Page 10 of Darcy
Then he lifts one hand and crooks two fingers at me in a familiar signal. Not waiting for me to respond, he turns and strides down the hallway, grey hair glinting in the light.
My gut sinks.
Now? So soon after the last mark?
Normally, he leaves us a little more time between targets, and I had hoped for a week of gaming with my clan before they start the next leg of their tour and schedules get messy. Plus, I was going to work on that app, and…
I retreat back to my room, determined to at least put on some pants before I follow him to his office. Once dressed—albeit haphazardly—I plod through the ridiculously bright house and into the basement.
The training room is empty, which only makes the old repurposed ballroom feel larger and more imposing. Above me, frescoes of angels look down judgementally, as my bare feet pad softly over the marquetry floor. Man’s office is just on the left, beyond the cupboard, and the door is ajar, waiting for me.
My phone squeals in the pocket of my sweats, alerting me to a message from Dodger, but I flick it to silent.
A new mission always leaves a buzz in my veins, and I want to know where I’m going next, and which mark Man wants me to blow up.
The other Belladonnas take missions because they believe in our family’s criminal brand of justice. Me? I just love explosions.
The door snicks closed behind me, leaving me enclosed in the mahogany panelled room. Sleek, shiny, and modern, the office is brightly lit with spotlights that make it hard to remember that we’re underground. Aside from his desk and the handful of chairs around the room, the only decoration is a feature wall and two bookcases.
Man is already in his leather chair, with a single manilla folder waiting on the desk in front of him.
My mark.
“Who is it this time?” I ask, curious.
I don’t expect him to answer me. We’re not supposed to talk in here, but his silence always pressures me to fill it, and after all these years, he’s given up trying to stop me. Anticipation thrums beneath my skin as I pad across the cold tiles towards him.
“Another senator?” I hum as I take the seat opposite. “Those guys just can’t seem to catch a break… but I suppose they’re all shady fuckers. Ooh, I haven’t blown up a cult in a while…”
Man doesn’t comment, merely places two fingers on the folder, twirls it to face me and slides it across the desk.
That’s when I see the word scrawled along the tab and my gut drops to the floor.
‘Hazardous’
“No.” My voice is dead cold as I shove out of the seat I just took. “No fucking way. They’re not—”
Man’s hand, rough and calloused, grips my wrist when I would’ve stormed out of the office.
“Read.”
Man rarely speaks, so that single word snaps my mouth shut. My butt lands in the chair before I realise what’s happened. He releases me, then flips open the file.
There, on the first page, are three mugshots, all men I don’t recognise. Not one of them is part of my clan.
“The Rosales brothers,” I read, frowning as I skim the lines of information.
The trio runs a cartel, and a bloodthirsty one at that. They seem to have dabbled in every illegal substance under the sun. There’s the usual—cocaine, meth, and heroin—but they’ve also started absorbing human smuggling rings and turning them into a trafficking business. Oh, and torture, extortion, and assassination.
It’s all pretty standard for an international narcotics distribution setup, but none of it explains why my clan’s band name is on their file.
I flick over the page, and my scowl deepens as I come face to face with the most candid shots of the band I’ve ever seen.
Dodger is first, his dark shaggy hair and stark tattoos making him stand out from the crowd that surrounds him. Even in plain clothes, he looks like the metal-head he is. Black gauges decorate both of his ears, and silver rings adorn hands that I’m used to seeing passionately cradling his mic on stage. I stare for a little while, wishing they’d gotten a bit closer, so I could see the rich hues of those sparkling brown eyes just a little better.
I force myself to move on, smirking as I realise they’ve caught Arlo outside, in daylight, without his staple sunglasses. The guitarist always wears long sleeves. Even in the height of summer, with dead brown grass all around him, his leather jacket stays on. I’ve always been curious to see if he has tats like Dodger and Slate, but his sun-kissed skin is kept under wraps at all times. His trademark black aviators are in one hand as he wipes the lenses on the hem of his shirt, but his brow piercings and general expression are hidden from view by his wavy, jaw-length blonde hair. He’s the youngest of the group at thirty-three—just under a year older than me—but he looks younger.
Man shifts in his seat, and I quickly move on to the next photo.
