The car door fanned out, and Page stepped out and into the gravel waiting for him. The heels of his boots dug against the uneven road, leading all the way to the house he never thought he would have to go back to again. So soon, as well.

As the sleek, black family car sped off towards the back where the rest of its sisters awaited it, Page smoothed the lapels of his suit and dusted the legs of his slacks. The tips of his black leather shoes glinted against the afternoon sunlight when he stepped forward, aiming for the expansive stairs curving around a single entry point.

He craned his neck up, training his eyes at the Victorian mansion towering over him. The mere presence of the building sent his hackles up, tension curling around his shoulders and neck. From the pocket of his suit, he fished a pair of black gloves. Best be prepared. Anything could happen as long as the family was involved.

He bit the inside of his cheek, tugging both gloves on. The lobby bled out before him when he cleared the front steps, bringing straight into the heart of the mansion—a big, red altar with his grandfather's face on a frame. Red, because of the clouds of rose bouquets slotted in clay braziers scattered on the floor, on makeshift shelves, and those carpeting the tabletop where several candles burned on top.

Page gulped a bitter taste down his throat. Never had he wanted anything to do with this family and everything they stood for. As elite members of the underground market for decades, they have built quite a reputation, and he went to university in another country using another name just to escape the looming shadow the family cast. When he received the summons encased in a glinting black envelope gilded with gold, he expected the worst.

And the worst, he got.

Not only did Page's grandfather, the ultimate patriarch of the family and the business, keel over, he had to do it with a knife sticking out the back. Someone murdered him, and it wouldn't take Page's older brother to sniff out who. Any of the rival families, those who aimed to take the lead off the leaderboard, could have been responsible, and Page knew how helpful he was being: not.

It wasn't like he hated being a member of the family. He learned to deal with it and everything that came with—be it prestige, wealth, and the occasional skeleton in the closet—but if he could trade it for a can of peaches, he would. He wanted out, and his grandfather dying told him enough about the fate of the family. Some mad scrambling as his aunts and uncles vie for the throne, and whoever got it would have to rule over until they keel over as well. That was Page's generation's turn to kill each other for a shot of glory.

Page would rather sit that one out. He had a nice dorm on campus, one that overlooked foggy mountains in the mornings, and a nice boyfriend who treated him well. What more could he want? Even if one of his uncles cut him off, he had enough money saved up to finish his degree and go back to a working citizen. At least, he wouldn't be in any danger. There would be no knives to look out for, wiretaps to be wary of. He could just be Page, and no one would bat an eye whenever he walked into a room.

Such fantasy for normalcy was soon shattered when uniformed men with shades for eyes and earpieces for hearing met him halfway towards the diverging curved stairs. "Follow us, sir," the one on the left said. He was clean-shaven and pale. Page had never seen him before, so he must be one of the new doves. He'd learn to grow out a beard soon. It helped with obscuring their identities when they accompanied any of the members outside the mansion, the city, and the country.

He clenched his jaw and fiddled with the rim of his gloves. His fingers brushed against the scar on his inner palm. At least, where he recalled it to be. It was big enough to be noticed at first glance, and his boyfriend used it to tell him apart from the freshmen during his first year at uni. But with the black leather all over his fingers, it was easy to think it wasn't there at all.

Their mini parade ended in front of his grandfather's drawing room. Nothing changed from the ornate displays out in the hallways, nor the various and, most often, random ornaments tacked into the respective children's doors. From the corner of Page's eye, he spotted the pink boar stuffed toy hanging from his mother's door. It was the room she used since she was a child which has recently been converted into her office.

He half-expected her to burst out behind it, making a beeline towards him. She would ask how he has been since they last saw each other. Maybe give him a quick and shallow hug, or if he was lucky, a kiss on the cheek or a stare longer than two seconds.

The uniformed men pushed the doors inward, clearing the way for him. Heads swiveled to the source of the commotion, all eyes landing on Page. His gut turned, but he ducked his head and took the empty seat towards the very back. The stares burned against the back of his neck even though no one looked at him.

He spotted his mother's blond head beside the familiar frame of his father and two older brothers. They never aged, never changed anything from how they dress, comb their hair, and wore their accessories. The other members of the family—immediate uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents and some distant, removed ones—faced forward, eager to know what would happen once the patriarch met an end he couldn't triumph over.

A lone man with round eyeglasses and brown tweeds and coat stood behind the patriarch's ornate desk, shuffling several sheets of paper on his hands. Everyone knew what those were. The will.

"Heed the final will of the deceased," the man, possibly a no-name lawyer that Page's grandfather had brought out from the quagmire out of his own fancy, said. He cleared his throat and drew away from the first page as if his glasses didn't work as it was supposed to. "To Mila, he leaves the brewery."

The rest of the hour went that way—just dear ol' grandpa divvying up the estate across the entire family. From the frowns and growing clouds of hushed whispering, most of them weren't happy. Grandfather divided the power and wealth evenly, giving each faction the capability to form their own family. Most of these people would rather die than work together—a sad fate to any corporation run by dynasties. Once the head died, it would fracture like melting icebergs.

"And to Page, he leaves this document," the lawyer finished, rummaging inside a cardboard box of deeds, titles, and other pertinent files for business and fishing a rolled piece of parchment. "The deceased requests that Page accomplish the document's goal. Only until then will he receive the rest of the inheritance."

A set of snickers rang behind him. He didn't need to look to know they were from his brothers. Possibly his parents too. Grandpa did Page dirty by withholding his inheritance while everybody got theirs on the spot. Why was he the only one with conditions? And knowing the family, by the time he accomplished the stupid goal, his inheritance was probably squandered in a high-risk, low-revenue initiative or, worse, in a gambling ring or in the department store.

Not that he was dying to get the money. No. It was just a few million bucks. He'd make twice that in six months if his investments paid off. They weren't the only wealthy people in the room.

"Thank you," Page said, taking the rolled document to the lawyer's house. "If that's all, may I be excused? I have a flight in two hours."

What was the point of staying here longer? It wasn't like he was welcome. The only person who looked at him in this house as if he wasn't a pest to be exterminated now had his picture displayed in the lobby.

He didn't wait for the lawyer to say anything and strode out of the room, document in tow. It was only until he was certain he was out of the family's persistent stares did he undo the flimsy twine tied around the rolled parchment and spread it out on a table.

Blobs of penciled lines traced over consistent and darker grids, showing him the map of some place. Was this a city? A country? He didn't recognize any of it at all. A trail of dotted dashes caught his attention. They trekked across a stretch of land until they ended in a big, fat X on a smaller blob of land.

A breath flitted out of Page's lips. Unbelievable. His grandfather had just given him a treasure map.