I put down her food and start the coffee machine. When it’s done, I carry my cup to the ballroom.
As my bare feet pad across the cold marble, a dark shape moves at the window. I freeze, my fingers tightening around the handle of my cup. Like a fool, I left my knife on my bedside table. The intruder doesn’t look like he’s seen me yet. I can throw the hot coffee in his face and then try and get to my knives—
A lamp clicks on, illuminating two faces reclining in the seats at the window, a chessboard open between them. Noah slouches on the sofa, while Gabriel sits on an ottoman, gripping his head with his hands.
“What is it with the two of you sneaking around?” I growl. “One of you is going to end up with a knife in the throat if you’re not careful.”
“Sorry, Claws.” Gabriel smiles, but there’s a sadness behind that smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He holds out his palm, and I see that he’s holding the broken pieces of my locket. My stomach twists. I stare at the chess game – Noah had set up a classic skewer and pin and placed Gabriel’s white king in checkmate before he even knew what hit him.
Noah might be a pampered rich boy, but he understands something of the art of war. I wonder if that’s why he hasn’t run from me.
And Gabriel… when I look at him again, I see the fallen angel wrestling with his fractured soul. I think of what he said last night, that he sees a strength in me that I never knew existed. I wish I could give some of that strength to him, so he can confront whatever happened with Dylan that has him so tied in knots.
I sit down opposite them. “I don’t say this lightly, so don’t make me repeat it again. I’m sorry I got you involved in this. I don’t want either of you to be hurt. I didn’t want to hurt Eli either – at a certain point, it just became inevitable.”
Gabriel drops the locket on the table. The CLANG of metal hitting glass ricochets against my skull like a gunshot. I swipe out my hand to collect the pieces, my secret may be out, but I may still need what that locket contains. “Tell us about your parents,” he says. “Your real parents.”
“What’s there to tell? My father could snap his fingers and order someone’s death. He was soft-spoken, never raised his voice, always had a smile and a joke, but behind that smile was a ruthless streak that made your knees shake. He was obsessed with history – he could trace our family back to the Roman Empire. Our house in Tartarus Oaks was filled with artifacts he purchased on the black market – a bust of Caesar from a dig in Germany, amphorae drawn up from a Mediterranean shipwreck, drawers and drawers filled with coins and knives. He made sure I had every toy or pretty dress I could possibly want, but I was never allowed the thing I wanted most – a friend. He knew that I was his biggest weakness, and he didn’t want me to ever feel weak. He hired tutors so I didn’t have to attend school, but he taught me history himself. He made Julius Caesar and Marc Antony and Augustus so real to me that I imagined they were my friends, instead.” I smile. “Ms. Drysdale’s class has made me see how it’s a warped view of history.”
“And your mom?”
I shrug. “She was a good crime lord’s wife – arm candy in her designer dresses and perfect hair, seen and not heard, but behind the scenes I know she influenced many of his decisions. They would sit beside the fire, sharing a bottle of wine while I read books or drew pictures, talking in low voices about the family business. She brought me books on every subject that interested me. She let me destroy the kitchen trying to make weird delicacies from ancient recipes. She loved to dance – when Daddy was out of the house, she’d put on records and teach me moves. Every weekend they’d leave me in Antony’s care and head out to one of their clubs together – the king in his impeccable Armani suit, the queen glittering in precious ancient jewels.” I grip the pieces of the locket so tight in my fist the broken edge cuts into my skin. I can’t