Seated in the council room of the Assassins’ Hideout, Anna Sidorova leaned back in her chair. “It’s past four in the morning,” she said, adjusting the folds of her crimson silk dressing gown and crossing her bare legs beneath the wooden table. “This had better be important.”
“Perhaps if you hadn’t been reading all night, you wouldn’t be so exhausted,” snapped the young man seated across from her. She ignored him and studied the four other people assembled in the underground chamber. All male, all far older than she, and all refusing to meet her stare. A chill that didn’t have to do with the drafty room ran down her spine.
Picking at her manicured nails, Anna schooled her features into neutrality. The five assassins gathered at the long table—including herself—were five of Arvin Wei’s seven most trusted companions. This meeting was undeniably important. She’d known that from the moment the support staff member pounded on her door, insisting Anna come downstairs and not even bother to get dressed. When Arvin summoned you, you didn’t keep him waiting.
Thankfully, her sleepwear was as exquisite as her daytime wardrobe—and cost nearly as much. Still, being sixteen in a room with men made her keep an eye on the neckline of her robe. Her beauty was a weapon—one she kept honed—but it could also be a vulnerability.
Arvin Wei, King of the Assassins, lounged at the head of the table, his auburn hair shining in the light from the glass chandelier. His silver eyes met hers, and he frowned. It might have just been the late hour, but Anna could have sworn that her mentor was paler than usual. Her stomach twisted.
“Greg’s been caught,” Arvin finally said. Well, that would explain one person missing from this meeting. “His mission was a trap. He’s now being held in Bilibid Correctional Facility.”
Anna sighed through her nose. This was why she’d been awakened? She tapped a slippered foot on the marble floor. “Then kill him,” she said. She’d never liked Greg, anyway. When she was ten, she’d fed his cat a bag of candy, and he’d thrown a dagger at her head for it. She’d caught the dagger, of course, and ever since, Greg had borne the scar on his cheek from her return throw.
“Kill Greg?” demanded Simon Dela Cruz, the young man seated at Arvin’s left—a place that usually went to Ben, Arvin’s second-in-command. Anna knew very well what Simon thought of her. She’d known since they were children, when Arvin took her in and declared her—not Simon—to be his protégée and heir. That hadn’t stopped Simon from trying to undermine her at every turn. And now, at seventeen, Simon was still a year older than she, and he still hadn’t forgotten that he would always be second best.
She bristled at the sight of Simon in Ben’s seat. Ben would probably throttle Simon for it when he arrived. Or she could just save Ben the effort and do it herself. Anna looked to Arvin. Why hadn’t he reprimanded Simon for sitting in Ben’s place?
Arvin’s face, still handsome despite the silver starting to show in his hair, remained impassive. She hated that unreadable mask, especially when controlling her own expressions—and temper—remained a tad difficult.
“If Greg’s been caught,” Anna drawled, brushing back a strand of her long, golden hair, “then the protocol’s simple: send an apprentice to slip something into his food. Nothing painful,” she added as the men around her tensed. “Just enough to silence him before he talks.”
Which Greg might very well do if he was in Bilibid Correctional Facility. Most criminals who went in there never came out again. Not alive. And not in any recognizable shape.
The location of the Assassins’ Hideout was a well-guarded secret, one she’d been trained to keep until her last breath. But even if she didn’t, no one was likely to believe that a luxurious high-rise building, known as the headquarters of the wealthiest entertainment company, was home to some of the greatest assassins in the world. What better place to hide than in the middle of the capital city?
“And if he’s already talked?” challenged Simon.
“And if Greg’s already talked,” she said, “then kill everyone who heard.” Simon’s brown eyes flashed as she gave him a little smile that she knew made him irate.
Anna turned to Arvin. “But you didn’t need to drag us here to decide this. You already gave the order, didn’t you?”
Arvin nodded, his mouth a thin line. Simon choked back his objection and looked toward the row of computer monitors showing CCTV footage of streets surrounding the hideout. The screens cast the smooth, elegant panes of Simon’s face into light and shadow—a face, she’d been told, that could have earned him a fortune if he’d followed in his mother’s footsteps. But Simon’s mother had opted instead to leave him with assassins, not courtesans, before she died.
Silence fell, and a roaring noise filled her ears as Arvin took a breath. Something was wrong. “What else?” she asked, leaning forward. The other assassins focused on the table. Whatever had happened, they knew. Why hadn’t Arvin told her first?
Arvin’s silver eyes became steel. “Ben was killed.”
Anna gripped the arms of her chair. “What?” Ben—Ben, the ever-smiling assassin who had trained her as often as Arvin had. Ben, who had once mended her shattered right hand. Ben, the seventh and final member of Arvin’s inner circle. He was barely thirty years old. Anna’s lips pulled back from her teeth. “What do you mean, ‘killed’?”
Arvin eyed her, and a glimmer of grief flashed across his face. Five years Ben’s senior, Arvin had grown up with Ben. They’d been trained together; Ben had seen to it that his friend became the unrivaled King of the Assassins, and never questioned his place as Arvin’s Second. Her throat closed up.
“It was supposed to be Greg’s mission,” Arvin said quietly. “I don’t know why Ben was involved. Or who betrayed them. They found his body near the castle gates.”
“Do you have his body?” she demanded. She had to see it—had to see him one last time, see how he’d died, how many wounds it had taken to kill him.
“No,” Arvin said. “Why the hell not?” Her fists clenched and unclenched.
“Because the place was swarming with police security guards and police!” Simon burst out, and she whipped her head to him. “How do you think we learned about this in the first place?” Arvin had sent Simon to see why Ben and Greg were missing? “If we’d grabbed his body,” Simon said, refusing to back down from her glare, “it would have led them right to the hideout.”
“You’re assassins,” she growled at him. “You’re supposed to be able to retrieve a body without being seen.”
“If you’d been there, you would have done the same,” Simon retorted.
Anna pushed her chair back so hard it flipped over. “If I’d been there, I would have killed all of them to get Ben’s body back!” She slammed her hands on the table, rattling the glasses. Simon shot to his feet, a grip of his Glock pistol on his right hip.
“Oh, listen to you. Ordering us about like you run the group. But not yet, Anna.” He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Enough,” Arvin snapped, rising from his chair. Anna and Simon didn’t move. None of the other assassins spoke, though they gripped their various weapons. She’d seen firsthand what fights at the Hideout were like; the weapons were as much for the bearers’ own safety as they were to prevent her and Simon from doing serious damage to each other.
“I said, enough.” If Simon took one step toward her, drew his Glock pistol a fraction of an inch, that concealed dagger in her robe would find itself a new home in his neck. Arvin moved first, grabbing Simon’s chin in one hand, forcing the young man to look at him.
“Check yourself, or I’ll do it for you, boy,” he murmured. “You’re a fool for picking a fight with her tonight.” Anna bit down on her reply. She could handle Simon tonight—or any other night, for that matter. If it came down to a fight, she’d win—she always beat Simon.
But Simon released the grip of his Glock pistol. After a moment, Arvin removed his grip on Simon’s face but didn’t step away. Simon kept his gaze on the floor as he strode to the far side of the council room. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the stone wall. She could still reach him—one flick of her wrist, and his throat would spout blood.
“Anna,” Arvin said, his voice echoing in the silent room. Enough blood had been spilled tonight; they didn’t need another dead assassin. Ben. Ben was dead and gone, and she’d never again run into him in the halls of the Hideout. He’d never set her injuries with his cool, deft hands, never coax a laugh from her with a joke or a lewd anecdote.
“Anna,” Arvin warned again. “I’m done,” Anna snapped. She rolled her neck, running a hand through her hair. She stalked to the door but paused on the threshold. “Just so you know,” she said, speaking to all of them but still watching Simon, “I’m going to retrieve Ben’s body.”
A muscle feathered in Simon’s jaw, though he wisely kept his eyes averted. “But don’t expect me to extend the same courtesy to the rest of you when your time comes.” With that, she turned on her heel and ascended the spiral staircase to the luxurious high-rise building above.
Fifteen minutes later, no one stopped her when she slipped out the front gate and into the silent city streets.
