“I have permission to be out of my room today,” I say, butting in, not liking Mercedes’s tone but also hating what I just said. I sound like a child.
“He gave you permission, did he?” She grins, eyebrows raised.
My hands fist at my sides as my blood begins to boil.
“There was no reason to keep her locked in that room,” Antonia says. I wonder if she feels my rage.
“That’s not your place to say, is it?”
“Not yours either, ma’am. Your brother’s made it clear I’m to look after his wife.”
Mercedes turns her sour expression to me. “Hmm. Did he? Well. I’ll take it from here, Antonia. You can go back to your kitchen.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Antonia says, voice tight.
I’m embarrassed for the older woman as she glances at me with a nod of acknowledgment before disappearing toward the kitchen.
“We weren’t gossiping,” I say, not wanting to get Antonia into trouble.
“No, I’m sure you weren’t. Is that what you’re wearing?”
I look down at my pale blue cashmere sweater and jeans. Mercedes is a bully. She reminds me of Maria Chambers. Entitled and rich and probably never been taught right from wrong. Never been told no.
“Yes, your brother bought it for me,” I say. “We’re going to the hospital, not a fashion show. Is that what you’re wearing?”
Distaste curls her lip, and she walks past me.
I follow her into what I guess to be the formal living room with the huge rose-shaped windows. Her heels click quickly as she walks through it while I stand there, gaping at the mural on the ceiling.
“Are you coming?” Mercedes asks.
I drag my gaze away. “It’s beautiful.”
She glances up, shrugs one shoulder in dismissal, and raises her eyebrows. “I have things to do apart from babysitting you.”
“I can take myself. I’d be happy to.”
“Then you and I both would incur Santiago’s wrath. This way.” She turns on her heel and walks away. I quickly follow her through the house and out the front door where a man drives up in a Rolls Royce. It’s James, I realize, from the other day. I’d thought he worked for Abel, but I guess it had been Santiago keeping tabs on me. It makes sense.
He opens the door for us, and I follow Mercedes in, then stare like a child out the window at the mammoth of a house and gardens that seem to go on for miles.
“Is that a maze?” I ask when I catch a glimpse of the high hedges.
“Yes.”
When we finally reach the iron gates that open for us, I crane my neck until I can only see one of the house's two spires.
I remember from the wedding night that it wasn’t too far from the center of town, but it’s tucked away on its own not so little parcel of land, and the room I’ve been locked in seems even darker now.
When I turn around again, I find Mercedes studying me, her dark eyes hard but also curious. Not in an I’m interested in finding out who you are way but in a what are your weaknesses to exploit way and I’m very aware of how I look beside her. Almost like a child.
I clear my throat and shift my gaze out the window. It’ll be about half an hour to the hospital. I anticipate an awkward ride, but Mercedes just gets on her phone and ignores me altogether.
James pulls the car into a parking space, and I look over at Mercedes talking to someone while studying her fingernails. He climbs out of the car and opens my door.
“You have fifteen minutes,” she says just as I’m about to climb out.
“What?”’
“I’m not coming inside. It’s too depressing.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“We have a lot to do. My bother has tasked me with readying you for The Society. We’ll have to take care of, well, so much,” she says with a look of distaste on her face as she lets her gaze sweep over me.
“Are you serious?”
She grins, makes a show of checking her thin diamond wristwatch. “You’d better hurry.”
23
Santiago
Lawson Montgomery leans over the financial portfolio on my desk, studying it with the hawk-like eyes he is known for. He was the best man at my wedding, but Lawson is also an old friend and the one person within the New Orleans faction who I trust without question.
He is best known as Judge to those around him, given his elected position within the Louisiana court system. He is a valuable asset to IVI for obvious reasons, but he is also one of the rare few people I can speak freely with.
"Everything looks good." He shuts the folder and returns his laser focus to me. "How is newly wedded bliss treating you so far?"
The corner of my lip tilts up at his sarcasm. Judge surely has a dry sense of humor. "As well as can be expected."
"I trust your brand of justice will be swift and harsh."
When I don't respond, he arches an eyebrow at me. I pour us both a glass of scotch, allowing my gaze to drift to the ever-changing numbers on the monitors behind him for a moment.
"Is this your way of telling me you have not marked her yet?"
"She has been marked, as you well know." I swirl the glass beneath my nose, absorbing the smoky aroma of the drink.
"But not scarred," he finishes for me.
His observation unnerves me. I'm not in the habit of laying out my plans to others, but Judge is one of the harshest men I know. He has a reputation for being severe, both on the bench and within The Society. At least when the situation warrants it. He is a firm believer of the old adage of an eye for an eye. And when I was drunk one night and confessed my plans with Ivy to him, he was the who made the obvious suggestion.
What punishment could be worse for the family responsible for disfiguring me and murdering my blood? Scars, he said simply. Leave them with scars if you choose to leave them alive at all.
At the time, it seemed so simple and obvious. Of course, Ivy should have scars. Something to match my own. A permanent, unavoidable reminder of her father's sins every time she looks in the mirror.
For months, I had fantasized about all the ways I would do it. Burn her. Cut her. Etch my name into her throat. Perhaps even ink a skull onto the right side of her face to match my own. An image that would undoubtedly haunt her.
But now she is here, in my house, and I have not followed through with those plans. I am not any closer to finalizing the details, and I am not willing to admit that I hesitate to do so for reasons I don’t quite understand.
"She has a pretty face." Judge swirls the drink in his glass and takes a sip. "I suppose it would be a shame to ruin it."
Something in his tone and the quirk of his brow makes me think he is amused by my admitted weakness when it comes to her.
"It is only because she is beautiful that I have hesitated."
My words aren't convincing, even to me. But I am certain with time, I will be able to fulfill this silent promise to myself. When the moment is right, I will execute the plan as intended.
"Regardless of whether she is scarred yet, I can assure you, she will suffer."
"I'm sure she is already," he muses. "Of that, I have no doubt."
His words settle over us, and we finish off our drinks in silence. I need to ask something of him, which is a part of the purpose of our meeting this afternoon. Ideally, I should have asked him before the wedding, but I was busy dealing with Abel.