Page 59 of Princess of Vengeance

“Choices?” She barks out a sharp laugh. “What fucking choices? Have you already forgotten what almost happened toyou for choosing not to complete a votum?” She paces the room in her designer slippers. “None of us have real choices here, Quinn. You proved that yourself.”

I watch her carefully, noting the tension in her shoulders and the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides.

“We all have to play the game,” she continues. “We dance to Malcolm’s tune, fighting for scraps of his approval like starving dogs and jockeying for position. One wrong move, one word out of line, and it’s a knife in your chest. Or worse.”

She stops suddenly, seeming to realize she’s said too much. Her eyes narrow on me. “Why are we talking about this? I thought you came to see the cat, not discuss Syndicate politics.”

But I caught that flash of bitterness when she said Malcolm’s name. Just like I caught the fear beneath her anger.

I stand up slowly, letting Princess jump down to the floor. “Maybe I just wanted to know if I was the only one who feels like I’m slowly suffocating in this arrangement.”

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I think I’ve miscalculated. That she’ll tell Malcolm about my little fishing expedition the minute I leave.

Then her lips curve into a humorless smile. “Honey, we’re all suffocating. Some of us have just gotten really good at holding our breath.”

That unguarded moment of honesty gives me the opening I’ve been waiting for. I settle back down, and Princess immediately jumps into my lap like she belongs there.

“Why did you join in the first place?” I ask as I scratch under the cat’s chin. “If you knew what you were signing up for—what Malcolm might ask you to do—why become part of the Syndicate at all?”

She hesitates, and for a second I think I’ve pushed too far. But then she walks to a small bar cart in the corner of the sunroom and pours two fingers of vodka into a crystal glass.

“Would you like some?” she asks, holding up the bottle.

“No, thank you.” I shake my head. “I need to keep a clear head around Malcolm.”

Something like understanding flashes in her eyes. She downs half her drink in one go, then stares out the window at the Detroit skyline.

“I didn’t exactly volunteer,” she says, finally. “Malcolm offered me membership after he had my sister killed.”

“What?”

A small sigh escapes her lips. “It’s a long, sordid story. I won’t bore you with the details. The fact of the matter is that he offered me a place at the table to make up for her death.”

“Jesus,” I whisper. “And you accepted?”

“What choice did I have?” Imogen knocks back the rest of her drink, her eyes glittering with unshed tears or rage. Maybe both. “If I refused, I’d be joining my sister in the ground. But if I said yes, at least her death would mean something. At least I could build something from it.” She sets down her empty glass with a sharp click. “Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

“I don’t know,” I admit honestly. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Sure you can. You’ve been in the game long enough to understand how it works. Your father must have made the same choice when Malcolm gave him his marker.”

The suggestion takes me by surprise, but only for a moment, and only because it hadn’t ever occurred to me. “No, I don’t think that’s how it went down with my father.”

Now it’s her turn to look surprised.

“You don’t know, do you?” She lowers her voice as she steps closer. “The only way into the Syndicate is through blood. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”

“No, my father was invited because of his growing influence in Detroit. Because of what he built with Enigma.”

Imogen shakes her head slowly. “That’s not how Malcolm operates. He doesn’t invite people in because they’re successful. It goes deeper than that.”

It feels like my whole world just shifted beneath me. Princess jumps down from my lap as I stand abruptly.

“That can’t be right,” I say. But deep down, I know she’s telling the truth.

“Think about it,” Imogen says, but not in the harsh, dismissive way she was talking to me earlier. “In our hearts, underneath all the bullshit, we’re all the same. We all joined to make someone’s death mean something.”

I think about my father—the man who raised me, who built Enigma from nothing, who loved me fiercely until the day he died.

---