “You’re welcome, Suzy,” I say, spitting out her hair and returning her firmly to her feet. “God, calm down.”

“I’m just so relieved,” she bawls, and I take a half-step back, just in case I get attack-hugged again.

“Speaking of Mrs. G,” I say quickly, “where is she?”

“The woman of the hour? Over there, getting loved on,” Marco says with a grin, nodding across the room. I can just make out Mrs. Graves’ iron-gray hair in the middle of a group of Syndicate members, each pressing plates of food or glasses of champagne on her.

I catch Hadria’s eye again, and she takes a step away, lowering her voice as she speaks. “The parents are safe, as you asked. Once we get protection arranged, we can return them to their house.”

“Thank you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Anything to report?” she prompts.

“Grandmother and many of her trainees escaped. We’ll have to keep an eye on them, watch whether they come slinking back into Chicago.”

“But—?”

I nod, keeping my voice steady and emotionless. “But Scarlett is dead.”

Relief crosses Hadria’s face, followed quickly by a triumphant grin. She turns to the rest of the Syndicate, raising her voice to be heard over the din. “The assassin is dead!”

The room erupts in cheers, a deafening roar of triumph and elation. Glasses are raised, expensive liquor sloshing over the rims as the Syndicate members toast to our success.

And then they start chanting, a celebration of my victory.

Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!

I raise a hand to stop it, but if anything, they only get louder and louder until I have to fake a smile and laugh along. But in the sea of jubilant faces, I catch sight of Mrs. Graves standing apart from the crowd now, her eyes fixed on me. The color seems to have drained from her face, her usually warm and lively features now drawn and somber. As I watch, she turns her back on the crowd and quietly slips out of the room.

I feel a pang of guilt, a sharp twist in my gut that I quickly shove down. I grab a drink from a passing tray and force myself to join the celebration, clinking glasses with my fellow Syndicate members, laughing and agreeing with Ricky as he tells me it was about damn time, and Marco gives a shame-faced apology for ever doubting me.

But as the party goes on around me, I can’t shake the image of Mrs. Graves’ face, the sorrow and disappointment in her eyes. I finish my drink and slip out of the room.

I make my way to the elevator, my arms aching as I remember that climb up the high-rise shaft—I’ll be happy to never have to do that again—and I walk down corridor that leads to Mrs. Graves’ room. In contrast to the room I just left, these hallways are quiet and deserted.

More in keeping with my mood.

I’m not proud of myself, that’s for sure.

I pause outside Mrs. Graves’ door, suddenly unsure. But I need to see her. I need to explain, to…I don’t know what. So at last I knock gently and enter at her call.

The only light is coming from a floor lamp beside the sofa where Mrs. Graves sits, her eyes red and puffy from crying. I cross to her quickly. “Did Scarlett hurt you?” I ask, voice soft but edged with concern. I kneel down next to her, looking up into her face.

Mrs. Graves’ gaze is fierce. “Of course not!” she snaps, her voice sharp and brittle. Then, softer, trembling, “Oh, Lyssa…did you really kill her?”

I feel my face harden, and I stand again. “Yeah. I really did.”

“But how could you,” she whispers, tears welling again.

“It was Hadria’s order—and I agreed with it. Scarlett murdered our people, Mrs. G. So if you want to cry, cry for them.”

Mrs. Graves takes a deep, shuddering breath, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. She looks at me, eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and understanding that I can barely stand to see. “But she was the woman you were talking about, wasn’t she? That night when you spoke to me?—”

“Keep that quiet,” I say stiffly. “No one needs to know.”

“But it must have been very hard for you,” she says gently, her hand reaching out as if to touch me, but stopping short, hovering in the space between us.

I shake my head, a sharp, jerky motion. “She deserved to die, just like the man who killed Sarah.”

Mrs. Graves seems to age before my eyes, her shoulders rounding, her face lined with grief and exhaustion. When she speaks, her voice is low and heavy. “I’ve come to believe that vengeance is the wrong path, Lyssa. If I could do it over again, I would never have sent you and Hadria after my daughter’s killer. I was…I was wrong to do it.”

I pause, my mind spinning. “If you hadn’t,” I say slowly, carefully, “Hadria and I would never have met you. Never had you care for us.”

Mrs. Graves says nothing, her silence louder than words could ever be. But I’m pretty sure I know the truth she can’t bring herself to voice—that the alternative path, the one where she never knew us, never loved us, would still have been better.

Better for everyone.

I back away abruptly, my legs feeling weak and unsteady. I turn to leave, my movements slow and deliberate, as if I’m moving through water, through a dream. At the door, I pause, looking back at the woman who is the closest thing I ever had to a mother.

“Rest well, Mrs. G,” I say, my voice thick in my throat.

I slip out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me, leaving Mrs. Graves alone with her thoughts, and walk away.

What have I done?

What have I become?

The questions plague me as I navigate the hallways, no destination in mind, just the need to move, to escape my actions.

But I can’t escape, not ever. The weight of what I’ve done hangs heavy on me, a burden I can’t even begin to shed. I think of Scarlett, of her fierce determination, her beauty and her fragility.

And I think of the moments we shared, the connection we forged at the heart of the chaos and violence we both chose to step into.

Because I did have a choice.

Despite everything that Grandmother did to me, I had a choice when I left her clutches. I could have run much further than I did, shed the skin of the person she’d made me into.

But I didn’t. I chose not to. Just like Scarlett chose to enter Grandmother’s house as well.

“Enough,” I sigh at last, my thoughts buzzing around in my head like angry bees. It’s exhausting, all this thinking. So I head back to the celebration, back to the role I’ve chosen, the path I’ve set myself upon.

Back to being the Wolf, the loyal soldier, the ruthless enforcer.