Page 17 of Black Castle

Vivienne doesn’t need to ask. The fiery spark of evil in Isadora’s dark eyes says it all.

Josh’s death wasn’t natural. It wasn’t karma either. It was a murder staged so perfectly.

Isadora killed her boyfriend.

Chapter Six

Lucan

Feathered by wind yet unwavering in its claim, The Lumina Dome, stands towering over the city, about five floors, covering an expanse of land, and whispering of history.

Lucan stands a few feet away from the building, feeling ambushed and overpowered. His amber eyes flicker to the entrance as the revolving glass door keeps ushering out and ushering in civilians, the air a kaleidoscope of giggles, laughters and murmurs.

“Well, fuck.” The quiet whisper drifts into the air like smoke, then gets lost in the hum of the afternoon traffic.

He shouldn’t have come here. This is one of many bad ideas.

After a ten-hour flight from Russia to the United States, his head is currently heavy, his muscles coiled tight with exhaustion. Every nerve in his body is rioting for rest, solitude. But at 2:30 p.m., he is standing in front of the largest convention hall just outside of Pennsylvania.

Through the door, the chaos inside spills out in waves. Crowds of people—hundreds of them in gaudy colors that make the room look like a rainbow has detonated—buzzes with chatter. Too bright. Too loud. Too much. Simply too much.

He feels his fingers twitch, and he swiftly tucks one hand into his pocket, the other clenching the book he is carrying, his nails pressing hard on the spine with enough pressure to feel something solid beneath his touch.

Books.

For Lucan, books are the only things that make the most amount of sense in a world filled with disorder.

On some days, he spends his time locked up in his office with the whisper of pen on paper keeping him company. On different days, he will travel from Moscow to Saint Petersburg, Rostov-on-Don to Kazan, and Krasnodar to Novosibirsk, all to ensure the stability of his empire—The Kingfisher, his hotels and Estates, Volk, his high-end security firm, Kraven Global, his international shipping and logistics company, Miriell, the gentlemen club and The Pythons, his Bratva, the fore-runner of it all.

So when all these are in order, he takes the night off to find solace between the pages of books in the quiet of his room.

Maleficium, a book by an author called Donna Copeland, is his last read. Usually, it is difficult for a book to leave a long-lasting mark on him. But this one did. He never bothered unsubscribing when he discovered he had somehow subscribed to the author’s Newsletter last week. Then, three days ago, an email landed within the junks in his inbox. There is a book event, and the author is coming. And she plans on signing some copies of her most recent releases.

That’s how he got here. Now he regrets it.

Raids, debt-collecting and commanding an army of men—those things he can do. But willingly placing himself in the middle of a crowd? He will rather pass.

He turns slightly, his gaze traveling to the black Mercedes Benz parked a few feet away. It’s a short distance. Just ten steps and he will be out of here.

One of his soldiers stands beside the car, his stance alert, eyes sweeping the area for any threats.

With the note Zev, his twin brother, his other half, his other self left for him two weeks ago—Be careful down in the States. Some fucker tried to kill me—Lucan should have probably asked the soldier to follow him in. After all, the rule is for his men to always be a foot behind him. But the soldier’s uniform and the weapon on his hip makes him an imposing figure. So, Lucan told him to wait by the car.

According to Zev’s note, their enemies down here are making moves again. And they had sent an assassin to kill him at a coffee shop on his previous visit, two weeks ago.

But taking an armed soldier into an event hall filled with civilians, especially women and teenagers, is not very subtle. Lucan can’t afford to cause any unnecessary panic. So putting his safety as secondary to important, he chooses to go in alone. And to be frank, the idea of him having a panic attack here right now is worse than the risk of being gunned down by some assassin.

Panic attack.

He can’t afford to have that. Imagine a soldier, the revered marshal of the Russian Federation, breaking down and whimpering in public? He is supposed to be fearless. No, that is a reality far too embarrassing.

Lucan takes a deep breath and straightens. A soldier should never flinch in front of a crowd.

One step, two steps, three…he keeps going. And by the sixth one, he is stepping through the revolving glass door.

But the second the door swings shut, closing him in, his blood runs cold and his body stiffens.

The noise swells, pressing against his skull. He tries to move, but his legs seem rooted to the floor.

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