by Amanda Foody
“Well, we won’t learn anything by doing nothing,” Levi said. “I agree with you—this will only escalate the conflict further—but if I don’t do this, I can’t get you the information you want, and I won’t be able to figure out who’s actually behind this.”
“Are you that confident in your associate? We’ve heard nothing about the Torrens in weeks.”
“I am,” Levi said, even though he wasn’t—not entirely. “Let me do this tonight, and I’ll have the name of the new don for you by tomorrow.” When Harrison didn’t respond right away, Levi pressed further. “I only need your help ensuring it’s shut down.”
Harrison sighed. “You want to do this tonight?”
“Yes,” Levi answered. He was tired of waiting.
After another moment of silence, Harrison said, “Fine. I’ll arrange for an anonymous tip to go to Hector, but tomorrow, we’ll meet at the Kipling’s Hotel at four in the afternoon. Bring your associate along. The waiting on both our parts ends tonight.”
The line went dead.
It wasn’t until Levi hung up and looked back at Tock that the weight of everything crashed down on him. The pressure to pull this off. The news about Chez.
His plan was finally coming to fruition; his empire would rise tonight. But for the first time, he thought, Maybe I don’t deserve it.
“Did he agree?” Tock asked.
Levi looked up and nodded.
She pumped her fist in victory. “So it’s happening. It’s happening.”
Levi looked out the window, where the magnificent, historic structure of Revolution Bridge crossed the Brint. The city’s most symbolic landmark.
This evening, Tock was going to blow it up.
But even the thought of that did nothing to change Levi’s mood. He couldn’t shake the image of the way the Irons had looked at him. Like they were afraid of him.
“I murdered Chez,” Levi breathed. “That’s what everyone is saying, and they’re right.”
The words finally pushed his nausea over the edge, and he vomited behind the absinthe crate.
Tock made a disgusted noise as Levi heaved and awkwardly patted him on the back. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. If anything, this is good news. Everyone is shocked. They didn’t think you had it in you.”
“How is that a good thing?” he gasped, trying not to throw up again.
“Your silver jewelry, your ridiculous palace... You’re trying to write yourself a legend, but you forget—all stories from the North Side are penned in blood.”
“Not mine,” Levi ground out.
She tilted her head to the side and gave him a pitiful look. “Maybe you’re just too good for all of this.”
Levi grew up in a family whose power had been forcibly removed from them. He’d listened, enraptured, to the stories of the North Side gangsters, people who’d come from nothing but seized power all the same. When he thought of those legends, of the Phoenix Club, of the sort of people who held power in this world, it sickened him to realize that the only path to it was a wicked conscience. He didn’t pretend to be a saint, but he’d foolishly hoped that he could change the repeated theme of all the stories. He’d thought his story could be different.
Maybe it wasn’t that the wicked always gained power—maybe power itself corrupted. Maybe Levi had spent so long calling himself a victim that he hadn’t noticed that he’d become a villain.
Maybe you’re too good for all this, Tock had said. So had Narinder, and Reymond before him.
Levi spat out what remained of the vomit in his mouth. “Not anymore.”
ENNE
Three girls walked down Guillory Street wearing pearls, frocked jackets, and impeccable plumberry lipstick. Their hair was tucked into dainty feathered hats, showing off slender necks and feminine collarbones. They clutched pastries and ruffled purses in delicate, white-gloved hands. Nearly everyone tipped their hats or smiled at them as they passed. They looked like a photo shoot from The Guillory Street Gossip waiting to happen, an exclusive clique the South Side didn’t know, but felt they ought to.
Never might they have expected the ladies to be gangsters.
According to Enne’s guidebook, Guillory Street was the social center of the South Side. Like the buildings, the cobblestoned streets were white, barely besmirched by the wheels of motorcars or the soles of brogued oxfords and kitten heels. Twinkling string lights crisscrossed overhead, illuminating shopfronts selling such luxuries as imported chocolate, fine jewelry, and overpriced real estate. The gardens were blooming and well-manicured. The street performers on clarinets and violins were Von Ballard–trained. The passersby carried colorful shopping parcels and smelled of high-end cologne.
“What a muckhole,” Lola muttered under her breath. An elderly woman who passed shot Lola a horrified look.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Enne told her. This was easily the nicest place in New Reynes she’d ever visited, one that came with glowing recommendations from her guidebook. She itched to tour some of the sights—the famous Kipling’s department store, the boutique cupcake shop, the opera hall. But they had come for one reason today: an afternoon salon that Worner Prescott was attending.
It had been two weeks since she’d last seen Levi. Their plans for the stock market were entirely stalled until Levi fulfilled his reckless promise to the other lords. She was depending on him, had no idea what was going on, and he hadn’t even bothered to contact her.
That stung worse than she cared to admit.
With their volts nearly gone, all three of the girls were irritated and hungry. And their clothes, though beautiful, were stolen from expensive Tropps Street boutiques and the laundry at St. Morse Casino.
Enne took a deep breath of the sweet-smelling South Side air, as though it could cleanse her bitterness from the inside out. She might’ve felt betrayed, petty, and mildly faint from a lack of sugar, but that was nothing a box of rose macarons and the scream of a whizzing bullet couldn’t fix.
“This is it,” Lola said, looking up from the guidebook.
The condominium complex was painted peony pink, and a flower box of lilies perched on every windowsill. The girls stepped through the revolving doors and into a pristine lobby, and Enne slid her invitation to a nearby attendant.
“My friends and I are here for the salon,” she told him. He looked at her lace and pearls and smiled pleasantly.
“Right this way.”
After a short elevator ride, the three girls stepped into a cheerful common room, crowded with people in seersucker and satin. Pastries were stacked into towers, teacups rested on end tables, and crowds gathered to discuss the recent editorials and columns in The Gossip.
“Oh, sweet muck,” Lola muttered, her expression growing ever more horrified.
Across the room, Enne locked eyes with Vianca Augustine. Vianca beckoned with her bony finger, and Enne felt the terrible, familiar squeeze of the omerta around her throat.
“I’ll be right back,” Enne told the other girls hoarsely. “Introduce yourselves.” The two of them shot her alarmed looks as she pushed through the party to Vianca’s side.
“Get up,” Vianca snapped at the scrawny man beside her. He paled and jumped to his feet, gesturing for Enne to sit.
Once Enne did, Vianca clamped a hand around her arm and leaned toward her. Enne cringed. “I see you’ve brought your associates with you,” she whispered. “You dressed them up well. They both look like little dolls.”
Vianca was probably the only person in New Reynes who would ever feel comfortable describing Lola and Grace like that. “I can’t be everywhere at once,” Enne answered. “And I trust them.” That was the truth. Even if Enne hadn’t yet won Grace’s oath, she’d earned her respect. And while Enne might’ve softened the edges of her friends, she’d also sharpened her own.
“Is Worner Prescott here?” Enne asked.
Vianca nodded to a man across the room. He was short and fair, with shoulders made broader by thick pads and balding
hair half-concealed beneath a top hat. He had the sort of face you could pass in the street unnoticed, even if you knew him.
Enne fought to contain her surprise. She associated monarchists with arson and vandalism, not cherry cheeks and tea parties.
As they watched, Worner made his way over to Grace and Lola. “He likes to introduce himself to everyone,” Vianca muttered. “He’s a buffoon, but he remembers names and faces. Some people find that charming.”
Enne wasn’t sure she’d ever heard Vianca share such a comment with her, as though Enne were a confidante. It was deeply uncomfortable, especially with Vianca’s hand still latched on her arm.
“You feel so thin,” the donna said, shaking Enne’s skinny wrist. “Don’t tell me the pressure is getting to you.”
Enne considered telling Vianca about how Levi’s ambitions were getting in the way of her own. She couldn’t imagine any real consequence to Levi—after all, he was Vianca’s favorite. But even if they hadn’t been speaking, it still felt like a line she couldn’t cross.
“Of course not,” Enne answered.
“Then why don’t you talk to Worner?” Vianca suggested. “Feel him out. He’s been terribly awkward around me lately. As if I care about what my son does or doesn’t do.”
Lola had advised her to avoid this subject, but Enne couldn’t contain her curiosity. “So it doesn’t bother you that Harrison is running for the First Party?”
Vianca’s nails dug deeper into Enne’s skin at the mention of her son’s name. “Of course not,” she said, echoing Enne’s own words and tone. Then she released Enne’s arm and carefully tucked a loose strand of white hair behind her ear, gazing into the distance. Enne realized that every few moments, the others in the room stole curious glances at the donna, followed by whispers.
Maybe the pressure was actually getting to Vianca.
“I’m very glad you’re here,” Vianca said, surprising Enne once again. She patted the back of Enne’s hand, as though her presence was a comfort.
Enne had never seen the donna betray vulnerability before, but still, she remained wary. After all, it wasn’t as though Enne had a choice about being here.
“What will you get if Worner wins?” Enne asked. “More power?”
“There are a thousand ways to power. You think I’d go to all this trouble if it were that simple?” Vianca’s voice grew colder and colder, and Enne leaned back into the comforting support of the cushions. “Do you know how it feels to have no value? For every person to see through you, no matter what you’ve accomplished?”
Enne didn’t look at the donna when she spoke, in case she saw something common in their expressions. She didn’t want to share anything with Vianca. Not ever. “I might,” she answered carefully.
“I was never supposed to be the donna of this Family,” Vianca said. Her bitterness was so palpable, Enne could nearly taste the vinegar in her words. “A long time ago, when there were still kings, my Family lived like royalty, too. And though Reynes was always a City of Sin, it felt different then, and my grandfather was adept at concealing his secret lifestyle. He spent his nights throwing dice and his mornings clutching prayer beads. He was a self-made man, but he was obsessed with his legacy. From nothing, he had built something. My father, my uncles, my brother—those were his something. I was not.”
Vianca’s voice remained cool, steady. Enne wasn’t sure she herself could speak about the things that had hurt her without them hurting her all over again. Maybe that was weak, but she also felt it was human.
“I was always overlooked,” the donna continued. “Even when my entire Family was executed for supporting the Mizers, I was spared.”
“But you’ve continued to support them. Because that’s what the monarchists want, isn’t it?” Enne asked quietly. “New kings?”
“It was, once. My family died because they wavered in their convictions, not because they upheld them. I am stalwart. The only one who ever continued the family legacy. After all, family is everything. Conviction is everything.” Then Vianca laughed under her breath, far too light and cheerful to match their conversation. “I know you believe me to be the enemy, but I do wish you’d told me about the stock market earlier. It’s very clever. And very unfair for Levi to throw your work into jeopardy.”
Enne froze. “How did you know about that?”
“It’s not exactly a secret that the lords met in the Catacombs, is it? Everyone in there saw you. Of course I find out these things.” Vianca reached over Enne’s shoulder to a drink tray and grabbed herself a glass. “I think it’s a marvelous idea—both of yours, really. I’d love nothing better than to see the North Side united against the South. I told Levi I wouldn’t interfere—not for six weeks. But the clock is ticking, and...it really isn’t fair to you, is it?” She leaned down to whisper into Enne’s ear. “Should I punish him for you?”
Enne coughed, startled. “No. You don’t need... I mean...”
Vianca raised her eyebrows and sipped her drink. “I’m surprised by how all this is turning out. I would’ve thought you two would be more than happy to work together. You’re such a pretty set on the front page.”
Vianca still wanted to play matchmaker, for whatever reason beyond her own cruel entertainment, Enne couldn’t fathom. Well, lucky for everyone, those plans had failed.
Vianca removed a pouch from her purse and pressed it into Enne’s hand. Enne felt the shape of glass orbs inside. “Your last gift. No point in wasting it on the boys this time.”
“Thank you.” Enne was horrified to realize she actually meant it.
Vianca smiled. “I always wanted a girl.”
Enne muttered a shaky goodbye and stood up. As she tried to shake off Vianca’s last words, she approached the spot where Worner Prescott was giving Lola and Grace the most exaggerated bow Enne had ever seen, his nose nearly scraping his knees. While Grace stifled laughter, Lola nervously attempted a curtsy of her own. She looked like a crow bar straining to bend.
“Oh!” Worner said, spotting Enne. Lola and Grace turned to her with relief. “Are you all here together?” He extended a hand, pastry crumbs stuck between his fingers.
“We are,” Enne said, and she introduced herself.
Worner squinted at her. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
Enne smiled wider, making her face look even more different from her wanted poster. “I don’t believe so. I’ve only recently arrived from Bellamy.”
“Bellamy!” he trilled. Worner spoke at a volume not quite appropriate for the indoors. “Why, I vacation there often in the summer. My house is right on Hawthorne Street. It’s by this bakery, the Gooseberry.” He beamed, as though quite pleased he’d remembered.
“I’ve been there a few times,” Enne told him politely.
“Well, what a delightful coincidence!” He looked around the room cheerily. “I’d be happy to introduce you to anyone here. I know them all.”
Before he could make any suggestions, a young woman appeared behind him. She had the sort of willowy figure that made Enne immediately identify her as a dancer.
“Oh, this is my daughter, Poppy,” Worner said. “Poppy, this young lady lived in Bellamy. Perhaps you went to school together?”
Enne tried not to gape at the girl. She looked far too elegant to be Worner’s daughter.
“The Bellamy Finishing School of Fine Arts,” Poppy said, twirling a blond ringlet around her finger. “I was only there a few months, though.”
“That’s where I attended, as well,” Enne answered. “I’m currently taking a gap year. For travel.” That was one of the prettiest lies she’d ever told.
“I still write to a few friends from there,” Poppy said, her voice suddenly filled with excitement. “Maybe you know Madeline Tanzer? Or Georgiana Glisset?”
Both girls had been far more popular than Enne ever was. She would’ve been shocked if they’d even known her name.
But Vianca had instructed Enne to insert herself into Worner’s inner
circle, so she smiled tightly and lied. “Yes. I knew them well.”
Worner beamed brighter.
Within five minutes, Enne and Poppy were seated on a loveseat, Lola awkwardly hovering beside them while Grace scoped out the men in the room with an almost predatory stare. Poppy held a copy of The Guillory Street Gossip on her lap as she told them all a scandalous story surrounding the city’s favorite prima ballerina, who seemed to be Poppy’s rival and—in their not so distant past—former lover.
Poppy turned the page and pointed to a column called Most Eligible Persons of the South Side. Poppy had dated nearly all of them.
“Except her,” she said, pointing to an heiress who was listed at number six. “She set fire to my Regalliere purse in our ninth year.” Poppy turned the page. “Or him.” She pointed at a face Enne nearly didn’t recognize, since she’d only seen him through the hazy violet lights of the Catacombs. Narinder Basra. “I don’t think he likes women. Very disappointing.”
Enne suddenly had a bad taste in her mouth, which Narinder probably didn’t deserve—she didn’t even know him. Lola shot Enne a warning look, then asked, “Wouldn’t he be in The Kiss & Tell’s version? He’s from the North Side.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be in both,” Poppy said. “He knows everyone in New Reynes, and the Catacombs is full of South Siders, as well.” She lowered her voice. “Though I heard a few weeks ago there was some sort of gangster turnout there. Kind of frightening, isn’t it?” But she sounded more excited than scared.
“I positively have goose bumps,” Grace said flatly.
“I’m still trying to get my hands on the other version,” Poppy admitted. “My father forbids me from reading it, but of course I do anyway.” She shot him an annoyed look from across the room, but he was too immersed in a discussion with a group of campaigners to notice. “He’s one to talk—getting a quarter of his donations from Vianca Augustine. Everyone knows what they say about her.”
“She’s here,” Enne rasped. “Best to lower your voice.”
“Oh, I know,” Poppy replied airily. “The whole room reeks of her off-brand perfume.”