The car rolled to a stop in front of the mansion, and Host exited, keeping the door open for the mafia boss and his accidental hostage.

    "Mr. Edwards isn't going to be happy with you," said Host as Wilford stepped out of the car.

    "Not my problem," he said.

    Wilford stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned around, raising a brow at Deja, who still kept herself pressed against the seats. She knew it would be better to comply—to go along with the motions and do what these people said—but it didn't keep fear from freezing her limbs.

    When Celine had approached her, Deja didn't know who she was; she always had the air that made people around her feel like walking on eggshells, but she wasn't afraid of her until the woman pulled a gun on her when she stepped out of line. With Wil, however...

    Dumont sucked in a deep breath, and she forced herself out of the car, hands trembling.

    She had to comply—just for now. Fighting back would only make things worse for her, would only have her end up dead.

    Deja carefully stood next to Wilford, and Host shut the door, the sound echoing through the night. The car slowly pulled away as Jim drove it into the garage.

    Without a word, Wilford led them into the mansion.

    It was a grand place, opened up by two large, ceiling-high doors. It wasn't until they stepped into the grand foyer that Deja Dumont recognized the place in an instant.

    This was one of the homes that her associate, Mr. Lau, was selling.

    Deja's stomach dropped, and sickness rose in her throat.

    That was before he died.

    Deja glanced at Wilford through the corner of her eye, shivers rolling down her spine at the sight of him. He looked uneffected, even now. Even when he'd just killed someone and taken another hostage.

    She'd always been cautious of rumors and warnings, but she knew now that the stories were right about him.

    Wilford Warfstache was a cold, ruthless killer. A man with no restraint, a dismissal for blood, and a hunger for power. A wildcard.

    Don't underestimate what you don't know.

    The mafia boss led them down the halls, their heels clicking as they walked. A few others who lived there gazed at Dumont curiously, guns slung over their shoulders.

    Deja knew then that, even if she tried to escape, someone would catch her before she could.

    Wilford stopped and pushed open a door, which opened up into a large living room. Two long-sofas, a couple chairs, and a coffee table furnished the middle of it.

    The mafia boss turned his head towards Host.

    "Go and get Dark," he said under his breath. "He should be in his bedroom."

    Deja's brows furrowed.

    His? They gave Mr. Edwards his own room?

    Suspicion coiled in her chest, but the thought quickly left her head when Wilford turned back to her. Host walked away in search of Dark, and then Wil motioned Deja into the room and shut the door behind him. Leaving them alone.

    Deja's heart thudded in her throat, and she looked around, searching for any kind of weapon. A few glass decorations rested on the table, and she swallowed.

    She figured she could use those for later.

    "Sit," said Wilford, walking into the living room. He sat down on one of the sofas and held Deja's gaze. "I might as well catch you up on my side of the story while we wait."

———

Celine sat at her desk in shock, the screen of her laptop casting her face in a ghastly glow.

    Blank stood by her shoulder, and he carefully exhaled, eyes sliding onto Celine's figure. He didn't dare say a word—not until she did. Even now, Wilford's words seemed to hang in the air—the last omissions of his warning and his low, slurred tone before the mic smashed to bits.

    Celine's fingers twitched, and her shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

    "He wasn't supposed to be there," she breathed, lashes fluttering. "He..." Her breaths grew with fury. "He killed my most important journalist."

    Blank watched her idly, hands held before him.

    "He has Dumont, now," said Celine, turning in her chair. She looked up at Blank, eyes intense. "He has the woman who was supposed to be Edwards' bait."

    "He could have shot her, too..." said Blank under his breath.

    "You of all people know that's not true," said Celine fiercely. "He's bound to be interrogating her, now. They're going to find out I'm behind all this."

    "Isn't that what you wanted?"

    "Not like this," said Celine. "I was going to be the one to unveil it all. I was going to drive them mad." She stood up and exhaled, planting her hands on the desk. "I'll just have to adapt."

    A silence fell over the room, and Blank fell into his thoughts, trying to come up with something. After a moment, he glanced back at Celine, meeting her hunched figure. He shifted on his feet.

    "You still have Barnum," said Blank carefully.

    Celine lifted her head, and she glanced over her shoulder, meeting the man's eyes. When he stayed there, still, she motioned a hand.

    "Go on," she breathed.

    Blank slid his hands into his pockets, and he held Celine's gaze. "She wants to kill Warfstache," he said simply.

He never did have to elaborate. His messages came across clear, succinct, powerful... and when he opened his mouth to speak again, only two words left his lips.

"Use her."

    Celine stood still a moment, the thought mulling in her head... and then her brows carefully rose, dark eyes glinting like steel. She let out a curt exhale—something between relief and awe.

    "You know, Blank," she breathed, straightening herself. "You're the reason I still have faith in men."

    Blank said nothing, and Celine sat back down, pulling her laptop closer. Her fingers tapped away on the keys, bringing up new information, maps, and tabs.

    One of those tabs was Freddie Lounds' website, Tattlecrime.com.

    Tension coiled the air.

"Get Wilma," said Celine, pulling up a new document. "Tell her we need to talk."

———

Wilford gazed steadily at Deja, who sat on the sofa across from him.

    He'd told her his side of the story—the one he'd told Dark. That he didn't poison the businessman, or even kidnap him, and that someone else was behind everything, pulling all the strings.

    He didn't expect Dumont to believe him, especially since he'd just killed a woman in front of her and dragged her back to his mansion. He could tell that she was still skeptical by her posture, and the way she looked at him—but there was something in her eyes that seemed to fight against that suspicion.

    "How can I trust you?" said Deja after a while, the silence between them tight.

    Wilford huffed through his nose with amusement, and he shook his head. "Trust isn't something we rely on," he said. "You're going to have to decide for yourself. Just like I'm going to with you."

    Deja frowned. "You genuinely believe I poisoned Mr. Edwards? My own associate?"

    "I'm not believing either side until we all have a proper chat," he said, resting his elbows on his knees. "If you just cooperate and tell us everything you know, we can settle this once and for all."

    The door clicked, and Host pushed it open, eye landing on Wilford.

    "You have a call," said Host, "when we're done talking." His eye glinted. "It's from Schneepelstein. He says get back to him ASAP."

    Wilford nodded, and then his eyes slid onto Dark, who walked into the room with a searching air. He looked magnetizing as always, captivating the energy from the room and pulling it towards his presence. His signature, all-black suit hugged his figure, bringing out the sharps and lines of his body. And those eyes...

    Dark's eyes flicked onto Wilford's, and heat rose under the mafia boss' collar. He nodded to him, and Deja looked over her shoulder, finding her associate—unscathed, healthy, and, if anything, thriving.

    She stood up.

    "Mr. Edwards," she said. "You're..." She ran her eyes down his figure, lost for words. "You're alright."

    Dark met her gaze, and he carefully nodded, circling around the couches. "There's a lot to explain," he said.

    Host followed after, and he sat next to Wilford. Dark took his place next to Deja.

    "I mean, you're—" Deja shook her head, shifting in her seat so she faced Dark. "You're fine." She searched the man's face, brows furrowed. "I thought you were good as dead, hell—locked away in a cellar or something."

    Dark stilled, Dumont's words ringing in his head. If even his closest associate thought these things, he wondered what the others were thinking. Even if he returned to his old life now, it wouldn't look right. Wouldn't feel right.

    He had to come to terms with approaching things differently.

    "How did you get here, Madam Dumont?" said Dark carefully. He glanced over at Wilford, but his gaze gave nothing away. "Did he bring you?"

    Deja swallowed, and she nodded. "I... have some explaining to do, myself," she said.

    "Right," said Wilford, clapping his hands together. The sound turned all attention to him, and Deja suppressed a flinch. "Let's start. Dumont, did you poison Dark's drink the night of the party?"

    Deja's brows furrowed, and she sent him a look. "I already told you—"

    "Look at him," said Wilford, motioning to Dark, "and say it."

    Deja opened her mouth, then shut it, huffing through her nose. She turned towards Dark and gazed at him, fire in her eyes.

    "I did not poison you, Mr. Edwards," she said firmly. "I would never do such a thing to you."

    Dark met her eyes and nodded carefully, sensing nothing but honesty from her. He still held onto an ounce of skepticism—just in case.

    Deja turned back to Wil. "I was never near his drink," she said. "The night of the party, I greeted him for a minute, and we went our separate ways. That was it. I didn't have any opportunity whatsoever to poison him."

    "She's right," said Dark.

    Wilford hummed, and he nodded, steepling his hands under his chin. He glanced at Dark. "So she didn't poison you," he said carefully. "But she still could have known about it."

    His eyes flicked onto her, and Deja glared, hands clenching in her lap. "I'm telling you the god honest truth—"

    Wilford held up a hand, and he looked at Dark, holding his gaze. Heat twisted between them. "When we were at the cafe," said Wilford, dragging out his words, "I found a wire on Dumont's body."

    Deja stilled, and she swallowed, jaw clenched.

    Wilford turned back to Deja, and he leaned forward, examining her. "I understand we're all still... iffy around each other," he slurred. "Someone said this, someone said that... stories are being told one way and another, and no one's getting the truth." He turned his gaze to Dark, then at Host, back to Deja. "Now, if we're all open and honest with each other... we can clear some of this bullshit up. Alright?"

    Deja exhaled, and Wilford continued, motioning his hands towards her.

    "Dumont," said Wilford. "All you have to give me, right now, is a name." He leaned forward and stared at her, eyes intense. "Who are you working for?"

    Deja swallowed, and she straightened herself, dread crawling down her spine. Everything in her told her to keep her mouth shut, but at the same time, she felt the need to tell the truth. To come clean, to free herself of the wrongs she'd been ordered to do.

    She sucked in a breath, and she met Wilford's eyes, wavering.

    "If I told you, and she found out..." she said. "She'd kill me."

    "Not unless I kill her first," said Wil. He rose a brow. "I can protect you."

    "That's what they all say," said Dumont.

    Wilford hummed, and he leaned back in his seat, draping an arm over the couch. Dark couldn't help but give him a onceover when he did that.

    "So long as you're under my roof," said Wilford, "you'll be fine." He rose a brow. "I'm not here to kill you, Dumont. Not unless you have something against me. If anything, I'm here to help." He waved a dismissive hand. "Once this all blows over, I promise you—I won't ever bother you again."

    Deja shifted in her seat, and she took a deep breath... exhaled. She gazed at Wilford, then Dark, then Host, circling back to Wil. Her heart pounded, and something in the back of her head still said to keep quiet, but in the end, she gave in. If telling the mafia meant freedom from this mess, then she would do it.

    "Alright," said Deja carefully, sitting up straight. She swallowed again, grabbing her bearings, and said quietly, "All I can give you is a name."

...

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day!

Love, Vic xoxo