The eyes of the men focus on me. Honing in on my steps as I slice through the crowd, as sharp as a knife, as swift as a bullet.

Even the dancers, dressed in shimmering swaths of silver and sapphire and pink, glance towards me. They know who I am—there is no doubt they don't recognize me as the second-in-command of Anise. The sister of the Alpha. And even if they didn't know me, my resemblance to my parents is astonishing.

Our family has held the power of this city for fifty years.

The Saints came later—a few years after. By then, we were already well-established. But with the charming, charismatic uncle of Elijah Napier, some of our people flocked to him. The Saints formed, our enemy in every aspect. The 1960s were brutal. The 1970s were worse. In the 1980s, there was a tentative peace. In the 1990s, blood flooded the streets of New Orleans.

For the past twenty years, war has been coming. The Saints and the Wolves have been brewing.

But now that the Yakuza are involved, there is a wildcard.

Because the moment in this war when both our gangs at our weakest, they will take over.

If that happens, the city will belong to neither of us.

Which is what I am counting on, as I yank the curtains to Elijah's private chamber aside. The Saints have their fingers tightened over their guns. The music hasn't stopped, but the dancing has.

I hear murmurs. What is she doing here? What are we waiting for?

A harsh whisper silences them. We wait until we have orders.

Elijah Napier becomes immediately aware of my presence the moment the gauzy, violet curtains are swept aside.

The chamber floor glitters with the shimmery, silver light from above.

Elijah is dressed in green velvet. The front button of his pants are undone. He wears no shirt, but he has a jacket that is splayed over his chest, revealing the muscular lines of his stomach.

His rich brown skin darkens as he sees the movement of the curtains.

Rage engraves itself into the lines of his bold, beautiful face.

Then, he realizes who I am.

All at once, a terrifyingly bright, silky smile is on his face, displaying his white teeth. "Hunter," he rumbles, his chest shaking with barely concealed laughter. I would be a fool to think he is amused—there is pure power in the tightening of his fingers. "What brings you here?"

Here—the heart of Saint territory. A direct violation of our precarious treaty.

But damn the treaty to hell. They started this war.

I might have walked in here alone, and I might be stupid to think I could survive a fight with close to forty gang members, but I am betting on one thing.

This deal.

"I have information," I say, showing my teeth in a cool smile.

I am a Wolf, after all—through and through.

There are two strippers in the chamber. One is a light-skinned female wearing red satin and gold fishnet leggings. The other is a thin, white male with dark circles under his green eyes and rakish black hair. This doesn't surprise me—I've always known Elijah has no preferences.

"You interrupted me," he says calmly, but I see the fury lingering in the glint of his eyes.

"It's important."

He settles back into the plush couch. "Isn't everything, my darling?"

But then he lifts the chin of the male dancer. "Later, beautiful," he says. And to the female dancer, he coos, "Soon, dear."

They both brush past me, with the scent of heat and perfumed sweat.

Now it is me and Elijah alone. The Saints have relaxed, only slightly, because Elijah has not yet ordered my imminent death.

As I step closer in the room, he makes a subtle motion with two fingers. The curtains sweep shut behind me.

The jazz music is soft and heady. I feel drunk, and I haven't had an ounce of alcohol.

"Now, tell me," he purrs. I am slightly distracted by the necklace of overlapping gold chains. There is a single diamond over his bare chest, the size of a clenched fist. "What do you have to tell me, Hunter?"

"This war," I start.

"You're not backing out of our deal, are you? Because I'd . . . hate for that to happen. There would be nothing stopping me from cutting your throat, right here."

I know that. I smooth my mouth into a smile.

"Not at all, Elijah. The opposite, rather—I want to make another deal."

Interest lifts his dark brows. "Continue."

"We both have an alliance with the Yakuza. You, with the Kodos. Us, with the Kais. Now that that we are at war, I know of what they are planning."

He leans in, and I know I have him.

"They will attack," I whisper. "When our blood runs through the streets of New Orleans. When we are both short on our members. When the battle is at its thickest point. They will take what is ours."

"What's your proof?"

"Tell me it doesn't sound like them," I hiss. "Tell me you think that they will spare us when we are weak because of our alliance."

His mouth tightens, and I know I'm right.

"You could be planting seeds of doubt. I have no reason to believe you."

"But you do. Because you know the Yakuza can't be trusted. Because, even if we have made alliances, they will come and they will take our city."

The word our is bitter on my tongue. New Orleans will always belong to the Wolves.

"We have backup," he says. "There is no reason for me to trust what you are saying. And if they do, then we can fight them. You may not, but we can."

I grit my teeth. "They are already looking for weaknesses. They've taken—" I cut myself off. "They will take who you value most. Who do you care about, Elijah? Be careful with them, lest you find them missing soon."

His chest rumbles. "Is that a threat, Hunter?"

"No," I bite out. "It's a promise. The Yakuza will strike. They'll take whoever you love. I don't know what they're planning, but if you're not willing to believe me . . ."

If he's not willing to believe me, I'll have to take this into my own hands.

"Come find me whenever you're ready to accept our help," I say, turning around.

Just before I move past the curtain, I hear him call out, "Hunter?"

I pause, but I don't look back.

"Does Anise know about this?"

I stiffen, and his answering laugh tells me he knows this. "You don't speak for the Wolves," he chides. "You're not the Alpha."

I don't want to be the Alpha.

"Find me when you want my help," I say quietly. "You know what I can offer you."

"Perhaps," he says, still smiling. His dark brown skin glows under the light of the shimmery ceiling. "But I doubt I will need you."

We'll see about that, I think.

Anise's phone call still echoes in my head.

A package I have to pick up on 271 Lourde Street.

I don't understand why she wants me, of all people to do it. There are several people who are less important than me that can do this. But I can't shake the feeling it's a message—I just don't know what she is trying to help me.

I decide to use my own car, for once. A shiny black Audi, parked in a garage downtown. I barely use it—the risk is too great, because I don't want any Saints to see me in it and be able to recognize it—but I decide I don't care today.

Today, I want to go fast.

The car roars to life beneath me, vibrating beneath my fingertips. As I drive it out of the garage, letting it skitter forward on the street, I let out a breath of sheer freedom.

Being able to drive—to go anywhere I want, how fast I want—makes my head tip back. I almost run over an old woman. I don't even care.

But the sudden thought of Jude makes me sober, and I can't help wishing she were here next to me. I would put my hand on the inside of her thigh, and she would scold me to keep my eyes on the road. My fingers would slide closer to that inner apex, and she would protest, but the wet buried between her legs would give her away.

It always does, I think, smirking.

Too soon, I make it to 250nd Street. There is an enormous white truck parked on the side of the empty road, labeled AIR DUCT CLEANERS.

Anise wants me to pick up an air duct cleaner?

I cut the engine and climb out of the car, slipping on my sunglasses and straightening my leather jacket.

The truck is the only one here, and most shipments are delivered in vehicles, so this has to be what Anise wants.

This must be some kind of power play—getting me to pick up an air duct cleaner.

I roll my eyes, until a sudden thought stabs me. Does she suspect me? Is this some kind of test?

"Hello?" I call out to the front of the truck. The engine is still running.

I hear the quieting of the car turning off. A door from the front slams.

My hand goes immediately to my gun. It is a gruff, burly Russian man with a beard, and a second one follows him.

"What's your special delivery?" one asks.

It takes me a second to remember the code. "Alaskan malamute," I say, trailing him as he marches to the back of the truck.

I should have parked my car closer—whatever is in here must be big. I'll have to carry the boxes all by myself. But then the back of the truck slides open with a grating white, and every thought vanishes from my mind.

That's not a . . . shipment.

That's not even a package.

And it is most definitely not what I was expecting.

I should have known. I should have . . .

Of course Anise would do this. Of course, now is the time she would tell me.

She doesn't know that I already know.

That I have known for one month.

But she is telling me now. She is telling me the family secret. The reason for the Underground—where the money for everything comes from. What the floors from 51 to 100 are used for, the floors a select few people know about.

She doesn't know that I know. And she is, at last, telling me.

Because the two Russian men have yanked out the contents of the back of the truck, and they are not holding packages. They are not holding boxes. They are not holding a special delivery—not in any sense of the word.

This is the truth of the Underground. This is the truth of the Wolves.

This is why I never want to be the Alpha.

Gripped roughly by the strong hands of the Russian, cuffed in rusted chains, wearing nothing but skimpy, grey scraps of clothing and bruises that circle their paled skin, is the reason the Underground exists. The secret of where our money comes from.

The special delivery is two young girls.

>>>

Another little reveal...

From the moon and back,
Sarai