The Brokenhearted (32 page)

“Lovely, just lovely,” the mayor says, shaking my hand and smiling his huge white smile. He’s a short man—maybe half an inch taller than I am—but his head is huge. I stammer out a thank you as a dozen flashbulbs go off. For a second all I see is pops of blue-white light. When I regain my sight, I turn to my mother, silently asking her permission to move on. I pantomime eating, and my stomach growls noisily in response.

“Bring me a wine,” my mother whispers, and I nod, taking off after a tray of what looks like shrimp satay, carried by a tuxedoed waiter.

Just as I’m reaching out to grab a shrimp skewer, a familiar set of arms embraces me. “Awesome, Green,” Ford says in my ear.

“Thanks,” I say, pulling two shrimp skewers off the hors’ d’oeuvres plate before the waiter moves on. “I could have gotten you tickets, you know.”

“We like to stand. Don’t we?” Ford says, turning his head to the right. I look down and see a little girl who’s about five. She’s holding on to Ford’s pant leg.

“Who’s this?” I breathe. She’s like a mini-Ford. The olive skin, the flushed cheeks. Only her huge eyes are blue instead of brown, and her curly hair is long and tumbles down her back. She wears a red velvet dress with a thick white sash.

“My youngest cousin, Sam. She’s your biggest fan.”

I kneel down on one knee and hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

Her hand in mine is impossibly small, lighter than air. Her voice is barely audible, but thanks to my supersonic ears, I hear her perfectly. “Your dancing is the prettiest I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.” I smile. “I’m sure you’re a great dancer too.”

She shakes her head.

“Maybe you could show her a few moves sometime,” Ford says, and Sam beams.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, my stomach tickling with a familiar feeling. Then Sam nods and goes back to hiding behind Ford’s legs.

“I didn’t think I was a ballet kind of guy, but now I totally am,” he says as I get to my feet again. “Giselle is kind of a badass.”

“She is, isn’t she?” I grin. As the party swirls around us, Ford and I just stand there, quiet for a beat too long, blinking at each other. Another second ticks by, and I start to feel uncomfortable about how smiley and floaty he’s making me feel.

“I need to get some wine for my mom,” I say, feeling warmth move into my cheeks. “Thanks for coming.”

“Wait.” Ford puts a hand on my arm. “I’m going to take Sam home, but that should only take me half an hour. Want to go out a little later and celebrate what a badass you were tonight?”

I do
, I think. That’s exactly what I want to do. But I can feel the piece of paper against my chest, the corner of it resting on top of my scar. It feels like unfinished business. If I take care of it, then maybe I can stop walking around in a fog of mourning and fury all the time. Maybe, someday, I can start over.

I shake my head. “I’d love to, but let’s do it another night. I’m really beat. I think after this I’m gonna crash.”

I pull away from him and wave good-bye to Sam, who smiles shyly. I step backward, because if I don’t do it now, I might never be able to. The last thing I see before I turn to get my mother’s wine is a funny look clouding Ford’s eyes. A mix of hurt and doubt, as if he knows I’m not going home to sleep. He knows me better than that, I realize.

Keep walking
, I tell myself, putting one foot in front of the other and pressing through the throngs of people saying
congratulations, prima,
to me, all of them blending into one perfumed mass. Soon this will all be over, and I can hang out with Ford and little Sam and not have to think about The Boss moving around the perimeter of my life, probably killing more innocent people, possibly planning to kill me too.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

.....................................................................

CHAPTER 39

The reception devolves into a mass of confusion that I’m able to use to my benefit. Zahra thinks I’m going home with my parents. My parents decide to go out for drinks with the mayor (and Serge is driving them, of course), and I tell them I’m going out with Zahra.

Everyone thinks I’m somewhere else, and I’m able to slip away from the reception alone. I pull my coat around me as I walk down the steps of the Opera House, digging in my bra for the invitation.

And then I’m moving through the clean, well-lit streets of the North Side so fast that I’m practically flying. My lungs burn as they fill with icy air. My black suede boots move through the air, my legs propelling me forward with only occasional contact with the pavement. Pedestrians turn their heads to follow the blur of motion, but nobody chases me. As I run north, I think of my parents, slipping into the Seraph, telling Serge what a great job I did. I think of Zahra and the huge, genuine hug she gave me after the show. I think of Ford walking home with Sam on his shoulders.

Then I stop thinking about what I’ve left behind and try to focus on what I might find ahead of me. The Boss, whoever he is. The person behind the plot to take Gavin from me. The last domino to fall before I retire from the game of revenge.

Sumac is a long street full of mansions with land around them, each house encircled by a huge security gate and behind that, perfectly trimmed privet hedges that prevent views of anything but beyond the long, winding driveways.

Could this possibly be the location of a Syndicate party?

I skid to a stop in front of 2212 Sumac Street, the last house on the block. Its security fence is older than the others, and the enormous metal gate is open for cars to drive through, festooned with an orange ribbon with a single orange balloon on one end. I hear thumping coming from the house, and opt to skirt the privet hedges instead of walking up the huge gravel driveway, lined on either side by potted rosebushes and traversing a blue-green lawn that should be dead in winter, but isn’t. I squint toward the house, sitting at the top of the property, at the top of a sloping hill. It’s white limestone with two columns flanking the front door. The house is tall and skinny, built ages ago when mansions were smaller than they are today. Still, it’s pretty big. Eight bedrooms at least. I think of what my real estate developer parents would call it—gothic revival. Or plantation. Whatever it once was architecturally, it’s kind of spoiled by the fact that it has twenty satellite dishes attached to its sides and roof.

At least forty cars are parked in the driveway close to the house, most of them fancy sports cars. Whoever these people are, they have money.

The front doors—gold, enormous, adorned with snarling lion doorknockers—are shut, and I think better of going inside that way. What if there’s a security crew manning the door? I move around to the back of the house and easily scale the fence. There, I see a gorgeous S-shaped swimming pool, all lit up with orange and blue lights glowing from the depths of the water. Past the pool is the house, full of modern windows and angles that look nothing like the old-fashioned front. Through all that glass, the scope of the party is clear. There are at least a hundred people dancing inside.

I move toward the back patio next to the house, where a crowd of young Syndicate types dressed up in their finest black leather stand laughing, dancing, and trying to keep warm under a cloud of rollie smoke. I walk up to a girl and boy who look about my age, both of them on the periphery of the crowd.

“Are you guys new recruits?” I ask. The boy is in only a T-shirt in spite of the cold, with orange suspenders attached to his pants. In the orange light coming off the pool, I can see goose bumps on his arms, along with a fresh tattoo on his forearm that looks like it might be getting infected. It says SynDKid. The girl is small and dark, bundled up in a peacoat. She stumbles onto the lawn from the bottom step, probably drunk. Weirdly, I don’t feel afraid of anyone here. Just sad that all these people, most of them not much older than me, are giving their lives to crooks and killers.

“Uh huh,” she says, almost knocking into me. She opens up her coat to show me a gun no bigger than a water pistol. It’s hot pink. “Just got this from The Boss. Cute, right?”

I nod and try to smile, though inside I’m recoiling at the sight of yet another gun. There must be hundreds of concealed weapons here. I blow on my hands to keep them warm, and to try to stop them from shaking. “Where is he? I’m supposed to get mine tonight too.”

“Upstairs,” she says. “Third floor. Have you ever met him?”

I shake my head.

“He’s
so
hot
,” she whispers. “Like, seriously hot.”

I thank her and head inside, pushing my way past the crowd on the steps, into the pounding bass of the party inside.

The house’s interior is gorgeous. My mother would die over the huge, ultra-modern kitchen, where every appliance is curved and beautiful, as if imported directly from the future. The walls and countertops are smooth and shiny and white. Touch-screen controls glow on every wall.

People mill around a bar set up on the kitchen island, complete with two female bartenders in white sheath dresses and top hats. All of the party guests wear dark clothes, contrasting with the all-white surroundings. A group of four young guys sits on the counter, looking ecstatic as they sway to the loud music being pumped out of the walls.

I move into the enormous living room, the air hot from all the dancing. A spiderweb of tiny white lights hangs from the soaring ceiling, illuminating a circular black couch. The walls have enormous close-up photographs of the flanks of black horses, their muscles rippling like sand dunes. Everywhere there is hooting and screaming and dancing and sweaty bodies. A beautiful woman dressed in a white toga mini-dress belted with a gold rope and matching gold heels walks around the perimeter of the room holding a gold tray with tiny paper cups on it.

“Instant Love?” she says to me, shaking the platter a little so that a purple not-quite-solid, not-quite-liquid quivers inside the cups.

“No thanks.” I move toward the staircase at the back of the living room. Apparently, Instant Love makes you fall down—wasted. A dozen people are draped along the staircase, laughing hysterically and clutching the banisters for dear life. A few of them have given up trying to stand and are already lying down on the stairs. The music pounds and howls, but I can still hear the whirring of my heart. The closer I get to the third floor, the more terrified I feel. What if this is a trap? What if The Boss invited me here to finish me off?

But I force my feet to keep climbing until I reach the third floor, which is a pitch-black hallway lined with doors. I ball my hands into fists and keep going. At the end of the hallway is a partly open door with a blue light spilling out of it.

I move closer to it, drawn by the sound of laughing women. The hair on the back of my neck stands up when I hear a male voice join them.

It’s him. It’s got to be.

I peek inside and find a large room covered with TV screens, all of them broadcasting surveillance camera footage from around the city. There must be three hundred of them. They line every inch of the walls except for two large windows. There are even TV screens on the ceiling. The room flickers with an eerie, unsteady light that comes from the movement of people on the surveillance screens.

I push the door open just enough to squeeze inside. In front of me is an enormous desk—the only furniture in the room. Behind it there are four people with their backs to me, watching one of the surveillance screens and laughing—three more toga girls in heels, their skirts barely long enough to cover their behinds, draping themselves around a seated man.

This is him, I think. This is the monster running the syndicate. The man who took the life of the only boy I’ve ever loved.

One of the toga girls turns her head and sees me. She elbows another girl, and they move away slightly from the seated guy. I note his black suit jacket. His shaggy brown hair. He gestures with his hand, still talking and watching the surveillance screen. His hand moves through the air, his elegant long fingers as familiar as my own.

It hits me in one sickening rush.

I know it before he even turns around. I stumble backward, suddenly dizzy, and trip over the corner of an oriental rug, my boot heel landing hard on the floor.

He swings the desk chair around to face me, and the sight of him is so impossible, I forget to breathe.

“You.”
His eyes flash with surprise that he quickly covers with a smirk. “I wondered if the great avenger would ever show her face. And now you have.”

I shake my head. No words come.

“Welcome to my home, Anthem.” I’m too sick and horrified to speak. My mind ricochets between the night Gavin was shot—the moldering bookstore, Rosie with her revolver, Gavin’s shirt soaked in blood—and what I see in front of me.

Gavin, alive.

I’ve spent so long replaying it from every angle. My own culpability in Gavin’s death, the sadism of Rosie and her goons. There was
so much blood
. Gavin was so pale, so utterly drained of life. I had my arms around him. I saw him die.

And yet. Here he is. In a tux. His black bow-tie undone, the ends of it drooping from a starched collar.

In The Boss’s house. In The Boss’s desk chair. Because The Boss is
Gavin
.

I take another step backward, my whole body shaking.

“Ladies,” he says. “We need a minute alone. How about waiting in the bedroom down the hall.”

They trip out the door, coltish and giggling, waving goodbye.
Waiting in the bedroom down the hall
. My heart kicks a sharp pain into my chest.

“You look surprised,” he says with a smirk. Then he gets to his feet and moves behind me, stopping to pat me on the head like I’m a pet. I jump out of reach and watch, still too shocked to react, as he closes and locks the door.

He moves toward me, and I back up. My eyes are drawn to something gleaming inside his tuxedo jacket. A revolver. His hand drifts slowly, casually toward the gun.