Kit quickly put two and two together, realizing that Clifton was being accused of stealing the necklace Abigail now held.
“I didn’t!” Clifton exclaimed, his panic growing as two of Alexander’s security moved to grab him. His gaze cut to Kit, as though only now realizing he was in the room. “It was probably the kid,” he shouted out desperately. “I saw him looking at it the other day—little shit is trying to set me up.”
Alexander sent Kit a dismissive glance. “He’s been away these last few days, if you remember. He would have had no time to do it, but I thank you for showing me the kind of man you are. Hold him.”
Clifton screamed bloody murder as Alexander drew nearer, gleaming cleaver in hand. A part of Kit wanted to look away, to close his eyes against the horror he was about to witness, but the rest wanted to watch Clifton suffer.
And with one mighty arch of the cleaver, Alexander severed Clifton’s fingers from his hands, leaving spurting, bloody stumps behind.
Gushing red spilled over the table, soaking into the white table cloth, and sprinkling over fine china. Kit could almost taste the copper in the air.
Clifton collapsed to the ground, crying and yelling even as he tried to clutch his bloody hands to his chest.
Alexander’s security dragged him out.
As though the last five minutes hadn’t transpired, Abigail sniffled, raising her chin slightly. “You should find better security.”
And they moved on, as though nothing had happened.
It wasn’t until later that night that Uilleam made an uncharacteristic stop by his room. He hadn’t said a word as he joined Kit by the window.
Then, with a voice as calm as day, asked, “I never did like him. And he lied when he said you knocked over the cake—and I’ve never liked liars either.”
He was just a boy then—or should have been—but as Kit watched his brother turn to leave as he had so many times before, he couldn’t ignore that curling feeling of unease sitting low in his stomach.
Quiet and unassuming, that was how their father liked to describe Uilleam, but Kit learned that there was much more to his brother than what he allowed to show.
And he didn’t think that was good at all.
Not much had changed over the later years, only Uilleam got better at what he did and Kit outgrew his father’s rampage. The first chance he was able, he’d walked away without looking back.
They both led separate lives, taking them down two different paths.
Yet, somehow they ended up here—together once more. And just as he had that night, Kit felt the familiar tightening.
Uilleam was playing a game, he realized, except now he didn’t know what game it was, only that Luna was somehow a part of it.
He just needed to find the connection.
Kit made it a point to find his own information. While he didn’t have the skills of a hacker, he made do, but despite his best efforts he hadn’t been able to find anything on Luna.
That wasn’t uncommon—Uilleam made it a point to scrub his mercenaries’ identities once he selected them, making it far easier to keep them off the grid—but Kit could recover at least a few details of the lives they led before they joined the Den.
With Luna, there was nothing.
Even if he weren’t suspicious of Uilleam’s motives before, he was now. Because it only begged the question, what was he trying to hide?
It was for this reason that Kit found himself entering Calypso’s Tavern, a watering hole in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. While the interior looked like it hadn’t been renovated in more than thirty years, the floor worn and damaged in certain spots, those that venture inside weren’t concerned with the aesthetic of the place, but rather the freelancers that took up residence inside.
Two pool tables sat toward the back of the space, a number of round tables occupying the rest of the floor. The lighting was dim, hard rock spilling from speakers mounted on the ceiling.
Benji, the resident bartender, was at his post, a bottle of whiskey in one hand as he laughed at whatever story he was being told by the burly man seated in front of him. Once he was finished pouring the row of shots, pocketing the bills the man slapped down, he looked up, surprise in his gaze as Kit approached.
“Been a while, Nix. What do I owe the visit?”
“Is he back there?”
Though Kit had ventured into this place more than a dozen times, he had only come for one person so he never bothered to use a name anymore.
“Yeah, he is, but he’s in a shit mood so watch yourself.”
When was he not?
Accepting the warning with a nod, he started for the back room, blinking to adjust to the sudden change in lighting. Unlike the dull yellow tone that was prominent throughout the bar, the back hallway was saturated in red. There were three doors, one leading to a restroom, another for storage, and the last that was painted black—and unlike the other two, this one was made of reinforced steel.
On that door, Kit knocked twice.
“Password!”