10. Scarlett

The abandonedfarm might have become my personal purgatory, but all I have to do is remind myself of the high-rise and I find myself if not enjoying the solitude and boredom, at least not resenting it. Waking and sleeping are interrupted only by Lyssa's mostly-daily visits and relentless training. I spend hour after hour drilling forms and combat sequences, pushing my body to its limits in a bid to keep my mind quiet. Because I hate thinking about the high-rise any more than I have to—and especially Ariadne's room, that strange lair that's burrowed into my brain.

Running a palm over my damp brow now, I pause in my workout to catch my breath. I wander over to a rough tabletop where I've set out the shreds I took from Ariadne's room. I've been piecing them back together as much as I can, but it became obvious pretty quickly that there are a lot of missing parts. But one sheet in particular had enough pieces for me to decipher some of it this morning when I realized what I was looking at: a list of names. Hadria Imperioli's name is there, though only her first name and initial.

But it's the entry directly beneath hers that makes me wonder. Juno B it reads before it cuts off, but it's clearly referring to the head of New York's Bianchi Family. I recognize a Don Colombo, too, head of a Vegas Family—but there are many other names, names I assume that Lyssa might recognize even if I don't. Because I'm willing to bet that all of them are members of the criminal elite, the nation's most influential power brokers in the underworld economy.

But…why?

Why did Ariadne secrete these shredded pages away under her bed? And if she took it from Grandmother, that only makes me ask the next question—why did Grandmother have this list? Are they contacts? Potential clients?

Unlikely, with Hades on the list.

That means it's more likely to be a hit list. Targets to eliminate.

The sick feeling I've been battling ever since our infiltration of the high-rise roils up again in a violent surge. If Grandmother is indeed gunning for the heads of virtually every major criminal organization across the nation, that could spark an all-out underworld war.

And even though my only aim is vengeance, I still worry about the wider impacts of a war like that. It's maddening, this barbed tangle of conflict writhing within me whenever I contemplate Lyssa and the Syndicate. They've become…I don't know what.

Symbols, maybe, of a life I might have had.

What would my existence be like if I'd never stumbled into Grandmother's influence? If my path had intersected Lyssa's first, rather than Grandmother's?

A rumble in the quiet night outside makes me turn, the familiar snarl of a motorbike coming closer and closer. Moving to the weather-beaten doors, I open the door just as Lyssa's sleek black bike comes down the dirt drive, its powerful engine purring dangerously and then cutting off.

She swings off the seat with that lithe grace I can't help but admire, pulling off her helmet to shake out her messy blonde hair.

Beneath the moonlight, in her leathers—she's breathtaking.

And utterly terrifying.

And I'm hopelessly enthralled by her despite myself.

I retreat from the doors to stand in the middle of the barn, and that's how she finds me when she pushes in, blinking in the low light of the electric lamp I keep to one side in the barn.

She stops, looking at me as I stare back at her.

"You want to train or just gawp all night?" She has the usual gym bag slung over one shoulder that she swings around with a shrug to show me when I don't reply. "Or do you want to eat first?"

She goes over to the side to put the bag down and peels off her leather jacket. Despite my best efforts, I can't tear my eyes from the rippling contours of muscle along her arms and shoulders, straining the thin cotton of her tank top.

Reining my straying thoughts back in by sheer force of will, I narrow my eyes in a faint glower. "So those are my only choices? Eat or train while we twiddle our thumbs waiting for Grandmother to resurface?"

"Unless you'd prefer sitting on your ass doing nothing productive, yeah."

"That's not what I—" I huff an exasperated breath. "You know what? Training works for me."

A slow, decidedly wolfish smile tugs at Lyssa's lips as she launches into a series of stretches. "That's what I thought."

I wordlessly fall into my ready stance, steadying my nerves. My limbs remember the motions with practiced ease as we flow into the first sequence of grapples and counters.

For several long minutes, the rhythmic grunts and slaps of skin on skin are the only sounds as we spar, bodies weaving in an intricate dancelike struggle. My focus sharpens, zoning in solely on Lyssa's feints and shifts.

But when she finally manages to sweep my legs out from under me, that comfortable serenity shatters. I hit the ground with a hard thump, the air punched from my lungs.

"Again," Lyssa says, extending a hand to help me up. Scowling, I accept the assistance, already whirling into a defensive position.

We trade blows and grapple for dominance a handful more times, each exchange ending with me down in the dirt, teeth gritted in bitter frustration. My muscles ache, but the sting of failure keeps me going.

"Come on, Fletcher," Lyssa sighs, not even breathing hard. "You're leaving openings all over the place. If this was live combat you'd be in the morgue right about now."

"Oh, fuck off," I snap. "You're not the one sleeping in a damn barn."

She takes a closer look at me. "Let's call it for now," she says. "Come and eat something. You need to build up some muscle mass, Stringbean." We lapse into uneasy silence for several long moments, Lyssa moves to the bag again, retrieving an insulated cooler.

"Here," she says, tossing me a chilled protein drink which I fumble to catch. "Refuel. We've still got a ways to go tonight."

"Yum," I say sarcastically.

"I couldn't fit the barbecue pork ribs and Wagyu steak in the bag."

My stomach rumbles at the idea, even though she's just being a bitch. It's loud enough that she does a double take at me. "Seriously, Scar," she says, pulling out a few more sandwiches now and passing it to me. "You need to keep up your strength. Literally."

Another lengthy pause stretches as we eat. I sneak sidelong glances at her, searching for any sign of what might be going on with her.

I want to ask. Want to ask questions she won't answer, about what she'd do if I went to Hadria Imperioli and announced that reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

And I wonder how things are going after the move back to Elysium, whether she's settled in, what it's like out there…

When her gaze finally drifts my way, I blurt without thinking, "Is Mrs. Graves alright?"

Lyssa blinks at the non-sequitur.

"You mentioned once that she was…pissed at you."

She shifts on her feet. "Did I?" she asks vaguely. "Well, she's…we're good again. Made our peace, for what it's worth."

"I really am sorry, you know? For taking her, threatening her life like that." Shame makes me want to look away, but I force myself to look Lyssa in the eye as I add, "And…I'm sorry for killing Yuri. And those other guys, Torres and Brassi."

Lyssa is staring at me, sandwich half-raised to her mouth.

My voice comes to a halt as the full tide of self-loathing finally crashes over the emotional dams I've erected over the last five years in a desperate bid to keep functioning.

"I'm sorry I'm a monster," I choke in an anguished whisper, hugging myself against the spasms of grief and revulsion racking my body. "I've done terrible, unforgivable things and ruined so many lives. I-I know I deserve to die for my crimes, for the blood I've spilled?—"

I choke off into sobs, unable to stop myself.

I gave in to darkness, sought it out, and there's no redemption from those choices.

I collapse to the ground, face in my hands, and just when I'm certain Lyssa will simply leave me to drown in my breakdown, she sits down next to me and gathers me into her arms, her thighs bracketing me too in an unmistakable embrace. I can only tremble against her, feel her chin tucking over my head protectively as I cry it all out.

And she lets me.

I crumple against her chest, fisting the worn cotton of her top as I unravel. Grief and remorse crash over me as Lyssa simply holds me, her presence the only anchor in a howling squall.

I'm not sure how long I cry, but eventually I collect myself enough to draw back a little, scrubbing at my wet face with mortification.

"Sorry," I sniffle. "Sorry, I…shit, I'll get it together for the mission, I promise?—"

"Shh." Lyssa's soft hush cuts me off as one of her knuckles traces the curve of my cheek. I suck in a sharp breath as she looks my face over.

For one dizzying moment, I think she's going to…do something. Her eyes are heavy with some unreadable emotion, her face coming closer and closer to mine until we're sharing the same airspace, mouths a hairsbreadth apart, just…hovering.

But then the spell breaks, tension dissipating as swiftly as it coalesced. Lyssa releases a low, shuddering breath and draws back, the shutters slamming down over her eyes once more.

"Let's forget about training tonight. Going to the high-rise was tough on you. You should get some rest." She rises to her feet and heads for the door, grabbing her leather jacket along the way. She pauses, hand on the door, to cast one last look over her shoulder. "We've got a lot of work to do in the coming days. Johnny will have something for us soon enough."

And just like that, she's gone. Leaving me damp and snotty, awash in confusion, with an insidious seed still blooming undeterred in the barren wreckage of my heart.

I have no idea how long I sit there, listening to the motorbike engine retreat, disappear. But at last I get up, rising on stiff limbs, and I wander over to the makeshift workstation again where she left me more food.

The shredded list lies to the right, its ominous implications swimming into focus once more.

Shit. The list of names…

I forgot to show Lyssa.