I really, really wish I had locked that door.

"Oh, man!" Tommy says outside the door, as I struggle to pull on clothing. A blue blouse, fitted black pants. "I really could have gone without seeing that!"

"We could have gone without you seeing that, too, Tommy," Hunter mutters, shoving her gun into her holster.

I wonder if, when I walk out this door, whatever is between us will end.

Maybe it was only a one-night thing. Maybe she doesn't really want me, not like I want her. Maybe—

Shut up, I think to myself. I have to end this anyway—I should have ended this, and I scold myself for provoking her.

Make good on your promise. Fine, this was my fault. I should have already told her I have to break it off.

It's not like we can keep doing it—I have to "escape" soon. The Alpha's orders were clear: I have to find the murderer on campus, and once I do, I can become a spy for the Saints.

My home here is temporary. My relationship—if you could even call it that—is temporary.

It was just a quick fuck, I tell myself. Or rather, ten rounds of it.

Either way, it was one night.

"So," Tommy asks, as I open the door, "I really wish—"

I can't help glancing back. Hunter's eyes meet mine.

See you later, she mouths.

Why am I blushing? I shouldn't be blushing.

I close the door behind me and follow Tommy, his rambling words noiseless in my ears. "When I came to get you for class, I never expected to see you and my sister together, because really, you don't seem like her type at all. And if you had a type, I definitely wouldn't have guessed it was her. But I guess that you are each other's types because you were together, and wow, I was pretty wrong but—"

I interrupt him. "Wait, what? I'm not her type?"

He frowns, like he can't tell if he said something wrong. "Yeah, you know, her type is usually these girls with curly-blonde hair, like you know, Emilie."

Emilie. The bitch with the heavy eyeliner, the electric blue eyes, and the curly, blonde hair.

"They dated?" I try not to make it sound like an accusation.

No wonder she seemed so friendly with Hunter. No wonder she asked Hunter for coffee, and even seemed jealous when I was with her. But isn't she dating Derek?

Tommy nods, seemingly oblivious to the churning of fire in the pit of my stomach. "Yeah, a few years ago, just before our parents—"

He cuts off, and this time, it seems as though he knows he's said something wrong.

Just before our parents—

I don't want to pry, but I am curious. If Anise is the Alpha, and Hunter and Tommy are both members of the gang, then where are their parents?

Because, surely, their parents didn't want this for them. A Mafia life.

But who am I to judge? From what I remember about Louisiana, I used to live in a gang-infested neighbourhood that my mom refused to leave.

The Wolves . . .

I hear the echo of her voice, telling my dad she would take care of this. But surely the Wolves she mentioned aren't the same ones here. Because that would mean—that would mean—no, it doesn't make sense.

Tommy takes me down towards the 49th floor, where Professor Cade told me to go for the project.

"Bye, Jude!" he calls out cheerfully, and then his eyes flash as though he is remembering what he just saw. "Uh, and see you later?"

I try not to turn burning red. This has to be one of my top ten most embarrassing moments, but I'm determined not to let it on. I'm Jude Barrow, and I am my mother's daughter. Besides, if Tommy says one more thing, I'll just show him a little bit of karate.

The elevator doors close, and I cough in the smoke and haze. The scent of concrete and cement is everywhere, burning my nose as I inhale.

I step over white plastic sheets and marble columns. "Professor?" I call out. "Cade? Are you here?"

Smoke explodes in front of me as I trip on a slab of granite, and Cade appears just in time to catch me, her bright blue eyes shining clear in the middle of the dust.

"Jude!" she says. "Come."

I notice her hands are bare, except for a single slender gold band with a lace of diamonds. A gasp—it's a beautiful ring.

Her husband must love her. And the thought makes me wistful, thinking of marriage and wedding bands.

But Cade drags me towards a room—the only room that looks finished. And she says, "What do you think? Scarlet or crimson?"

"Um, aren't they the same?"

She is pointing to two shades of red that are draped across a simulated window. Curtains.

Disappointed, she sighs. "No, the scarlet one is slightly lighter. Do you see it?"

"Yeah," I lie, remembering she is a painter. "I'd say . . . go with the crimson. A jewel-tone. Very—" But I trail off, remembering the colour of the blood on my hands, and the dead man's body. Crimson. "You know what? On second thought, I like scarlet better."

She beams, and says, "I thought so, too."

"So, what are we doing today? What is this place? What's it for?"

Cade's eyes twinkle mischievously. "My fiancée wanted to live here in the Underground, because of old enemies and whatnot—"

I remember, then, that this bright, happy girl is an ex-Mafia boss.

"—but I refused. I want an apartment right in the city, so I made a compromise to have a studio down here, since I spend most of my time painting anyway."

"Isn't it a gift for your fiancée?" I ask curiously.

"Yes, and that's why the bedroom is here." My eyes widen, and she laughs easily. "No, over there will be the fighting ring. My fiancée has found this love for boxing. Martial arts. Self-defense. And I'm all for it."

My interest peaks. "Martial arts?"

Cade nods. "Do you know any?"

Do I know any? Oh, boy, I know martial arts.

"Yes," I say, barely restraining my excitement. "Leave that to me."

"Are you sure? That'll be a lot of—"

"I'm sure," I say, and she laughs. The glow of happiness suffuses me, warming my chest, until I remember my plans. And that staying here is temporary.

How will I tell Cade I can't work on her project anymore? That I'm chasing a murderer around the university?

You don't owe anything to these people.

But the longer I stay here, the more I realize that I don't want to leave anymore.

"Where are we going?" I ask Mikayla, as she grabs my hand, dragging me towards the elevator.

She only gives me a mischievous smile. "You'll see."

I roll my eyes. Ever since I first saw Mikayla, we spend about an hour together every day. At first, it was in coffee shops and restaurants, but we've gotten more creative—sometimes we practice fighting on the training floor. Sometimes we go grocery shopping and hide the pistachio ice cream around the store. And since Mik is friends with Gianina, we visit her at the market, too.

"Fine, but if you're taking me to—" I pause. The doors open onto the game room—a place I recognize with all its round tables and hushed excitement.

"Come on," Mik says, squeezing my hand. "Let's play chess."

"Chess?" I've never played. Board games didn't rank very high on my mom's list of useful things.

"Yes! Chess!" She pulls out a chair at a small table, meant for two, and I sit down. Around us, the constant buzz of low conversation is like static. The game room is particularly busy now, and I manage to catch a glimpse of chestnut hair from across the room.

"Wait," I say. People flow through the room, blocking my view, and I lean to the side. Trying to see.

"What is it?" Mikayla follows my line of vision towards the opposite end of the room. A small table, like ours, with a chessboard on it. And two people who sit on either end, surrounded by a gathering group of people. "Oh, don't mind that. That's just Hunter and a Gamemaster."

"A what?"

"A Gamemaster," Mik says patiently, setting up the pieces on our chessboard. "One of the best chess players in the world."

"And Hunter?"

"They have a regular competition," Mik says. "Every Friday. They meet here, and they play. He's like a teacher, kind of. I don't think she's ever beat him, but they have drawn—which, in itself, is fucking impressive."

Something isn't adding up. "But . . . why? Why does she play chess with him?"

Mik makes the first move—a pawn. She rolls her eyes at me. "Why do you like writing? Why do I like dancing? Hobbies."

So the Alpha's second-in-command, this Mafia lord, likes to play chess.

I blush—it should have been obvious it was a hobby. But there are a lot of things I don't know about her.

"So if she beats him . . ." I say, making my move. I have no idea what I'm doing. "What happens?"

"Well, his name is Ivanov, and he's one of the best Grandmasters out there. If she beats him, she can definitely beat more Grandmasters, and that will make her one of them."

"A Grandmaster?"

Mikayla nods, and checks one of my knights. I still don't know what I'm doing, so I move a piece at random, still thinking of this.

Hunter must be smart—more than smart. Playing chess . . .

"How long has she been trying?" I ask Mik.

She only grins teasingly at me. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

Heat spreads into my cheeks. Asking Hunter about what she likes . . . will that cross a line? Last night was purely, carnal fucking, but if I go past that—if I ask her what she likes doing—will that make this irreversible?

It doesn't matter how fucking smart she is. You have to end it anyway.

And the voice is right.

Mikayla beats me thoroughly, but I don't mind. My head is still swirling with the thought of her. Once Mik gets up to leave, I am still sitting at the table, lost in my own daydream. Revenge. The Saints. The blue-eyed girl.

I don't even notice as Hunter pulls out the chair that Mikayla abandoned. Her lips purse as she examines our board, noting each of the positions of our chess pieces.

"You have no idea how to play," she remarks.

I try not to flush at the fact that she noticed just from the position of our board. Instead, I ask, "Did you win?"

Her eyes search mine. Is she wondering how I know about her match with Ivanov?

"No," she says briefly, but she doesn't sound upset. "It was close, but no."

Tell her you can't do this. Tell her you're ending it.

"So," I say, but I can't do it. I can't say the words that will shatter whatever it is we have. "Why do you do it? Why do you play?"

"I love it," she says simply. No hesitation.

"When did you first learn?"

"When I was twelve," she says vaguely.

That would have been around the time I had my own accident. When my mother drove us off a bridge. The reason for all the scars on my body.

But she didn't ask about those. She didn't pry. And I can't help wondering why that is. Aimee's eyes were searing as she examined me the first time we had sex, and she blurted out, "What happened to you?"

"You want to be a Grandmaster," I state, because she is looking at me so intensely I can't breathe.

"I want to play the Grandmasters all around the world," she says, and for the first time, I detect a note of wistfulness in her voice. A deep-rooted love. "I want to travel. I want to compete."

"So why don't you?" I press.

Her eyes flicker, as though she is faraway. "I can't. I have responsibilities here."

"You mean . . . being the Alpha's second."

She gives me a loose shrug, and I realize there is something more. Something she isn't telling me. Tommy's comment about their parents rings in my ears.

"Hunter," I begin. "What . . . what happened to your parents?"

Her expression darkens.

"You don't have to tell me," I add. "If you don't want to."

A long moment passes, and I think she won't say anything—she won't even answer. But then, softly, she replies, "They left."

Something in my chest twists. Surprise.

I thought they were dead, but if they left . . . that's worse.

"Where . . . where did they go?"

"My dad is a lawyer on Wall Street," she says. "And my mom moved to Italy. She's an ambassador to the Mafia in Sicily."

It doesn't sound like her mother left, but the way Hunter says it, she sounds like there is a different meaning behind it.

"An ambassador to the Sicilian Mafia?"

Hunter nods. "She keeps an eye on the Falcone family. Making sure they're good on their word. Ever since their last leader stepped down, a new one took its place. Her name is Maria, and she's . . . not exactly trustworthy."

It doesn't sound bad, but I can tell there's more, so I wait.

"And she says it's for work, this job, but I know she's having an affair," Hunter says. Bitter—there is a note of bitterness. "She hasn't come back since she left. Almost ten years ago."

Holy hell. I'd be pissed, too.

"Tommy must have been . . . around five, then, when she left," I say.

"Anise and I have done our best to take care of him," Hunter says, and there is clear remorse in her eyes. "He's a good kid. But he didn't have the kind of childhood he deserves."

"No," I protest. "He had you, and that's what matters."

Her brown eyes soften. "Thank you, Jude."

But something is wrong here. Because if her parents left ten years ago, and Anise is the Alpha . . . no, she would have had to been a child when she became the commander. Fourteen, fifteen. Tommy's age.

No, that's not right. The Wolves wouldn't have let that happen—these are gang members, ruthless Mafia members.

"Okay, wait," I say slowly. "Were your parents the Alphas before Anise?"

I don't know if I'm crossing a line, but there is something on the tip of my tongue. A thought. A realization.

Hunter nods, and I continue, "Then . . . there's a gap. A space. Between the time they left and the time Anise inherited." Something is building, appearing to me in pieces. A truth. "There was another Alpha. Who?"

She stands up, and offers me her hand. "I can show you, if you'd like. Her name was Mary Chopin."

I take her hand, and it hits me a moment too late.

The truth.

The truth, the puzzle, surging inside of me like I should have known it all along. I handled it, Darrell . . . Don't question me . . . we're not leaving . . . we have the protection of the Wolves . . .

The Wolves . . .

"My mother," I whisper. "That's my mother."

>>>

What do you think Jude will do next? And how do you think she'll act around Hunter now?

From