Benedikt threw half of his sandwich into the trash, strolling under the flapping shop banners. Again and again, no matter how many times the White Flowers said it, no one cared to listen. These monsters were not random hits. So long as the White Flowers behaved, so long as they continued fulfilling demands . . .
It had been a while since the last demand came.
Benedikt stopped. He turned over his shoulder. It felt like he was being watched: from both above and below. Eyes on the rooftops and eyes in the alleys.
It wasn’t his imagination. Quickly he spotted a boy on his tail, lingering at the mouth of an alley. When Benedikt locked gazes with him, the boy hurried out, stopping two paces away. He was a whole head shorter than Benedikt, but they looked the same age. There was a white rag tied to his ankle, half-covered by his tattered trousers. A White Flower, then, but not an important one. A messenger, most likely, if he was chasing after Benedikt.
“I’m looking for Roman Nikolaevich,” the messenger huffed in Russian. “He is nowhere to be seen.”
“You decided to tail me for Roma?” Benedikt replied, his eyes narrowing.
The boy folded his arms. “Well, do you know where he is?”
Benedikt’s eyes only narrowed further. “He’s not here.” All the lower-tiered White Flowers should have known that. It was not difficult to keep attuned with the important members of the gang; it was the messengers’ job to keep track of where one was most likely to be in order to find them.
And who still called Roma Roman?
Suddenly Benedikt’s hand snagged out and grabbed the messenger’s wrist. “Who really sent you?”
The messenger’s jaw dropped. He tried to tug away. “What do you mean?”
In one smooth motion, Benedikt twisted the boy’s arm behind his back, then pulled forth a pocketknife and pressed the blade to his neck. It was nowhere near any major artery to act a threat, but the messenger froze, eyeing the blade.
“You’re a Scarlet,” Benedikt guessed. “So who sent you?”
The messenger remained quiet. Benedikt pressed his knife in, cutting the first layer of skin.
“Lord Cai,” the messenger spat quickly. “Lord Cai sent me because we know. We know that the White Flowers are behind the blackmail demands.”
Benedikt blinked rapidly. “We are not,” he said, confused. “Where did you hear such information from?”
“It is too late now.” The messenger tried to writhe about. “Lord Cai wanted confirmation and confession, but Tyler will have you answer for your insolence. You dare threaten the Scarlet Gang, you pay with blood and fire.”
Just as Benedikt was about to let go of his hold on the Scarlet messenger’s arm, the Scarlet twisted his head and bit down hard on Benedikt’s hand. Benedikt hissed, dropping his knife, and the boy bolted, disappearing down the street in record speed. Hardly any of the onlookers by the food stalls even blinked.
Something was wrong.
Benedikt rushed for headquarters, his heart pounding in his ears. By the time he was nearing the residential block, he could already hear the yelling. When he tried to push through the front door, he was almost pushed right out.
“Hey, hey, cut it out,” he snapped, fighting through the crowd. At the center of the living room, the same White Flower who had asked Benedikt to help assemble the wardrobe was clutching a slip of paper in his hands, his face practically red as he explained its contents. Benedikt caught bits and pieces as he struggled closer. Bank statement. Our latest payment. Exact number. Scarlet account. It’s them.
“Order!” Benedikt roared.
The room became still. Benedikt was almost surprised. He had never commanded attention like this before. It was always Marshall jumping on the tables or Roma snapping one directive that swept the room like ice. But now neither Marshall nor Roma was here. Benedikt was the only one left.
“Give me that,” he snapped, holding his hand out for the paper. “What are we crowing over?”
“It was sent to us, Mr. Montagov,” a voice within the crowd answered. “Proof that we have no blackmailer, and it has been the Scarlets all along.”
So why did the Scarlet messenger say the exact opposite?
“Don’t move a muscle,” Benedikt said without looking up, stopping the group near the door in their tracks. They had been on their way out, guns at the ready to find Scarlets to fight. With Benedikt’s instruction, they were forced to look as he turned the paper around, tapping the top corner.
“The account is registered to Lord Cai,” one insisted, even as he squinted where Benedikt was pointing. “The deposit amount matches the last demand we paid—”