King Of Fools (The Shadow Game series, Book 2)

by Amanda Foody

  Whitacker gaped at her, but just as his expression began to warp into anger, she turned on her heels and sped away. Poppy, who’d been watching while sipping a Hotsy-Totsy, laughed. “What did you say to him? He’s gone scarlet!”

  “I don’t mean to be picky,” Enne breathed, “but these men aren’t nearly as charming as you’d led me to believe.”

  Poppy leaned forward with a serious look. “Never, ever apologize for being picky. As if I’d want a friend so easy to please.” She scanned the remaining suitors at the party. “I wish I knew what you did like, though. You’ve exhausted the three men with the best cheekbones, the two disgustingly rich ones, the one with the cute butt, and you don’t seem interested in the girls.”

  “I didn’t hate the one with the cute butt,” Enne pointed out. Grace would’ve probably liked him even more, but until the business with Roy was resolved tonight, Grace needed to stay with the Spirits. Enne almost envied her. If not for Poppy, Enne wouldn’t even like going to these salons anymore. They were exactly the sort of gatherings she’d longed to attend in Bellamy, but she hadn’t belonged at them then, and she certainly didn’t belong here now.

  “‘Not hating’ wasn’t exactly the romantic spark I was looking for,” Poppy said drily. Her eyes widened, and she squeezed Enne’s hand. “There’s someone else then, I bet. Back in Bellamy.”

  Enne snorted. “Why would you think that?”

  “You hardly talk about yourself.” Poppy smiled mischievously. “I bet you have secrets.”

  Enne had little intention of revealing anything about herself to Poppy, but she didn’t like lying, so she steered the conversation away. “Could we go to the powder room? I’d like to reapply my lipstick.”

  Several moments later, Poppy bent over the sink, straightening her false eyelashes, and Enne rifled through her purse.

  “So what did Whitacker say that had you storming off?” Poppy asked.

  “He mentioned something about how women shouldn’t dirty their hands with politics.”

  Poppy barked out a laugh. “Our chancellor is a woman. And as of late, all our male politicians keep getting killed by one.”

  Enne jolted, smearing pink lipstick across her chin. She quickly closed her purse to hide the white gloves of the Spirits tucked inside.

  “I know,” Poppy said with a sigh, seeing Enne’s reaction. “That’s a horribly distasteful thing to say, coming from the daughter of a politician.” For a brief moment, the look on her face changed from cheerfulness to worry. “I never thought he’d win, you know. But his campaign advisors are saying he might.”

  Enne put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think you need to worry about your father.” Not with Vianca watching over him, anyway.

  “He announced his candidacy over six months ago, but lately...” Poppy shivered. “It’s felt different at these parties. I no longer recognize all the faces. I don’t trust anyone here.”

  “Why not?” Enne asked.

  “I just have a terrible feeling. Superstition is outdated, I know, but still.” Poppy smoothed out her hair. “I’m dreading the debate more than anything. I’ve heard it’s a huge event, and all the South Side shows up for it. He gets terrible stage fright, and—”

  “The debate?” Enne echoed. “It draws that many attendees?”

  “Absolutely. It’s like showing up to a music hall or a tennis tournament. Everyone pretends to be interested in the show, but they’re really just there to get their pictures taken. It’s not until the end of September, which is still over a month away, but he’s mentioned it multiple times already. He’s excited. Like he actually stands a chance of outtalking Harrison Augustine.”

  If the event truly garnered that level of attention, then Aldrich Owain would likely attend. And Vianca might have Enne attend, as well. She clutched at the edge of her skirts, tracing the outline of her gun.

  It was a perfect opportunity.

  “I need to go,” Enne said quickly.

  “You’re already running off?” Poppy asked. “Where do you always disappear to?” Before Enne could answer, Poppy’s face split into a knowing grin. “Maybe I was wrong about the Bellamy boy. Maybe it’s a North Side boy, and you’re worried about scandalizing me.”

  Enne let out a strained laugh. “You’re imagining my life to be far more interesting than it is.”

  Nevertheless, Poppy blew her a kiss. “Tell the North Side boy he hogs too much of your time.”

  As Enne tried to slip out of the party, a hand grabbed her wrist, and Enne let out a gasp of surprise. “You don’t even say hello to me anymore?” Vianca yanked Enne around to face her.

  “I...I thought you weren’t coming today,” Enne stammered. In fact, as Vianca’s only confidante, Enne had advised her not to. Vianca insisted these appearances made her look in control, but really, she seemed obsessive. Especially with all the rumors the tabloids reported about what might’ve happened between her and her son.

  Vianca ignored her question. “Did Poppy tell you anything interesting? You have a job to do at these parties, don’t forget.”

  Enne ripped her hand away. “We both know that’s not why you want me here, or why you call me ten times a day.”

  “You think this election is breaking me. Everyone seems to think that.” Vianca peered over her shoulder, making several eavesdroppers blanch and turn away. “If I were a man, all the talk would be about my financial interests in this election. Instead, it’s personal.”

  Enne didn’t believe that to be entirely true, but she also agreed it wasn’t false, either.

  The donna tucked a loose hair back into her fraying bun. “You’d think the women at least would understand, but look around—who are the ones craning their necks to get a glimpse of the heartless casino owner?” Enne did so, and sure enough, it was mostly women staring. “Well?” she snapped. “What’s your opinion on this?”

  Enne sighed. Vianca never listened to her advice, anyway. “I think it takes more strength to be vulnerable than it does to appear invincible.”

  Vianca squeezed Enne’s shoulder. She’d already spent so long leaning on it for emotional support that Enne was surprised it wasn’t bruised.

  “That’s it, then?” Vianca snarled. “I should cry motherly tears on a radio station? I should give them what they all want?”

  This was what she always did, twisting Enne’s honest words into something wrong. For someone convinced she had something to prove to all the men in her life, Vianca would prefer to be regarded as just another man than as a woman successful in her own right, and that made her as narrow-minded as the rest of them.

  “Do you hate Harrison?” Enne asked, deeply tired.

  “Of course I do. My grandfather, my father, my brother, my son. I hate them all.” Her voice grew weaker as her words grew more vicious. “But this was never about the men. This has always been about me.”

  Enne would never admit to identifying with Vianca Augustine, but she understood the frustration of other people’s assumptions. She was either “wasted at finishing school” or “corrupted by the North Side.” In reality, she wasn’t any particular type of girl. She was simply practical, dedicated, and clever.

  Maybe Enne had cried over a boy who didn’t deserve it. Maybe she could be called silly or naïve. But if she truly believed tears and vulnerability meant weakness, then she wouldn’t merely understand Vianca Augustine—she would respect her.

  “Then beat them,” Enne told the donna, and Vianca’s lips curled into a satisfied smile.

  The words might’ve suited Vianca’s ruthless vision for herself, but they were too pretty, too simple. But since the donna disdained women for the same reasons, Vianca wouldn’t know the difference.

  8

  “The most romantic legend of the North Side is Innocence and Iris. They were rival street lords, and so they hid their relationship for years.

  “Until they were both apprehended.

  “Legend says Iris stayed alive for two days until Innocence
was hanged next to her. That she lingered that whole time on the gallows, waiting for her lover to join her.”

  —A legend of the North Side

  LEVI

  His six weeks were over.

  Levi shivered as he walked down the gaudy opulence of the hallway that led to Vianca’s office. He’d worn his best for this meeting, appropriate for one of the richest men in the North Side. The Irons operated in eighty percent of all the casinos in the city. He’d even been offered the chance to buy a casino.

  It was enough, he assured himself.

  It was enough.

  It was enough.

  He prayed Vianca saw reason, that this wasn’t just another one of her games to torment him. She ran an empire herself; she recognized when business sense forced you to set aside personal whims.

  Nevertheless, Levi braced himself as he entered the elevator to Vianca’s private residence, preparing for everything he cared about to be stripped away.

  The elevator doors creaked closed, and he sensed Vianca’s aura seeping in through the cracks, grazing the skin against his cheek. It positively filled the casino—every expensive cologne and designer hand soap was laced with her odor of vinegar, the purest of white walls or marble stained faintly green.

  Levi walked into Vianca’s sitting room to find it empty and eerily still. It was identical to when he’d last seen it, except for one striking detail—the portrait of the Augustine Family now had a tear across it, forcibly removing Harrison from the picture.

  If Vianca discovered Levi was working for her son, she would do much worse to him. So he swallowed and put on his best poker face.

  “’Lo?” he called. His voice sounded stifled in the apartment’s stillness. He jolted as a floorboard creaked beneath his loafer.

  “We’re in here.”

  When Levi had received this summons, he’d assumed Vianca would be alone. Apparently that wasn’t the case. He followed the sound of her voice into a dining room, where the donna was seated at the end of a dramatically long table with a full spread of food across it, as though she planned to host a dinner party. His eyes roamed over the dishes—seafood specialties of New Reynes, heavy pork roasts and potatoes, strudels and cinnamon tarts, cheeses he didn’t recognize. The room smelled of so many different foods his stomach hurt.

  Enne sat on Vianca’s left, nearly concealed from view by a tower of rosemary pastries. Levi felt an acute mixture of relief and guilt to find her here. After all, it was Levi’s fault that she’d fallen victim to Vianca’s omerta in the first place.

  But he was also grateful not to be alone.

  He and Enne had only interacted in person a handful of times since initially selling shares on Sweetie Street, but the ache of seeing her never seemed to ease. She wore some glitzy South Side dress, and her hair—normally tied up in a ballerina bun—draped over her shoulders. It was hard not to stare.

  He cleared his throat and turned away before he betrayed himself. “Expecting more company?” he asked the donna, gesturing to the assortment on the table.

  “We’re sampling,” Vianca answered. She nodded at the seat to her right. “Come join us. We’ve been waiting.” As soon as Levi did so, she stood and made a slow, predatory circle around the table. “I hope you’ve both come hungry. I’ve had food brought to us from all the best restaurants in the city.” There was a sharp edge to her voice that gave Levi the troubling impression he was being stuffed for slaughter.

  He eyed Enne carefully. Her lips were pursed in a nervous line, much like his own.

  “Maybe we’re even celebrating,” Vianca mused. As she spoke, she swiped a finger across the meringue cream on a pie, streaking its perfect swirl design, and popped it into her mouth. The dessert looked delicious, but Vianca made a face as though it tasted of ash. “I’ve been so impressed with you both. What you’ve accomplished is quite remarkable.” She narrowed her eyes at Levi. “Don’t hold your breath like that, like you’re in a panic. I thought you’d be pleased. You’ve more than won our little bet.”

  The omerta forced all the air out of him in a rush, the least satisfying sigh of relief Levi had ever had.

  Vianca paused over the plate of cheese and cured meats. She lifted the platter and began serving each of them, rattling off the specific names of the pecorinos and burratas. Soon both Enne’s and Levi’s plates were loaded with nearly a dozen varieties, mounted with olives, pickled vegetables, and crackers.

  In all the time Levi had known Vianca, he didn’t recall her ever feeding him. Paid him, choked him, applauded him, drugged him...certainly. He knew better than to trust anything she offered.

  “All it took was a little motivation,” Vianca purred, “and now you’re both some of the richest people in the North Side.” Her gaze moved over them as though they were a dish she could sample. She slid her hand down Enne’s head, getting a touch of grease in Enne’s hair. “Eat,” she commanded.

  Enne nervously bit into a stack of bread and cheese. Levi picked through his own plate, his fingers quickly growing slick with olive oil. The food tasted as delicious as it looked, but it was also rich. He began to grow full before he’d made it even halfway through his plate.

  Vianca returned to her seat, and for several minutes, spoke of nothing more than the cheeses. She made a point to identify everything they ate.

  “What do you think of the camembert?” she asked him.

  Levi swallowed past his fullness. “It’s...very good. It’s all good. But I don’t know why you’re asking me—I don’t know anything about fine food.” He couldn’t tell the difference between a half-and ten-volt bottle of bourbon, and he considered that a good thing. He wasn’t hard to please. “And you didn’t invite us over just to sample overpriced hors d’oeuvres.”

  Vianca never made such grand gestures unless she wanted something. It was her way of pretending they were more than her prisoners. But no matter how many delicacies she offered them, whatever she wanted, she could—and would—simply take.

  She pouted. “I thought we could enjoy each other’s company for a while.”

  “We were called here without warning. We’re both missing appointments, I’m sure.” Levi had nothing on his agenda that evening other than to discuss Fitz Oliver’s offer with Tock, but he could think of a thousand places he’d rather be than Vianca’s dining room.

  “So impatient,” Vianca chided. “I’ve left you both much to your own independence these past few weeks, though I initially hoped you’d be more like partners. I admit to missing that little idea.”

  She cleared the empty plates in front of them and began setting out new, larger ones. Levi’s stomach gave a painful clench.

  “Do you think Levi would make a good business partner, Enne?” Vianca asked. “He can be so self-centered.” Levi gripped his fork so hard his knuckles whitened. “And touchy,” Vianca added.

  “He’d be adequate,” Enne answered steadily.

  Levi thought he deserved more than that. Maybe not a month ago, when everything had fallen apart between them, but they’d moved past that. He didn’t want Vianca’s unnerving fantasies to cause a rift between them all over again—or worse, to kindle fantasies of his own.

  But then Enne’s foot found his under the table. It wasn’t a kick, but a brief touch, probably meant to reassure him. It did, but it also made him dizzy.

  Three more months, he told himself. Three more months until the election, until Harrison killed Vianca, until Levi’s promise to Jac finally expired. But amid all his hope and gratitude for Jac’s work lurked a seed of resentment. The promise was meant to last until the end of Jac’s assignment, but Jac had seen to it that his assignment would never end.

  Levi quickly jerked his foot away. He was trying to be a better person than the one who’d stolen from the Irons and killed Chez. But he was starting to doubt that goodness was in his nature, if the right thing felt like a battle and the wrong thing felt like surrender.

  “And what about you?” Vianca asked him. “Enne would
probably be a hard partner to work with. She takes everything so personally. No separation between business and pleasure.” While Vianca piled roast pork on Enne’s plate, Levi tried not to let his thoughts trip over her last word. “You should see her at the salons we attend. Always dancing, drinking, eating. It’s a wonder she’s not spilling her secrets into the ear of any of the young men who ask her to waltz.”

  Enne cast the donna a scathing look. After all, her efforts were entirely transparent, as though Enne and Levi really were her dolls. And as much as he hated to play into her games, it was too easy for Levi to fall into this trap.

  An intrusive picture of Enne in the arms of a South Side boy entered his mind, and the worst part of it wasn’t that Enne would do better with a South Sider—it was that she wouldn’t. If she was going to dance with anyone, it should be with him. If she was going to be with anyone, she should be with him. Their secrets, their troubles, their destinies were intertwined, and no matter what lengths Levi took to avoid her, it wouldn’t matter. It would always be her. It would always be him.

  Levi wanted to be better about keeping his promises, he really did. But he was also bitter, and for the past few weeks—the past few years—he’d been scared that bitterness was all he’d ever feel. Maybe he couldn’t help himself, and he’d never stop wanting. Or maybe everything he had seemed insignificant because he didn’t have her.

  “Why don’t you tell him about the parties?” Vianca asked Enne, whose gaze was fixed on her heaping plate.

  “It hardly seems important,” she breathed.

  “It looks like it’s important to Levi.”

  Enne’s gaze whipped toward him, and Levi’s face burned. It would’ve only taken a single look from her to shatter his resolve entirely, but her face was unreadable.

  “Whatever you’re about to ask us,” Levi told Vianca, “please just do so.” So we can leave. He needed some fresh air. Away from Enne. Away from here.