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I want to unleash it. Slam into Bruno, destroy this house, and watch it burn to ashes.

But I don’t. Not yet.

Anger has always been my worst trait. Thank God I learned how to control it. I won’t let it tempt me into the dark—where Ferguson’s ghost waits to possess me.

“Plan?” Ben looks around. “You’ve been quiet on the plan part.”

“Mingle.” The crowd surges around us as more people come in. “Talk to a pretty girl. See where it gets you for the night.”

“That’s your plan?” he scoffs. “You’ve got to have more than that.”

I give him a dry look that’s absolutely wasted behind this mask. He gets it, though, shaking his head.

“Fine. And you?”

I shrug. “I’ll find someone pretty. At least until Roman makes his debut.”

“Don’t leave my sight,” Ben warns. “And don’t do something stupid.”

“Me? Do something stupid?” I smack a hand to my chest. Ben is unimpressed.

“Yes. You,” he grumbles, “I’m actually surprised it’s not your middle name.”

I wink. “Nope. Just smug asshole.”

Pounding him on the arm, I pivot toward the back of the home. With one hand in my pocket, the other holding the flute, I sway between the various people and servers. I’m careful to stay just outside everyone’s reach and eyesight—an old habit.

Taking a spot by the column, I lean back and let the groups move past me. I’m a part of their chaos, but pleasant on the outside observing. As the youngest sibling, it’s the norm—as a hacker, it’s a necessity.

On my left is another doorway, framed by white marble columns. Through the opening is an ornate mahogany desk, cleared of all papers. Behind it is a large canvas depicting a fountain and broken pillars, shadowed by the low lighting.

It’s oversized and bulky. A safe must be behind it—it’s obvious.

In front of me, another smaller sitting area and a long extended hall. The floors are covered in white Italian marble, and the clanging of pans, is barely heard over the clattering of walking heels.

It’s a good thing I hacked the cameras and seared this entire home into my skull.

Something moves out of the corner of my eye.

Roman fucking Bruno Junior.

He stands at the bottom of the stairs, one hand held high to the crowd’s applause. I look over, disgust and incredulity marking my covered face. Shit, really? These people worship this clown like the next Messiah.

Reclining, I take him in, grateful he can’t see the sneer. He’s a thin man, shorter than I remember. He reminds me of a weasel—crafty, sneaky, and in need of extermination.

The dapper black satin suit hangs on him, cut for his frame, and a red rose peeks from his pocket. No mask covers his face—of course, because he wants to be known. He wants the attention. His expensive cologne saturates the air—and I promptly gag. Dress him up, put a bow on him, but he’s still a fucking piece of shit.

He turns, taking a slight bow. His weathered olive skin pulls tight with tension against his mouth.

Ah.

I wonder if Maeve is causing trouble for him. God, I hope so. He deserves her wrath—and more. Or maybe his empire is falling around him. Whatever it is, I wish I had more time to dig into it.

It won’t matter after he’s dead.

A red-headed woman in ebony slides up on one side of him. Her pale, thin arm drapes along his shoulder, and she hangs there, much like another accessory.

She’s gorgeous. Wide lips, big brown eyes. If I tilt my head and squint, she resembles Sloane. A skinnier, hawkish version, but similar.