That voice is familiar, but unexpected. I sneak closer, angling myself for a more expansive view of the room. Killian is standing behind the desk, and Mr. Mercer—Tristian’s dad—is sitting across from him. But it’s not just him. There are four other men, along with Dimitri and Tristian. There’s a crackle of tension in the air that immediately sets my teeth on edge, and it takes me a second to understand why. None of these strange men are standing stiffly. There’s not a hostile expression among them. Hell, three of them are nursing glasses of whiskey, looking as comfortable in this room as they might in their own home.
That’s what it is.
They’re too comfortable.
“Someone must fill the role of running South Side, Mr. Payne,” one of the men says. “You’ve positioned yourself to take over by becoming a Lord. Is that not what you want?”
Martin clears his throat and says, “What the Mayor is trying to say—"
“I know what the fuck he’s saying,” Killian growls, resting his weight against the fists he has pressed into the desk. “I just don’t like you all coming in here and telling me what my role is. I don’t need your approval. I’ve earned this title, and if my father hadn’t been tragically murdered, then I would have taken it from him directly.” My stepbrother speaks in even, clear tones. “Everything in South Side belongs to me. The properties, the Hideaway, the police, the hard-working, the junkies and whores. What I do with those things is up to me.”
“There’s the minor matter of Mrs. Payne,” Martin says, mouth pinching tightly. “She was his wife, which means—”
“Nothing,” another man says. I don’t recognize him, but he has a strong, distinctive face. I’ve only heard one word come out of his mouth, but I already hate him. He flicks his hand dismissively. “Widows gunk up the works, son. Shove some pills down her throat, make it look nice and clean, and rid yourself of the headache.” To the mayor and Mr. Mercer, he says, “It’s not like she mothered his children. Wasn’t she Avenue trash?” The man lets out a scoffing laugh. “If you think widows gunk up the works, then let me tell you about whores.”
My jaw drops in outrage, but a swift, cutting reply makes me freeze.
“If you want to leave this house with a beating heart,” Dimitri’s sprawled in a chair, looking for all the world like he has a million bigger cares than this particular discussion, “you’ll watch how you talk about whores under our roof.” His dark eyes rise from the knife he’s cleaning his nail beds with, leveling the man with a long, deadly look.
Even experiencing it secondhand, I shiver.
Beside him, Tristian shifts forward menacingly. “That whore is our Lady’s mother, Lionel. She’s under our protection from this day forward. You can go ahead and spread the word on that.” Leaning back in his seat, he casually adds, “And she’s quite nice, actually.”
Dimitri lowers his eyes again, muttering, “To you.”
“Posey will get half of his liquid estate, and more, if she needs it.” Killian looks at Lionel, voice dropping to a low, cold tone. “And just so we’re clear, Lucia. That’s the last time you call me ‘son’。 I’m fully aware of how you treat your spawn. Can’t say I care for it.”
My backpack slides off my shoulder, thumping softly against the wall. I jump back out of sight, holding my breath, but the silence in the room is a clear enough signal that they’ve noticed me. A moment later, Dimitri appears in the doorway, eyes darting down the hall.
They land on me and immediately soften. “Baby,” he says, looking cagily over his shoulder, into the room. “You’re not supposed to be here yet.”
I jab my thumb in the foyer's direction. “My study group let out early, so I strong-armed Marcus into bringing me home.”
Dimitri snorts. “Fucking pushover.”
“Rath…” A shadow moves behind him, and Killian fills the doorway, nudging him aside. “I’ve got this.”
Dimitri gives him a nod and slinks back through the door, pushing it partially closed behind him
“Sorry,” I tell Killian, mouth twisting as he reaches out to touch my hip. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Killian gives me an odd look, ushering me a few feet down the hall. “This is your home. You don’t need to be sorry.” Even though the words sound genuine enough, I see a certain strain in his eyes when he glances back toward the parlor. “I didn’t want to do this here, but since Daniel’s office is nothing more than a charred ember and we had to meet on my territory, this was all I had.”