Ehh, but I’m a reasonable monster.

I take the jacket and slip it on. After all, the employees here are basically slaves to the wealthy. They’re paid a pittance that doesn’t even cover their fucking bills to wait on these people hand and foot. Why is it so much to ask, to just give people a living wage? How the fuck is this shit controversial and politically polarizing?

I sit down at the table, grab the bottle of wine by the neck—I hope it’s expensive—and chug the rest of it in one go. On the outside, I look calm. I know I do. On the inside, I’m fucking seething. One mantra repeats over and over in my mind: rein in your temper Vic; wield it like a weapon.

Ophelia just stares at me, her body tense, like she’s afraid I might finally do it, kill her right here and now.

But I’m also a careful monster.

Going to jail means no Bernadette. No protecting her. No fucking her. No holding her in my arms and kissing away her tears. She means everything to me. Everything. And I’d do anything for her … even that.

I won’t let myself put words to whatever ‘that’ is, but it sits there in the back of my mind, crouched like Callum in the shadows. Callum. Where is Callum? Where is Hael? Aaron? Oscar? I can’t get ahold of anyone.

At least I know Bernadette is safe.

For now.

But we have a serious mare’s nest that needs untangling, don’t we?

“James is dead?” Trinity asks, her voice hollow but her porcelain expression schooled into one of polite disinterest.

“He’s dead,” I reconfirm, sitting there in that awful restaurant with the stone walls and the low ceiling, live music in the corner, bottles of thousand-dollar wine on every table. That’s why this place is called the Bordeaux, because they serve exclusive bottles of wine worth upwards of twenty-grand. “Killed him myself.” Lie. But I can’t let Trinity or—via whatever social grapevine they have going on—Maxwell know that it was my wife that delivered the final blow. If anyone is going to receive retribution for that, it should be me.

Being the leader fucking blows sometimes.

I tap my fingers on the surface of the table. I’m so agitated right now, it’s tempting to just kill both women right here, right now. But that won’t solve our problems with the GMP. Or the police. Reasonable monster, careful monster, neat monster. Don’t make any messes you can’t clean up, Victor Channing.

“Excuse me,” Trinity says, standing up so suddenly that the attendant rushing over to help with her chair doesn’t quite make it in time. With small, neat steps, she makes her way to the restroom, leaving me alone with Ophelia Mars.

I look over at her.

“This changes everything. You know that, right?”

She sips her wine, eyes focused ahead on all the curious, gossiping nitwits that fill the restaurant. In an ebony gown made of silk, her hair twisted into a chignon, my mother is the very picture of elegance. I look just like her, but hyper masculine instead of hyper feminine. If I had a daughter, I bet she’d be Ophelia’s clone. Our DNA runs strong on that side of the family.

“Let me talk with Maxwell; this was all a huge mistake.”

“I cannot undo his son being dead,” I tell her, knowing that there will be no more talks of peace between the Grand Murder Party and Havoc. They’re going to come at us with everything they have and then some.

I’m not sure we can handle that.

Not head-to-head anyway.

We do best creeping in shadows.

“Let me talk to him,” Ophelia insists, turning to look at me. Even now, I can see the wheel in her head turning as she plots. The way she looks at me, I can tell she imagines that’s what I’m doing, too, plotting against her. Of course, she thinks like that because she’s always scheming. People who scheme the way she does always suspect everyone else of doing the same.

In this case, at least, she’s right.

I shake my head, a sardonic laugh slipping from my throat.

“Talk to him about what?” I ask, tilting my head to one side as I study her, like a wolf who cannot quite understand why his prey is still running when it’s quite clear she’ll be on her side, bleeding hot in the snow, sometime soon.

“Just give me time, Victor,” she snaps back at me, fingers tightening ever so slightly on her wineglass. Ah, there it is, that perfect porcelain mask of hers cracking right down the middle. This is as bad for her as it is for me, and she knows it. If I die, my entire inheritance goes to charity—as per Grandma Ruby’s wishes.

And wouldn’t that just be a shame?

“I’m preparing my people,” I tell her, knowing that whatever information I give her now is going straight to Maxwell Barrasso. “We’ll wait for an official apology from Maxwell, but only until Monday. You have a week, Ophelia.” I pause and lean forward, looking her dead in the face. I want her to know how serious I am about this. “One week.”

I stand up, taking the jacket with me.

The restaurant can add it to Trinity’s tab.

Lord knows Ophelia can’t afford it.

Bernadette Blackbird

Sara Young pulls into the driveway of Aaron’s place. I’m heartbroken to see all the windows dark. The Bronco and the Firebird are missing. Shit, I don’t even see Vic’s Harley. Across the street, two uniformed officers sit in a quiet cruiser, watching the place.

I can’t decide if it’s for our protection … or to catch us in a lie.

“Can I please have my phone back?” I ask, turning to look at her. I don’t know what the rules are for cops and phones and searches and all that. I do know that Sara had a search warrant, and that her team seemed to have no trouble cracking my passcode.

She shuts the ignition off, leaving the car to tick and cool around us.

“Not at this time, no,” she tells me, and I sigh. It’s such a heavy sound, you’d think the world were collapsing around me. “Do you want to tell me what mare’s nest means?”

My mouth twitches.

“A place, condition, or situation of great disorder or confusion,” I say, quoting Merriam-Webster for the win. I shift my gaze away from the dash and over to Sara’s petite face. She’s so … cute. And pixie-like. Pretty much the opposite of me. When I look up and into the mirror on the back of the sun visor, I can see my pouty mouth, the dramatic shape of my eyes. Without my usual makeup, I look too young. The image disturbs me, so I flip the visor up and away. “Why do you ask?”

“Do we have to keep playing these games?” Sara asks me, losing a bit of her practiced patience. “You sent a text with the words mare’s nest just about the time the shooting started. Why? What does it mean? Is it a code word?”

“I have the right to remain silent, don’t I?” I ask, looking back at her. “I mean, I’m not under arrest right now. Really, I didn’t do anything wrong. Every man I killed today had it coming. You don’t come into my school and start guerrilla warfare with my crew.”

Sara says nothing as I open the door and climb out. It occurs to me that if Prescott High—a very public place that was actively being watched by cops—is a target for the GMP then Aaron’s house is no longer safe.

We’re going to have to move.