Tick-tock
Tick-tock
Tick-tock
The sound is faint, like it’s on the other side of a wall. I push my hand out and feel the hard surface. My feet meet a similar block. My back seizes, achy and bent, and in the inky darkness, I know I’m trapped. It’s too far away to grasp, but Nick told me something once about a box being a frame of mind. Right now, my limbs are frozen, my brain running haywire.
“I have a secret.”
Blinking, I suddenly see Leticia. Her shiny blonde hair. Her mean, coy smile. I realize the dark isn’t the chest, but instead the oppressive darkness of an overcast night. We’re on that cliff again, but even though I’m not in a box, I still can’t move–can’t scream.
My sister’s not alone. Her hand is intertwined with another, as the girl I recognize as Tate is beside her. She grins back with her black hair and almond-shaped eyes, but says nothing. The side of her head is shiny with blood and clumped matter. Slowly, I remember that I don’t even know what her voice sounded like.
And every day that passes, I’m starting to forget Leticia’s.
“I don’t have time for your games,” I try to tell her, my own voice seeming slow and garbled. “I have to kill him.”
Him. Lionel. Did she ever love him, I wonder? All the attention and favoritism… did it ever endear her to him? Or did she spend our childhood trapped in a different sort of box, always pretending, surviving?
My eyes zero in on her lips, forming around the words she speaks. “I gave you what you need. Are you really going to waste it?”
I try to reach for her, but I just can’t break through the barrier. “What? What do I need?”
“Leverage,” she says, her face transforming. Before my eyes, her skin melts away, leaving nothing but teeth and bones. “You better hurry,” she whispers, her fingers blowing away into dust. “Tick, tick, tick—”
My eyes pop open, prepared for the pitch black of the chest. Instead, light comes through the tall window nestled in the tower wall. I’d exhale but my lungs are paralyzed like the rest of my body.
The clock is ticking, Duchess, tick-tock.
Tick, tick, tick…
“Hey. Vinny.” Remy’s face comes into view, his hand stroking a warm caress down my arm. I realize I’m curled into his chest, Nick’s arm slung around my waist from behind. “Come back to me, baby.” Remy catches my lifeless hand, pressing my fingers to the crescent tattooed on his hip.
The touch–the memory–draws me from the cobwebby dream, warming my frozen veins. I blink and then swallow, my voice rusty. “I-I’m okay.”
“I felt the goldenrod,” he rumbles, and from the slouch of his eyelids, he hasn’t been awake very long, either. “What did you see?”
I instantly shake my head. “Nothing.” I doubt he wants to hear about his friend appearing in my dream, her brains all exploded from her temple. “Go back to sleep.”
Climbing over Nick, I sling my legs over the edge of the bed, stretching my toes, trying to regain feeling. Rousing a little more, Remy’s green eyes track me as I look back at Sy’s bed. We ended up here after showering and late-night grilled cheese, and I feel warmth bloom in my chest at the sight of them. Sy and Nick are sprawled out, both asleep, still naked. I stretch my hands over my head as I observe them, letting my spine loosen.
Remy makes an unhappy noise when I step into a pair of panties, grabbing a hoodie off the back of Sy’s desk, but he rolls over and closes his eyes. It’s the first time I’ve dreamed of Leticia since Sy and I buried her skull, putting her to rest. She doesn’t feel restful now, rustling around in my head like gossamer.
The living room is chilly when I step out, but the air cooling my skin is a welcome sensation. It’s not long before Archie finds me, winding around my ankles.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper, bending to scoop him up. He’s getting so much bigger now, his legs lankier, ears pointier. He hasn’t lost any of his softness though, and I press my face into his fur, letting the low vibration of his purr soothe me. He indulges the snuggle only briefly before squirming out of my arms and bolting off.
The tower feels stuffy, or maybe my lungs are still frozen from my dream. I climb the spiral stairs to my loft, and it’s cast in a blue-ish glow, the early morning light filtered through the clock face. Those maddening hands are, as always, eternally frozen.
7:32.
Tick-tock.
I climb higher, going straight to the staircase that leads to the belfry. Stopping in the area that holds the mechanics, I look around me. On the floor, the remaining pieces of the dismantled inner workings are laid out just like I left them. I haven’t touched it in weeks–not since Sy and I got the two levers to work. I’ve been too frustrated with it, and anyway, my Dukes are keeping me busy both in and out of the bed.
The clock is ticking, Duchess, tick-tock.
My father’s voice rings in the half of my brain that’s still caught in the web of my dream, and I keep moving, climbing the ladder to the belfry. As soon as I emerge from the hatch, my breath comes a little easier. The sun is rising from the east when I look out the archway, casting the Princes’ territory in a pinkish glow.
For so long, I hated this town. All I wanted was to run as far away as possible. Leticia tried to run, and look what it got her. I was trapped, held captive, turned into a prize, and look where that got me. I touch my neck, knowing the permanent marker is still there.
It made me Queen.
I no longer hate Forsyth–I just hate the people in control of it. I have a home here. People I love. Even people like the cutsluts and Story, who I actually like. I see the value in the women working at the Hideaway, too—Auggie and Mrs. Crane and all the rest– who are just trying to keep afloat. They aren’t bad people.
Except my eyes fall to the North, and my blood thins.
I’d threatened my father with extermination, but he’s right. In the end, he’s untouchable. He has the city in his grip, and we’re one lunatic’s trigger finger away from being dust if pushed too far. There’s no Perez to oust him. No heir waiting in the wings. No hope of waiting him out. There’s just him and his drugs and dysfunction.
And those goddamn explosives.
I gave you what you need.
The hatch suddenly rises, Remy’s head appearing. His eyes search for me in the dim light, eventually catching my gaze. “Hey,” he says, climbing up. He’s still shirtless, and if I’m not mistaken, wearing Nick’s jeans, the denim looser on his thighs as he crams his fists into the pockets. “I feel kind of like you might want to be alone, but—”
“I do.” I stop him with a pointed look. “But Remy?”
His forehead knits. “Yeah?”
“That doesn’t apply to you,” I explain, extending a hand. I can’t think of anyone better to get lost in my head with, and when he stalks forward to wrap me up in his arms, I breathe him in deep.
He smells like us.
All of us.
He holds me there for a long while, letting me rest my temple against his chest as I stare out over the city. From up here, it’s so easy to believe we’re untouchable, floating through the clouds, a bird and her bear.
The sun’s rays have only just begun to reach us when he finally speaks. “I’ve been working on something,” he says, releasing me only to pull a sheet of paper out of his pocket. One of the edges is frayed, as if he’s yanked it out of one of his sketch pads.
Taking it in my hands, I unfold it, eyes drinking in the dark ink. “Are these the clock parts?” I recognize them from my hours of trying to make this puzzle fit back together. I study the drawings, which are precise and very unlike his normal style, and glance up in surprise. “Wow.” It’s almost like an instruction manual. “These are so good, Remy.”
“I took a mechanical drawing class last year.” He shrugs, green eyes flitting over the skyline. “I was trying to, like… work backwards and see what was missing. Those ancient manuals you had weren’t complete even before they got all old and torn and stained to shit.” He tips his head toward the hatch. “So I studied the actual components up here. One of the principles of the class was that we needed to be able to break things down into individual pieces so that whoever’s looking at the parts can figure out how to get them together.”
I drop my gaze to the paper again, not allowing myself to be distracted with the way his fingers reach out to catch a fluttering lock of my hair. The thing about the clock is that it’s unnecessarily intricate. Probably places with mechanisms as ancient as this one have already gutted the heart of their clocks and implanted something more reliable and modern.
The thought makes my brain scream with an immediate, visceral no.
“Wait,” I say, squinting at the ink. I point to a specific spot, not recognizing the component. “What’s this? It wasn’t in the original diagrams–or what you could see of them.” I’d memorized every visible, usable inch of that old musty paper, and this was one of the few parts of the strike chain that was legible.
He steps up beside me, ducking down to look. “Yeah, I looked at that for a while, but didn’t understand what it was. This little cover here,” he guides his finger over the section, “doesn’t even look like it belongs. It should look like this–” He points to a different drawing, a screw with threads, not rounded. “I’m not a mechanic or anything, but if I had to guess, it’s fucking the whole thing up.”
My brain spins, much like the pieces of the clock, one gear after the other, clicking into place. I push past him, heading for the hatch door. Once I’m down the ladder, I grab the flashlight off the floor, bending into an awkward position to beam it into the spot Remy had drawn.
Everything in this room is dark, making the parts sometimes virtually indistinguishable from one another, but getting at anything from this angle was always off-limits to me. The space is too cramped, barely enough room beneath it for someone to maneuver. But even at a distance, the more attention I pay to it, the more I suspect Remy might be right.
Something is jamming up the gears.
Something that doesn’t belong.
Excitement pumps through my veins as I get down on my belly, taking a series of slow, calming breaths. If I could make it through the elevator alone, then this should be a cinch.
Without giving myself the time to panic over it, I begin belly-crawling beneath the machine, pulse thrumming with a confusing mixture of emotions. There’s the thrill of finding the problem, but also the quick, nervy thing that always arises when I’m in cramped spaces.
Behind me, I hear Remy approach, the wood beams hard and rough against my knees as I push myself closer.
“Hand me that screwdriver,” I ask, straining to extend a hand toward my feet. “Flat head. The big one.”
The sound of Remy picking through the tools is faint under the pounding of my heart.
Tick-tock.
“Here,” Remy says, crawling in right next to me. It’s both better and worse, his presence making the space impossibly more tight, but also soothing me in a strange, intrinsic way. Wordlessly, he trades the screwdriver for the flashlight and holds it up to the spot in question. I wedge the edge of the screwdriver under the edge of the cap, prying.
But it doesn’t budge.
After watching me try this a few times, grunting at the effort, Remy reaches over me, hand closing over mine, and together we apply the leverage to force it loose.
Leverage.
The word rattles around my brain as I stare into the revealed spot.
“Are those…” he asks, holding the flashlight steady.
They’re wires. Three of them. Red, green and black. They coil around the screw and vanish under a piece of conduit, down into the wall.
Clocks–especially this one, which I know inside and out–are made of metal and wood. Brass and steel. Not the plastic and copper I see peeking out of the workings like the head of a snake.
“Remy,” I say, my voice quiet against the stone. “The clock doesn’t work because it’s been rigged.” Looking over, I meet his green eyes, my breath quickening. “With explosives.”
There’s only one person deranged enough to put them there.
Tick-tock.
“Vinny,” he says, chasing me into the living room. “Slow down.”
“You don’t understand,” I snap, not stopping. “We need to get out of here. My father threatened me yesterday. ‘The clock is ticking,’ he said.” I palm my forehead, heart pumping wildly. “Jesus Christ. I thought he was being dramatic, but he was laying it all out there. We’re literally living in a bomb!”
“Hey,” he catches my arm and brings me to a lurching halt. “You’ve been a little–” he grimaces, and I get the sense that he’s choosing his words carefully, “–off since you got up. Take a deep breath and let’s figure this out. Start at the beginning. What fucked you up when you got out of bed?”
I don’t want to slow down. I want to get my men to safety and drive to my father’s fucking mansion that he built on lies and death, and end him. For good.
But when I look into Remy’s eyes, I realize he’s right. He and I do this, get caught somewhere between real and not. My nightmares and sleep paralysis. His episodes and mania.
I need to be sure.
Taking a deep breath, I let his grip on my shoulders ground me. “I had a dream,” I confess, hurriedly amending, “I have dreams. It’s not the first time. I wake up stiff. Frozen, you know? Back in the box.” He gives me an understanding nod. “But Leticia is there, Remy. She… talks to me. Tells me things about the secrets she knows.”
Now that I say it aloud, it sounds ridiculous.
Remy takes it in stride, though. “So your sister is a bitch even in your dreams.” His hands settle on my hips, warm and steady.
Fuck, it’s true. She’d probably be proud of it. “I guess so, except…”
He holds my eyes. “Except what?”
“Except she’s always like… making me feel dumb, like she’s telling me stuff. Things I should know.” None of this is coming out right and I shake my head, trying to find something coherent.
“Ah,” he nods in understanding. “She’s not Leticia. She’s you–your subconscious.”
I make a face. “Don’t get all ‘Sy’ on me.”
He doesn’t look insulted at the comparison. “I mean, I’m no Dr. Freud like your Big Bear in there,” he shoots me a smirk, “but I’ve had my share of brain probing. Your sister–your brain–is trying to tell you something you already know. You just have to be open to whatever it is.” His thumb rubs a circle in my hip. “Can you do that?”
I exhale, pulling in air. I close my eyes and pull at the cobby webs of the dream. “She said something about having already given me what I need.”
Frowning, he says, “Okay. Any idea what that means?”
“Leticia never gave me anything but an inferiority complex and bruises,” I snap, not liking the feeling of being manipulated–neither by dream Leticia, or as Remy says, my bullshit subconscious. “It’s all just mind games. Like father, like daughter.”
Although, I realize, Leticia did give me something. The box hidden under the floorboards, the receipt, the phone number, the detonator Nick and I discovered she’d programmed to give her–
My eyes fly to Remy’s, widening in realization. “Leverage.”
“Huh?”
“Leverage,” I repeat, grabbing Remy’s upper arms. She had to have left it for me. She must have known if anything happened to her, I’d find that box. “That’s it. Remy, she gave me her leverage.”
Sy rubs his face–partially to wake up, the rest out of frustration. “Is there a reason you didn’t tell us about all this when you found out?” The question is directed at me and Nick. Remy is on the other side of the clock room, video chatting with a sleepy and irritated Tristan Mercer.
“Yes,” Nick says. He’s alert, but his face is still puffy from sleep, a long line from the pillow pressed into his cheek. He looks at me because we both know the answer to Sy’s question. We’d come home from talking to Tristian that night fully planning to tell Remy and Sy. Instead, we found a party at the tower, and the night ended with Sy hurting me and leaving. Nick sighs. “But that ship has sailed, and is sort of irrelevant to the fact our house has been wired to blow.”
“Yep.” Tristian’s voice echoes against the walls. “That’s a bomb, alright.”
“Jesus,” Sy mutters, coming more awake by the moment.
Tristian continues, “It’s like we talked about last time–remote detonation. I mean, we’ve all heard the rumors that Lucia has this place wired up. We all figured he planted them underground, but it’s kind of genius. Guy’s got us crawling through the sewers when we should be checking our roofs.”
Nick moves toward Remy, grabbing the phone, face set into a hard expression. “Remote detonation? Like the kind someone could set off with a phone?”
Groggily, Tristian says, “Yeah, possibly.”
I gave you what you need.
My mouth goes dry, face growing clammy, and from the laser intensity of Nick’s meaningful stare, he’s coming to the same conclusion.
He asks Tristian, “You remember that phone Leticia Lucia asked you to rig up for her? Could it have been used for something like this?”
Tristian sighs, aware that his fuckup from all those years ago is still wreaking havoc. “I don’t see why not.” When he shifts, the phone moves, revealing what looks like Dimitri Rathbone’s bare ass behind him. “Keep us posted on this. If you need help, you’ve got it.”
“Not sure how much you can do, but thanks,” Nick says, hanging up. He tosses the phone back to Remy and runs his hands through his hair. Sy paces the room, while I try to process everything.
“So you have the passcode to this phone,” Sy says, putting the pieces together. “And from what Mercer told you, he programmed it so that she could detonate specific locations as needed.”
“Yep,” Nick says. “Leticia Lucia was hardcore.”
“No wonder Tate fell for her,” Remy says, eyes fixed to the phone’s dark screen.
“But to what end?” Sy asks, always trying to pull on all the threads. The motive. The reason. The why.
“For leverage,” I say, forcing the words through the lump in my throat. “This isn’t Leticia’s bomb, you guys. It’s my father’s. To get away from him–to live her life freely with Tate–she had to find a way to use his own weapon against him.”
Because she understood this game better than I did. To gain her freedom, true freedom, she’d have to be willing to take our dad’s life. Or at the very least, make him think she would.
It’s the exact thing he’s done to me.
“Smart,” Remy says, drawing me from my thoughts. “Fucking psycho dads, Forsyth’s biggest export.” He looks at the guys. “Promise me we won’t be like that.”
Nick glances at me, eyes on my belly, then up to my face. “If we knew what Leticia did with that phone detonator, I’d feel a lot better.” He approaches me, blue eyes boring into mine as he cups my cheeks in his big, warm palms. “Think, LB. You sure you don’t know where she might have stashed it? That floorboard beneath her bed… it didn’t have anything else in there?”
Shaking my head, I wrack my brain. “There wasn’t anything else down there, and let’s be real, Nick. She would have kept something that important–that dangerous–as close as possible. If she had it on her when she fell from the cliff, then it probably–” My lungs snatch the words back into my throat, eyes snapping up.
The Barons would have gotten it.
Nick’s eyes meet mine, but I’m already springing into action, zipping across the room.
“What–” Sy asks, but I don’t stop.
“This whole fucking time,” I mutter. Nick’s hand reaches over my head, shoving open the door. Just as urgently as I’m moving, he dashes past me, jumping down the five steps of the loft in one leap. He waits for me at the bottom with outstretched arms, grabbing my hips and lifting me down.
“Son of a bitch,” Sy yells, Archie darting out between his feet. “Please don’t tell me you have more secrets you didn’t share.”
Nick and I do have secrets. The things that happened between us in the motel, the cage, a dicey game of Russian roulette, the visit to Ashby’s security guy–but this isn’t one of them. This is us being too blind to see what was right in front of our eyes the whole time.
“I just saw it,” I tell Nick, racing to Remy’s messy desk. “When we were looking for Remy’s bruin pin, the day of the vote, it was–” I flip through a pile of markers, sweeping them aside.
Upending Remy’s desk drawers, Nick grumbles, “I should have known. I should have fucking known.”
“What the hell?” Remy walks in, aghast at the sight before him. Nick and I are tearing through his things frantically, sending tubes of paint skittering to the floor.
In unison, Nick and I whirl on him, barking, “Where’s the phone?”
“What phone?” He’s confused and I don’t have time for it.
“The one you stole from your dad,” I urge. “The red phone!”
Recognition lights up his eyes, and he pushes Nick aside, walking to the nightstand beside his bed and wrenching open the bottom drawer. We hurry to flank him as Remy pulls out the old red phone, yanking a cord off the end.
“I’ve been keeping it charged ever since we found out who my dad was.” He looks between us and Sy, explaining, “Just in case someone called for him–another King. Intel, right?”
Nick shakes his head at Remy, but I hold out my hand. He presses the smooth metal into my palm and I spend a long moment staring at it, testing the weight of it. How odd to think Leticia held this in her grip for days–weeks, maybe.
When I press the power button, it boots up with a glow, a security screen prompting me for a passcode to access it.
“I need the–”
Nick recites the numbers in a tight rush, having them memorized. “Four, zero, zero, nine.”
I punch in the number and the home screen flicks to life.
Sy and Remy hover quietly nearby, and through the paralysis of shock that we were right–this was my sister’s weapon–I recall what Tristian told us that night.
“…if this is the one I’m remembering, she needed help with a remote detonator… I left a group of contacts on it. All she had to do was call the contact of her choice, and the fuse would blow.”
I thumb open the contacts, and there it is.
Dad’s House.
Below it are contacts for Dad’s Office, Stash House, and Kappa Frat House.
Nick laces his fingers behind his head. “He knew,” he says, pacing away only to pace right back. “Remy’s dad knew that phone had something important, but he couldn’t get into it. Fuck.” Despite the context of it all, Nick’s eyes are alight with the excitement of this missing piece of the puzzle.
“We’re not here,” I tell them, looking at the four contacts. I don’t why, but there’s a knot inside me that unwinds at the realization. Looking up, I meet Sy’s gaze. “The tower, the brothels, the Prince’s palace, the Baron’s crypt… none of them are in here. It’s just North Side.”
Leticia never planned to use Forsyth as a pawn.
Remy holds up a hand, saying. “Wait. Why would your father plant bombs in his own territory?”
“He wouldn’t,” I answer, holding his green eyes as it dawns on him.
“Your sister planted them,” he says, looking impressed. “She really was hardcore.”
Hungry for more, I begin searching through the rest of the phone, but it’s all blank, practically in factory condition. No apps. No browsing history. No texts.
Except the call history.
The one, lone entry is dated three days before Tate and Leticia’s deaths–a call that lasted seven minutes and was made to a number that I somehow recognize immediately.
My father.
“So what you’re saying,” Sy begins, looking over my shoulder, “is that all you have to do is press a button, and North Side…” He doesn’t speak the words aloud, but we all hear them anyway. WIth this phone, I hold Lionel Lucia in the palm of my hand.
There’s a long stretch of silence as the truth of it washes over us. I don’t know what the others are thinking, but my thoughts are as solid as steel. I wonder how it felt for my sister. Did she hesitate? She could have ended him days before her own death, but she didn’t. Was she hoping she wouldn’t have to? Was it all a very convincing bluff?
When I look up, I become pinned with the intensity of Nick’s knowing stare. A frisson of understanding passes between us. All those long nights at the Crane Motel, in the basement of the Hideaway, here in the tower…
They taught me how to read Nick Bruin.
And they taught Nick Bruin how to read me.
He nods slowly, pulling his own phone from his pocket. “I’ll call South Side,” he says, already aware of my next move–maybe even before I am.
Remy sighs, having already caught the significance of the moment. “I’ll reach out to my dad.” At my alarmed look, he offers a tight grin. “Don’t worry, Vinny. He might not understand family, but he understands business.” I watch, an eerie stillness settling over me as he and Nick leave the room, phones pressed to their ears.
Sy stands in the doorway, arms crossed against his bare chest. “Lavinia,” he says, gazing at me with a similar eerie stillness. “Are you sure?”
“He threatened us,” I say, willing him to understand. “Leticia left me a gift. Maybe she didn’t plan to die, but she left me the pieces, just in case she did, and that’s…” Head shaking, I try to remember her as she was. Elegant and strong, but also ruthless and cold. “It’s the only nice thing she’s ever done for me.” These little hints of Leticia–these secret, kind, compassionate things–should mean something.
He searches my eyes, and I wait. The truth is, if Sy ordered me to stop, I’d do it. I wouldn’t like it. It’d eat at me, corrosive and ruinous until there was nothing left inside but an empty pit of resentment, but I’d follow his orders like a good Queen should.
All he has to do is say it.
His arms unfold, hands reaching for me. When he pulls me against his bare chest, the kiss he brushes against my forehead is slow and soft, unbearably warm. He speaks the words against my brow. “I’ll call Ashby.”
I should feel apprehensive or scared when I look back into the phone, Sy wandering away into his own room, but all I really feel is sure. So sure, that when I open the call history, it’s easy to punch in the last call, bringing the phone to my ear.
I walk sightlessly into the main room as it rings, hearing the distant voices of my Dukes arranging the formalities. I’m already up the staircase and entering my loft when the other end picks up.
There’s a long, static-laced pause, and then, “Tisha?” Hearing my father say her name like that–quiet and surprised, so full of cautious hope–makes my fist clench around the phone. “Tisha,” he repeats, “where are you?”
I’ve already reached the clock room by the time I answer, voice casual. “She’s in the ground–locked away in a box.”
His sucking breath pierces right through my ear. “How did you get this phone?”
“Do you know what it is?” I wonder, carefully climbing the ladder to the open hatch. “How far did she even get into her plan before Saul messed it all up?”
Frustration rings in his voice when he snaps, “What the hell are you talking about?”
So he didn’t know.
He didn’t know anything.
The thought is both amusing and infuriating. “What did you talk about?” I ask, the idle curiosity piercing to the surface. “When she called you on this number–which you obviously saved as belonging to her–what did you talk about?”
His answer is spoken with a viciousness that twists around my vocal cords. “We talked about you, Lavinia. How intolerable you were, up there in your bedroom, banging away in that chest. How long I was going to keep you in there.” I can practically hear the satisfied sneer in his voice. “Indefinitely, if I recall.”
The confirmation pushes a hard breath from my gut, but I continue. “We found your explosives,” I say, rising out into the cool morning air of the belfry. “Planting them inside the clock? Clever. Of course, now that I think about it, it’s obvious. You always did have a thing for symbology. I guess I’ll never know if you actually have the guts to kill me, seeing as how Tristian Mercer helped us disable it.”
There’s a stretch of silence, and then a low, unpleasant chuckle. “You really think I’d only plant one?”
I answer without missing a beat. “Yes. You’re too arrogant to have a failsafe for your failsafe. That’s why, with Leticia and Perez gone, your whole territory is falling apart.”
“What do you want?” he snipes, the barb making its target.
“I called to say you were wrong,” I say, staring out over Forsyth. “I actually believed you–for a while. But then I woke up this morning, and I had this… epiphany.” I shift my eyes to the horizon in the distance, spotting Widow’s Rock–the cliff. “Leticia loved me.”
He snorts. “You’re delusional.”
I shake my head. “Even after you poisoned her against me. Even after all the years of competition and fighting. Even after you tried so hard to make her into you. You couldn’t strip the soul out of her.” It’s exhilarating, this new awareness bringing a prickle to my eyes. Laughing thickly, I say, “I think I might have suspected it. It’s why I grieved for her so hard, even though she hurt me so much. It had me twisted up there for a while, but I was right.” Nodding, I confirm it to myself more than to him. “I was right to mourn her.”
His reply comes, sharp and impatient. “Leticia didn’t love you.”
A bittersweet smile touches my lips. “She did. I know she did, because she was smart. Wasn’t she so smart?” I don’t give him a chance to answer. “She knew how to play this game, and that means she knew she’d have to kill you. But she didn’t.” I tilt my head back, imagining all the stars just out of sight, hidden beneath the veil of sunshine. “She didn’t use this phone because it would have killed me, too.”
In a twisted, complicated sort of way, my father was right all along. I did have something to do with my sister’s death. If she’d killed our father and secured her place as Queen of North Side, she would have been bulletproof. Saul and Daniel wouldn’t have been able to touch her. But she hesitated. For me.
My father argues, “If Leticia ever had the chance to kill you, she wouldn’t have hesitated!”
But it doesn’t penetrate.
Not anymore.
My sister loved me. My mother loved me. The only Lucia who never did isn’t worth mourning.
And I won’t.
“You’re home alone, aren’t you?” Hearing a shuffle behind me, I look over my shoulder, seeing all three of my Dukes standing feet away. I blink, wondering how long they’ve been there, listening. Emotionlessly, I tell my father, “You would be. There’s no one left to show you real loyalty. Just cockroaches running at the first sign of disorder.”
Nick dips his head in a nod, while Remy smirks.
Sy’s eyes are fixed to the distance–to North Side–waiting.
Nastily, he asks, “Why do you care? Thinking of sending your little guard dogs over?” From the sound of my father’s voice, he’d love nothing more than to see that happen.
But I shake my head, turning back to watch the sky. “No. I think I just like the idea of it. You all alone in that big, empty box. You don’t even have your guard dog anymore.”
“I don’t need one!” he explodes. “I don’t need a Queen, and I certainly don’t need a daughter. My house is empty because none of you have what it takes!”
I nod, back straightening. “That’s all I needed to know.”
The call ends with a sharp vibration and I turn to them–my Dukes and our King. They’re all wearing the same sort of expression–a fighter’s scowl–ready for the punch to be thrown. Their faces harden even more as they watch me pull up the contacts.
“Do you remember the day you taught me how to throw a punch?” I ask Sy, recalling my own surprise at how much it hurt. “You said to never strike out in anger–that if I let anger drive, I’d crash.”
Sy nods. “I remember.”
I hold his stare, because if there’s one thing I need them to know, it’s this. “This isn’t anger, even though I have the right to it. And it’s not revenge, either.” My gaze stops on Nick, whose blue eyes gleam proudly back at me. “This is freedom.”
In the end, Sy was right.
When it comes to men like Saul and my father, it’s easy. My thumb touches the screen, and the truth is, I don’t feel anything. Not excited. Not guilty. There’s no fear or regret, no instinctual, last second wish that I can take it back.
There’s just me and my Dukes, turning our gazes to North Side.
There’s a moment of absolute stillness where my exhale remains caught in my throat. Remy’s hand tangles with mine, and I’m thinking of the cedar chest–the one at the end of my old bed–when the flash comes. It’s a sudden glow in the distance, as if Forsyth herself is discharging a weapon, there and gone. Nick’s fingers lace with my other hand, and above our heads, birds startle from their perch in the top of the belfry, rushing into the wind. They feel it first, before the quake, and our eyes are all fixed to the fiery ball to the north, dust clouding the flames.
I can feel Sy behind me when the sound arrives a second later, his warm palms curling over my shoulders. The crack rebounds off the empty streets and their derelict buildings. It’s odd. I think it should be bigger–louder. Instead, it flashes and immediately wanes, the people beneath us going about their day as if nothing’s happened at all.
I lean back against Sy, the man who made me a Queen, and feel it rushing through me like a breath of fresh air. In the distance, a box is burning, and all I feel is relief.
The Lucia name won’t live on.
But Perilini, Maddox, and Bruin will.
