“Don’t melodramatize the situation, son. You sound so unbelievably gauche when you ramble like that.” She swings her gaze from the necklace—which is so very clearly upsetting to her—back to Victor’s sardonic stare.

“If there’s anything more pathetic than a greedy man grasping for more gold, it’s someone who used to have it all, lost it, and is suckling at the dick of the devil for more. Look, I’ll be straight with you,” Vic continues as Tom fidgets behind Ophelia. The way he looks at the boys and at me tells me several things. First off, he’s scared. Second, he’s jumpy. The first chance he gets to hurt one of us, he’s going to take it and he isn’t going to hold back the way I did with Kali. “We’re at war now, you and me.”

“You’re not just at war with me,” Ophelia says, still smiling, raising her glass at friends that pass by. She turns her obsidian stare on her son’s matching one. If Vic and I ever have a kid, I bet they’ll have that same eye color, like the blackest night in winter, when the clouds are so thick they block out all the stars. It’s that savage ruthlessness that’s etched into their DNA, impossible to escape or ignore. “I want you to look around and remember how to keep your mouth shut.”

“About which part of the equation?” Oscar asks, but Ophelia refuses to look in his direction. It’s as if nobody in the world exists but for Victor. Ophelia might hate him, but she wants his attention, regardless of what she has to do to get it. “The fact that you help facilitate the buying and selling of children? Or the kidnapping? The murder?”

“How are you involved with the GMP, Mother?” Vic asks, but Ophelia just sips her own champagne and smiles.

“You’re such a child, Victor. Springfield is nothing. It’s not even a dot on a map. You could be and have so much more. Trinity’s grandfather is a judge. He’s prepared to grant you an annulment on your marriage.”

I freeze where I am, go completely still, like a mannequin in a dress that’s so red that some of the less savory characters in the room are probably looking at me and remembering the last time they killed somebody. Unlike you, Bernie, who didn’t have the guts to do so.

I exhale sharply and everyone looks at me. Aaron, Oscar, Callum, Hael … Victor. He glances at me and then turns his head very slowly to stare at his mother. Everything in his posture says he wants to wrap his hands around Ophelia’s throat—and not in the same way that Oscar does to me.

My eyes meet Trinity’s, and she smiles. She’s so pretty and decorous and quiet. I’m afraid of her suddenly in a way I was never afraid of Kali. This girl … she’s different than Kali, like an empty shell all-too happy to absorb the lifeforce of whoever’s around her. She drinks her champagne, and my stomach clenches like I’m having the most awful fucking period cramps.

“An annulment?” Victor echoes, glancing over at Oscar instead of me. Instead of smirking and telling his mother he’d rather die than give me up—something I might’ve expected—he asks her that question, like it’s important.

“Thought that would get your attention,” Ophelia says, still smiling. She hasn’t stopped since we walked in here. Looking over at Aaron I can see that, like with Kali, he won’t hesitate to kill this woman if given the chance. He leans on his good leg, his bad arm held gingerly at his side. There’s no doubt in my mind though that he could still hold his own in here. “You and Bernadette get an annulment which in no way affects the line of inheritance.” Ophelia gestures at Trinity with her glass. “You marry Trinity, and then after the prescribed length of time, you get a divorce. She will take half of your money when she goes.”

Vic raises a brow, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You can still screw your little whore,” Trinity says, turning her quiet gaze over to Vic. “If you want. But we can make this work, too. You’re driven, Victor. I can see that just by looking at you. So much more than the leader of some pathetic little high school gang.”

There’s a brief moment there where this conversation could go so many ways. I know why Vic asked about the annulment and what he’s thinking. I was selfish by marrying you; I want you to be safe. He said as much the other day. This is something he would consider, if he were smart.

I don’t even give Victor the chance to respond. Instead … I go full Southside and hit up with the heel of my hand, slamming it into Trinity’s nose hard enough to make a crack that echoes through the room. It seems to cut through the music coming from the musicians on the dais at the end of the room.

“Eh—” Trinity starts, looking down at the floor as bright red splatters hit the white marble. It looks like an abstract composition, something modern but understated—and far more real than the art that’s pinned to the walls like dead butterflies.

Her brown eyes lift up to mine, blazing with fury. Her fingers tighten around the stem of her champagne glass.

“What just happened here?” a man asks, reaching out for Trinity’s elbow. She lets him take it, covering her nose with her hand. The fact that she didn’t scream tells me a lot. This chick is dangerous.

“Just a nosebleed,” she says, nodding to him. “Could you get me a napkin so I can make my way to the bathroom? I’d hate to bleed all over the floor.” The man leaves quickly, long strides taking him across the room in just a few seconds. “Southside trash,” the girl murmurs, staring me down. “Filthy whore.”

I just smile back at her.

“Takes one to know one,” I say with a loose shrug, reaching down and threading my fingers through Victor’s. The girl looks from him to me and then back to him again. A surge of determination rises up in her gaze before she turns away, meeting the long-legged man halfway across the room.

“Think about it,” Ophelia tells Vic, reaching up to cup the side of his face. “And take your time. I’ll be generous and let you have until my birthday to decide. Start thinking about what you’d like to get me as a gift while you’re at it.”

She moves away, Tom trailing along behind her.

As soon as they’re out of the way, I can see the painting that was behind her. It’s a red-on-white image that reminds me of the blood on the floor. Reaching out with my heel, I smear it across the ground.

“That girl is terrifying,” I admit, glancing over at Victor. He’s looking right at me, the king to my queen. He’s so much more fit for the job than I am, at least right now. I’ve got to step it up; this is getting old and quick.

“Don’t worry about her,” Victor says, letting his smile take over his face. “If we weren’t so scary, they wouldn’t try so hard. Boys.” He gestures with his head, letting us know we’re getting the fuck out of there. “But let’s not go home. Not yet.”

He leads us back outside, summoning the limo with a quick call to the driver.

“Did you notice,” Aaron begins as we’re waiting for the car to pull up in front of the gallery, “that Ophelia didn’t have a wedding ring on her finger?”

Oh.

That’s right: Aaron said he saw Tom get an engagement ring out of the cabin while he was trapped there. In fact, he told Aaron that he was going to ask Ophelia to marry him that night …

She must’ve said no.

“Interesting,” Victor breathes, as if it means nothing at all. But he’s taken note of it, I can tell. At some point, that information is going to help us solve this puzzle. There’s no doubt in my mind about that.

“Extremely,” Oscar agrees, and then Hael is opening the limo’s back door before the driver can get to it, and we’re on our way back to the neighborhood we know better than anyone.

Prescott.

We end up at a club in the southside, flashing fake IDs that Callum produces like it’s nothing. I don’t even blink at that. Out of all the craziness that is Havoc, having and using fake IDs is like comparing baby food to vodka. Not even in the same league.

Ram’s Skull, is the name of the club. I mean, walking in and looking at the place, I’m not surprised. The name is basically written all over the walls in blood.

Before we walked in here, I asked the boys for a switchblade and cut the dress along the mesh inset at the thigh, turning my floor-length gown into a party dress. Guess I won’t be reselling it after all.

“Oh, devilish,” I say as we enter the club, letting the red-and-black dress drift up my thighs and not bothering to fix it. Let everybody stare at me. They are, too, but only because of Havoc. When Vic heads straight for the bar, the crowd parts like water to let him pass. I mean, we are in South Prescott. Cal takes off in the opposite direction while Hael dives right into the fray, leaving Aaron, Oscar, and me near the entrance.

The walls are painted black and covered in what I’m guessing are real rams’ skulls. Bones fill the space, hanging from the ceiling, decorating the backs of the stools by the bars. The place smells like cloves and sage and sweat, and it’s run-down and rachet enough that I’m sure it’s been here forever. I’ve never made a habit of coming to clubs, even though I could’ve gotten a fake ID by closing my eyes and throwing a rock at any number of Prescott High students.

What on earth is fun about being swarmed by desperate guys with roaming hands? And like, yeah, not going to have a drink here and find my ass roofied. I mean, not that anyone would be so stupid now. Everybody in here knows who Havoc is. Or if they don’t, they can get in our way and learn quick.

“Downright demonic,” Oscar agrees, drawing my eyes away from the throbbing crowd. He’s frowning, his eyes the color of slate and far too stony without the glasses to put up a barrier between us. “God, I despise the club scene.” The corner of his lip curls up as a girl accidentally bumps into him, glancing over her shoulder and paling substantially before scurrying away into the crowd.

Poor thing.

“Why are we here?” I ask, sticking to the perimeter of the dance floor. Might as well be a brothel. Looks like most everyone in here is on the verge of fucking. I try not to look at them. Makes me remember that I got gang-banged last week. Or wait … actually, maybe I should look at them.