Page 8

BRIAR

The sleek limo pulls through the large black metal gates with little fanfare. The guards are stationed inside the watch booth, and the grounds are eerily quiet. Snow coats the compound, dusting the bushes, the barren flowerbeds, and the long driveway. A chill skates over my spine as the Bruno house comes into view.

It’s a large brick mansion with tall, white French windows. Old, brittle vines crawl along the sides, and in the middle of summer, red roses bloom and perfume the air. Everything is calm—normal.

I’ve studied this house—I’ve seen it in the daylight, moonlight, and every season in between. I’ve searched satellite records and mapped out where every building is—and what purpose they serve. This compound haunts my damn dreams.

It’s the seat of the only threat known to my family. And I’m going to destroy it.

The car rounds the corner as ice and gravel crunch under the tires. Guests linger beside an open front door, more arriving from the sporadic cars parked in front. The soft, hypnotic tune of a piano drifts through the air.

We idle for a moment, sitting in silence. It suffocates me.

I’m not thrilled with this: being in Bruno’s territory with only a mask to hide me. But everyone else is dressed similarly—fancy suits, different masks. At least I’ll be safe from detection.

The driver looks back at us, mouth pinched. He’s a friend of Ben’s who knew about the event and swiped two invites from previous clients. They’re in the harbor now.

“Ready?”

“Obviously,” Ben says, scoffing.

“You owe me,” the driver reminds Ben, pointing. “I could be killed⁠—”

“You’ll be paid,” I interrupt, voice cold. “Now do your job.”

He gives me a dirty look but doesn’t push further. Being an O’Brien has its perks—namely who my sister is. He tugs on his tie and rounds the side of the car, opening for us.

My hand seeks the vial again as my feet land on the pavement, and I grasp it. Counting to five, I solidify my resolve. This is it.

Ben whispers something in the driver’s ear, and I roll my shoulders. A few guests nod at me, pleasantly enough. The urge to run—flee—is so damn strong. For years, I’ve stayed in the dark. I might have told Killian I’m done hiding, but it’s a hard habit to break. Hiding is natural, smart—safe.

For years, I’ve kept to myself, leaving little to no trail. I’ve rarely dated, keeping out of sight for fear of being killed. Let no one in—never let them see the real me.

Here, I’m vulnerable. What if they see me? What if Bruno recognizes⁠—

No. No spiraling. I have to do this.

My eyes sweep the grounds, counting the guards at their designated points. The numbers match my intel—a dozen soldiers patrol these grounds, and there are half a dozen more I can’t see. I haven’t cracked Bruno’s schedule yet, but I will. For now, any information is power.

Overhead is a wrought-iron fence off a circular balcony, with a dangling string of celestial stars swaying along the edge. Further up, a heavy beige curtain masks a pair of balcony doors. The smallest flicker comes from the corner, as if someone is peeking through.

I frown. Who is that?

Ben elbows me. “Ready?” He buttons his suit, adjusting his mask again.

He’s nervous. As a foot soldier, Ben doesn’t do any kind of reconnaissance. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and more than content with simple jobs requiring little stealth. He runs guns or drugs—this is way outside his pay grade.

He’ll be fine.

I check the vial one more time before nodding.

It’s a special concoction from a friend down south, nearly untraceable. She’s a damn genius with her botanical compounds, but it took some convincing for a sample. She doesn’t share easily, and I’m already in for a favor. I hate owing someone.

With a little finesse, all I have to do is dump this into his drink. She explained that mixing it with alcohol would delay the effects. At this point, he could die tonight on his feet, or later in his bed—it makes no difference to me. He still dies.

Fingers crossed.

We follow the small crowd up the porch, handing over our elegant invitations. Clean, white, with only an address stamped on it. An address that’s been branded on my brain since I was fifteen.