Page 45 of Pink Ink

I’m grabbing a drink from the bar when Spencer’s distinct voice catches my attention.

A girl is walking away from him, giggling while a friend of mine stares my brother down—my brother, who should be walking around serving food and drinks, not pissing off the heir of one of the most ruthless Mafia families in the country.

I cross the room in case I need to help Spencer pick his organs off the floor.

“Breathe in my sister’s direction, and you’ll find out what your kneecaps look like on a platter, Spencer,” Angelo growls out at Spencer, who’s grinning like a bloody fool.

Angelo Zaccardi could break my brother’s spine with his pinky while sipping a glass of bourbon. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s done it before. His family didn’t make it to where they are through their kindness.

He and Theo Sutherland are the only acolytes whose company I’ve enjoyed since befriending them almost nineteen years ago. They’re two of the very few people aware of the part I play in the Order. Turns out we all like bouncing ideas off each other to see how creative we can get with murder.

“Keep it in your pants for two hours, will you?” I tell Spencer off. Everyone is getting on my last nerve tonight.

My brother grins. “Junior has been locked up for seven days already.”

“I didn’t need to know that,” I mutter at the same time Angelo says in disbelief, “You named himJunior?”

“Unsurprising,” Theo mutters. How Sutherland’s been elected a high saint when he’s a bitter bastard on the best of days has always been a mystery to me.

Theo’s family has held their position within the Order for almost two centuries. House Sutherland’s reelection is a sure thing.

“Yup.” Spencer shrugs. “I’m still tossing up between that or Lord Hardwick.”

I shake my head. It’s a wonder how we grew up under the same roof.

“You know they have me cleaning up the candle wax after this,” Spencer complains to no one in particular.

“And the toilets.”

He frowns. “I’ve only been put down for after-party and chamber floors.”

“Then I suggest you recheck your schedule.”

“Dude, you’re fucking with me.” He glares at me in disbelief. “I have practice tomorrow morning. At this rate I won’t be finished until the ass crack of dawn—and I had plans after this.”

“You should’ve thought of that before making hookup arrangements during the assembly.”

Spencer looks at me like I just kicked a puppy. But something behind me makes him change his tune.

“Never mind.” Spencer slaps my back. “You’ve got a bigger fish to fry.”

The little fuck disappears and drags Angelo with him before I can ask him to explain. My mother’s ear-piercing voice is all the answer I need.

The torment continues.

“There he is,” she singsongs, so sickly sweet it turns my taste buds sour.

She waltzes through the crowd in her stiletto court heels, blond hair back in a low bun, wearing a satin peplum dress worthy of the Duchess of Cambridge.

Half the room knows her to be the venomous snake she is. The other half thinks she’s a goddess made into flesh. Me, on the other hand? The five-inch scar on my back knows Annabel Shaw for who she really is: the woman who helped turn me into a serial killer.

I still remember the look of disdain she gave me the first and only time I went crawling to her, bloody and bruised, with my back torn open after Roland decided to carry out histeachings. She didn’t wipe my wounds or offer any words of support that a child might expect from their mother. The woman who gave birth to me threw me a towel and told me to wipe the trail of blood that dirtied her floor.

I may not fully blame her for being a horrific mother after what she’s endured under Roland, but I do fault her for turning her pain into a weapon to inflict on others.

She glides toward me, my betrothed in tow. I toss my whiskey back without tasting it. I need to see if the bartender has absinthe. If not, bleach will do.

“Mads,” Abi greets with faux endearment.