9. Lyssa

This timewhen I report to Hadria, Ricky Half-hands is also in her suite, though Suzy Sunshine’s nowhere to be found. Good. This business is only for those with the stomach for it, and Aurora is like a toasted marshmallow: a little burned on the outside, but still too sweet—and positively gooey in the middle.

Hadria sits in the oversized leather armchair in the corner, her posture regal even in repose. She’s the picture of a powerful Mafia boss, all sharp angles and cold beauty. She really was born to that Imperioli throne, and I think her dad was a moron not to see it until he was forced to take a look.

But all the same, I’m glad she told old Zepp to get fucked.

Ricky leans against the wall, hands tucked in his pockets in an unconsciously-self-conscious way, his scarred face a map of the battles he’s fought and won. My own body bears a similar roadmap.

“I’ve identified the assassin,” I announce without preamble, coming to stand before Hadria. “And now I’ll take care of the problem.”

“You’re sure?”

I tilt my head to one side. “Seriously?”

Hadria sighs. “Look. If Juno Bianchi attends the wedding, it will cement the Styx Syndicate as a major player here in town, beyond just picking up contracts here and there. But she won’t come if Chicago is descending into chaos again. So, once again—you’re sure you can take care of the problem?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes, because I’ve heard all this already from Hadria.

Over and fucking over.

I know Juno Bianchi’s presence would be a major coup, and I get why Hadria’s nervous—if Hadria can ever be said to be something so human as nervous. The Bianchi Family blessing could launch us into a whole new echelon of the underworld.

But it’s still irritating to have to hear about it every time I see her—not to mention irritating to have my judgment questioned.

“I am one hundred percent sure,” I say stiffly. “You want to come with me, see for yourself while I put her down?”

“Her?” That takes Hadria aback.

“Her,” I confirm.

Ricky pushes off the wall and ambles over, a grin splitting his weathered face. “Need a hand, Lyssa? It’s been a while since I got these dirty.” He waggles the remaining fingers of his right hand.

I give a scoff, the camaraderie between us easy and familiar. “Even an old fossil like you could manage this one solo, Ricky. Turns out the assassin’s just some girl who thinks we offed her brother.”

Hadria arches one brow. “Did we?”

I shrug, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. “Does it matter? She killed our people.”

She inclines her head in agreement. In our world, guilt and innocence are fluid concepts. Power is the only thing that matters. And vengeance, well, that’s just the cost of doing business. We’ve all got blood on our hands, and we’ve all lost people we care about. It’s the nature of the life we lead.

But the Syndicate cannot appear weak. So Scarlett—even if she’s got the prettiest damn eyes I’ve ever seen—has to die.

I take my leave, mind already racing ahead to my next move. But as I reach my room, I run into Mrs. Graves once more. She tuts at me, her keen eyes zeroing in on my wounded arm.

“Well, that only looks worse. I’m taking a look at it,” she insists, already steering me toward her room with a firm but gentle grip.

I open my mouth instinctively to protest, to tell her I’ve already tended to it, but I’ve lost this battle too many times before to waste my breath. Mrs. Graves has a long history of tending to my wounds. I remember the night we came back to her house, bloody and bruised after avenging her daughter’s murder, to announce that it was done. She’d taken us into her home and cleaned us up with gentle hands, eyes shining with unshed tears and fierce pride.

“You girls,” she’d whispered, smoothing Hadria’s dark hair back from her forehead. “You brave, fierce girls. You’ll stay here with me from now on.”

And…we did.

That moment cemented our bond, started us on the path to what we are now. We became a family, and now the Syndicate has become the same. Bound not by blood, but by something far stronger—loyalty, sacrifice, and a shared understanding of the darkness in each other’s souls.

So I let Mrs. Graves lead me into her room and sit me down on the sofa, the familiar scents of lavender and lemon enveloping me. As she cleans out the knife slash with gentle efficiency, I find myself thinking of Scarlett again, of the way she pulled the wool over my eyes when she told me to look away. It gave her a chance to sew that tracker into me.

Into me. The Wolf of the Styx Syndicate.

That took some big brass ovaries.

And I’ll admit, there’s something about Scarlett that sticks with me—and it’s not just her impressive fighting skills or the fire in her hazel eyes. It’s the pain I see there, the raw, savage grief. I know that look. I saw it in the mirror often enough growing up.

Scarlett said the Syndicate killed her brother—that I killed him. Adam, she called him. I turn the name over in my memory, but I can’t place it. That means nothing, though. I don’t remember names.

I only remember kills.

And if we did kill him, it would have been for a reason. We’re brutal, but not indiscriminate. We don’t kill innocents.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this story. And who in the hell taught her to fight like she does? I overpowered her easily enough, but only because she couldn’t master herself.

Her fear?

Or her rage…

Mrs. Graves rewraps my arm with fresh gauze, her touch soft despite the ragged rip in my skin. She’s taped it together as best she can without stitches. Something of a metaphor for the woman herself. She’s got her own scars, like all of us, only hers are on the inside. And she is unflinching in the face of the violent world we inhabit.

“There,” she says, patting my hand. “Good as new. Or as close as we get in this life, eh?”

I meet her eyes with a wry smile. “Close enough,” I agree.

As I flex my arm and thank her, a plan begins to take shape in my mind. I want to dig deeper into Scarlett’s background, find out more about this brother of hers and how he died. Knowledge is power, and if I’m going to beat Scarlett at her own game, I need to understand what motivates her.

But it’s more than that, too. I want to unravel the mystery of this woman who fights like a demon but stares at me with such haunted eyes. I want to peel back her layers, to map out the scars she hides beneath that tough exterior.

It’s a dangerous desire. Attachments are weaknesses, soft spots for enemies to exploit.

And Scarlett is a dead woman walking, so why waste my time?

But with her quick fists and quicker mind, she’s shaping up to be the most intriguing challenge I’ve faced in a long time. Very few dangerous people can fool me into thinking them harmless. She’s a chameleon of sorts. All those poor Syndicate bastards she took out would’ve had no chance—and I’m lucky I didn’t end up with a stiletto blade in my own heart, too.

I give a soft laugh as I realize it: those fool Sokolovs actually saved my ass. Without their distraction…

“Something funny?” Mrs. Graves asks, cleaning up the bloodied swabs.

“You had to be there.” I get to my feet as a new thought strikes me. “Thanks for the first aid, Mrs. G.”

“Any time, Lyssa.”

“Now can you do me another favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Quit ditching your damn bodyguards,” I say sternly. “They’re for your protection.”

She makes a flapping motion, dismissing my concern. “For goodness’ sake, I’m not in any danger in the middle of the city, not any more than I was in my own home. And I don’t like having those heavy feet clomping around me, Lyssa. They get in the way. Slow me down.”

“Uh-huh,” I say stoically. “Come on, Mrs. G. Just for now. Just while we’re staying here in town. For my sake?”

She makes a face, but gives in. “Alright. I suppose so. For your sake.”

I go quickly back to my own room and dig into my pocket for the tracker I still have. I used it to lure Lyssa out to the Drunken Hog, and it seemed pointless to ditch it after that—everyone in town who needs to know, knows where the Syndicate is staying while Elysium is renovated.

But Scarlett won’t come here to the Empire Grand. So I’ll have to wander off the path again myself. Lay myself out like bait.

It will be obvious. But hate and rage make fools of us all, and Scarlett seemed full enough of both to make unwise decisions.

I certainly hope so, anyway.