Vic gives his best friend a grim smile as he threads his arm through mine and waits for the valet to open the doors for us.

“Believe it not, we’re probably the holiest motherfuckers invited to this party tonight.” Victor hands over the invitation he received from Ophelia—likely because the security guards are eyeing our skeleton masks like they’re made of horse shit—and we’re welcomed in with polite smiles and fearful eyes.

As the doors open wide, sensual jazz music leaks out into the cool December air around us. The traffic isn’t too bad, but the distant murmur of cars in the distance keeps this spot grounded. As soon as we go in, and the doors close behind us, we’ll be stuck here, trapped in a different world.

“We’ve got this,” Callum murmurs, and Aaron nods, meeting my eyes one, last time before I look from him to Oscar. His steely gaze gives me nothing, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve already cracked his shell; I just need to hit it a few more times before it peels away and shows me what’s really underneath.

“Once you invite a vampire in, you can’t rescind your invitation,” Vic says mildly, and then he’s striding forward with me by his side. I swear on the devil’s tits, every person in that room turns to look at us. I mean, I’m not surprised. Everything from my dress to the boys’ cufflinks to the red bow ties is intended to grab the attention of the affluent crowd. Havoc never does anything in half-measures, after all.

“Mother,” Vic breathes, his eyes focused on a single figure in the room, as calculated and predatory as a cat discovering a mouse. The crowd of glittering urban nobles parts as we pass by, heading straight in Ophelia and Tom’s direction before one of the waiters moves over to us, offering up champagne. “No thanks. We brought our own.” Victor holds up one of the expensive liquor bottles we stole from Leigh’s house—pretty sure this one’s worth about eighty-grand—and then pops the top.

I swear to god, Ophelia’s eye twitches when she sees what her son’s doing.

“Southside trash in the Oak River Heights district,” he says as we approach his mother, and she gives her son an air kiss on either cheek. The rest of us, she ignores. Vic swigs the champagne and then passes it to me. “You must’ve had a fit at the very thought.”

“Victor,” Ophelia oozes, ignoring her son’s statement, the smile on her face reminiscent of a garrote. Her raven-colored hair is twisted into a precise knot at the base of her skull, and her skin shimmers with the faintest luminescence. If you were to compare our makeup styles, you might say I looked like a succubus while she appears as light as a pixie. She holds her mask in one hand, the glittering face of a jaguar made up of precious gemstones; it’s probably worth a fortune. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Oh, I bet you are,” Vic replies, just as smoothly. His eyes slip past his mother to land on Tom. The slimy weasel is wearing an elephant mask with tusks that I’m certain are real ivory. It makes me hate him even more. I bet he’s the type of dude who goes trophy hunting and then frames pictures of him with dead, exotic animals. The rarer, the better. Preferably near extinction.

I take two huge swallows of champagne before I hand the bottle to Callum. He isn’t looking at me though as he takes it. Instead, his eyes scan the room and the hideous collection of art on display. I kid you not, I’ve seen Heather paint prettier pictures with her fingers.

Ophelia finally deigns to give me her attention, studying my dress before lifting her gaze to take in the diamond necklace around my throat, the one that we stole from her at the beach house. Her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on her champagne flute. The way she holds it reminds me of Pamela, of that awful night when Penelope admitted to stealing that dress.

“The question is,” Vic begins, maintaining a smile that’s eerily similar to his mother’s. If I thought he looked terrifying in the southside, dressed in ragged jeans and wifebeaters, he’s twice as scary in a tux. “Why did you want us here? You already failed to kill Aaron when you had him,” he whispers, leaning down near her diamond studded ear. She keeps smiling the entire time, lifting her hand now and again to wave at a passing acquaintance. “Now, you better start trying harder because the first chance I get, I’m going to kill you.”

“You can certainly try,” Ophelia purrs as Victor stands up straight and Cal passes the champagne over to Aaron. He looks right at Ophelia, but she doesn’t bother glancing his way. The dismissal makes me even more furious than if she’d told him to fuck all the way off. To Ophelia Mars, the only adversary in this room that matters is her son. That’s her mistake though, now isn’t it? “But first, I’d like you to meet someone.”

“Another of your pedophilic friends?” Vic suggests as I stand back, surveying the room and everyone in it. Nobody is looking at us anymore, but I can tell by the way they’re leaning in toward each other that everyone’s still talking.

I wonder if that’s a good thing, pausing to take a chocolate strawberry off of a waiter’s passing tray. The idea of poison crosses my mind, but I dismiss it just as quick. Too obvious. Too many people, too many cameras. I take a bite and the sweetness of the damn thing assaults my tongue.

“Any one of these people could afford to hire a professional hitman,” I murmur and Cal laughs.

“I am a professional hitman,” he whispers back as I glance his way and find him glorious and understated against a backdrop of idiotic idealization. The paintings really are a pile of crap, just tax shelters for the rich. Find a painter, call him a genius, buy his painting for several hundred thousand dollars, and then donate said painting to a museum. Voila, tax write-off. I take another bite of strawberry, but it doesn’t taste nearly so sweet as it did before.

Callum rescues the fruit from my fingers, pausing to lick the sticky juice from the tips as I stare at him, a blue-eyed menace who must’ve, at some point, stolen the fairy-tale prince’s skin and marred it with ink.

“What about the girls?” I ask as Vic is led away and the rest of us follow along behind him, a trail of Havoc to disturb the genteel beauty of the gallery. The atmosphere here is so different it’s almost scary. I’ve done the very opposite of what I needed to do to keep Heather safe. All of these rich people, with their weird games and their fucked-up self-interests, would not hesitate to kill my sister to keep the fact that they’ve been purchasing little girls quiet.

I think about Alyssa, over at the Peters’ house where Oscar lives, and then take another sip of champagne. I’ve grown up on drugstore champagne, and the five dollar a bottle shit they sell at Winco. It all tastes the same. I know it does because now, not only have I tasted both and can’t discern a fucking difference, but Pam used to buy it and refill expensive bottles she stole from her friends’ parties. Things like Dom Perignon and Veuve Clicquot, worth hundreds of dollars, refilled and then brought along as gifts to new events.

Pam always made sure to hide the missing cork with ribbon, to pour the champagne quick, before the bubbles gave out.

I take another sip.

“We’ll keep the girls safe,” Callum promises me, and he sounds so goddamn sure of himself that I almost believe him. Almost. Because while I know he isn’t lying—in his blackest heart of hearts, he believes he’s telling me the truth—there are some things in life we have no control over.